The War Comes Home

During my two weeks at Combat Outpost (COP) Iron, I saw a mortar fall through the roof of Andrew's barracks -- straight onto his bunk, smashing his belongings beneath a foot of concrete. He wasn't there, luckily. His eyes grew wide when he reached the site, then he lit a cigarette. Andrew is a man of few words.

I photographed the ruins of his room as a keepsake for him. Soon his father e-mailed me, asking for more photos. That started an e-mail relationship with Andrew's family, which was desperate for any connection to him. His own e-mails had become shorter and less detailed, and Art imagined that things were getting worse for Andrew's squad.

Months after I came back from Iraq, Andrew's parents e-mailed me about his impending return home. Eager to see any of the guys from COP Iron, I asked if I could document the homecoming. The family welcomed me.

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I thought the story would be like other homecoming stories I've covered for The Post. Parades. Bear hugs and people swung around in the air. Bands.

I didn't think Andrew's homecoming would be like mine. I've been to Iraq six times, for about six weeks each time. When I return home, I feel numb. Happy to be back but wishing I could see the people who understand me best -- the people I just left in Iraq.

Andrew arrived home, walked past the decorations and unpacked in the guest room (his childhood room is now the study). I watched him fold his clothes with military precision.

In the TV room, Andrew sat back on the couch, sliding into a teenage slump. "It's nice to be home," he said.

He asked me whether I remembered the unit's medic -- he lives not too far away. He asked me about the puppy the troops rescued in the desert. And whether I recalled how they hid him on the roof of the barracks when the staff sergeant paid a visit.

It seemed easier for him to talk to me than to his family.

Maybe that's because I know things. I know what it's like to use the outdoor toilets while wearing body armor -- the flak jackets and helmets, the "battle rattle" that soldiers are required to wear whenever they venture outside.

I know what a chore it becomes to eat the routine, bland food. I know about the troops' nocturnal schedule -- how they're allowed to set foot outside the barracks only at night, when they're less of a target for insurgents.