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a trench coat that appeared to have nothing I could watch clusters of families and friends point
5
beneath. Others wore pajamas, no hairspray or and squeal and jump up and down and cry, and
makeup; they had done this many times before. kids run into a pair of open, camouflaged arms.
Eventually, routine trumps excitement. But you I attended almost every homecoming at
never get used to the waiting. Hurlburt Field. Initially, I went because it was my
Narrative
It was always too hot or too cold. After twenty- job. Since the events were often outside normal
four hours of transit from the Middle East, lay- duty hours, we rotated assigned personnel, but I
overs and customs proceedings, and often a Gulf quickly started volunteering to help on my days
Coast storm, the flight was never on time. Inside off. I genuinely enjoyed the ceremonies. In con-
the hangar, the patriotic loop started over. The trast to the stress and frustration of my daily job
pretty reporter’s lipstick smudged. A baby cried. and the constant mass media flow of bad news
A girlfriend chewed nervously on her fingernails. from the warzone, these little happy endings were
Her boyfriend would propose when he got off the refreshing. For a few hours, no one had to worry
plane — we would feature a photo on the front about what happened yesterday or last week, or
page of the base newspaper — but she didn’t what could happen tomorrow or the next day. It
know that yet. Flags twitched. Signs drooped. didn’t matter if the sun was up or down, if it was
Then an announcement: “The plane is five min- hot or cold. The world zoomed in on the east han-
utes out!” and the crowd was rejuvenated. Signs gar or the west, and that hangar was full of joy.
snapped to attention. City and base leaders took Mostly I went because every homecoming 20
their places along the center aisle. The media reminded me of my mom. I hadn’t forgotten
angled their cameras at the empty runway. Par- what it felt like to be reunited on March 12,
ents woke sleeping children and joined the grow- 1991 — that’s not the kind of thing you ever forget.
ing mob straining at the barricades. Yet watching others go through that same swell of
I liked to stand near the back. From there, I emotions made it matter again, in a different way.
could see the media, make sure their cameras I hadn’t deployed yet. I hadn’t lost anyone, like
didn’t pan to the other end of the flightline where many of my colleagues had. I hadn’t sacrificed in
our covert Special Operations aircraft were parked. such tangible ways. But I understood what it was
I could pick out familiar faces in the group of like to wait and how it felt when waiting finally
returning Airmen and dart in for a quick, tired hug. came to an end.

This is a photograph from the 1940s of a
U.S. Navy officer returning home. Johnson
writes about soldiers’ homecomings
decades later.
How is this image an idealized version of
a homecoming? How does this compare
to some of the returns that Johnson
describes in her narrative?

Bettmann/Getty Images

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For review purposes only. Not for redistribution.

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