The Return of the Soldier
By Andrea Bruce
Sunday, May 27, 2007
"I'm in Kuwait."
That, in full, was the e-mail Art Snow received on Feb. 8, informing him that his youngest son was finally off the bomb-laden streets of Ramadi, Iraq. Art, a tanned tennis pro in Palm Beach, Fla., felt relieved, then exhausted, then anxious. His wife, Marianne, cried.
Preparations for 22-year-old Sgt. Andrew Snow's homecoming -- his second in three years -- began immediately.
From a box in the attic, stacked next to Christmas and Halloween decorations, Art pulled the flags and signs from Andrew's last homecoming. They cleaned the house, coordinated schedules. Marianne made a special chili. Platters of veggies and cheese were already waiting at the club. The Country Club at Boca Raton, where Art teaches tennis, wanted to throw a party in Andrew's honor.
On March 8, Madeleine Billeter, Andrew's girlfriend, left high school an hour early. Dressed in red, white and blue, Art, Marianne and Madeleine waited at Miami International Airport with more than 50 strangers who were oblivious to the fact that their soldier was returning home. Art couldn't sit still. Pacing, he stretched to catch a glimpse of each person coming down the arrivals hallway, hoping he'd recognize Andrew first. Marianne fought tears. Madeleine sat in silence.
Finally, there he was. Small-framed, wearing a red baseball cap and a gold-colored hoodie. Camouflage backpack. Pale. Thin.
No smile. Exhausted.
His father gave him a one-armed squeeze around the shoulders, as if he were congratulating him after a Little League game. Madeleine received a long embrace. Andrew hid his face in his mother's neck.
He managed a slight grin.
* * *
As a Washington Post photographer, I had met Andrew while embedded with a mechanized infantry company of the 1st Armored Division in Ramadi last fall. I didn't get to know him well. He was one of thousands of young men sent to quell the violence in Anbar province. Andrew was commander of a Bradley Fighting Vehicle, which sometimes meant conducting medical evacuations. During his 14 months in Ramadi, he also took part in foot patrols and missions. He became familiar with night-vision goggles and MREs. Snipers. Vehicle-borne bombs. And dust.
He lost friends. Some forever, others to Walter Reed Army Medical Center.
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.
* * *
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.
I know the guy who talked too much. And the guy who prided himself on how much Red Bull he could drink.
I know what it feels like to climb into the belly of a Bradley, trying to make peace with the thought that at any minute it could run over a bomb.
Or maybe I was the one who missed talking to someone who knew. I had to stop myself. This wasn't about me.
"He looked thin," his dad said to me later. "It didn't feel real because it had been so long and I had been looking forward to it for so long. He was wearing KIA bracelets" with the names of friends who had died in Iraq. "And that hit me. That we were having a different kind of homecoming" compared to the first. "A good one, but it did remind me of all the other stuff that goes on."
Marianne added: "I was really worried because he was having nightmares and wasn't sleeping well over there. Doing the medevac was really hard on him. I was really worried that he would be not himself. But I'm relieved about the way he's handling all this bad stuff. He's growing up."
* * *
Andrew visited his grandparents and made a good effort to keep the conversation going. He carefully looked through the albums his grandfather had made from the photos Andrew had e-mailed home.
Then they left for the party. Andrew didn't wear his uniform. You can't drink a beer in your uniform, he said.
More than 100 people, mostly elderly, waved little American flags outside the country club. The mayor made a surprise appearance and gave a little speech. Andrew accepted the "Welcome homes" and the "God bless yous" and tried to answer "Is it really as bad as they say it is?" But war was not what he wanted to talk about. He wanted to chat with high school friends and tease the kids he used to babysit. He said thank you to each person. Then he sneaked out to the palm trees for a smoke with his best friend from high school.
"It was overwhelming," he told me after the party. "A lot of people trying to talk to me, congratulate me. I didn't really think I deserved congratulations." He said he knew the party was really for them -- the people holding the flags. For many of them, he is their only real connection to the war.
"This time I think he was in more danger on a constant basis, and this had a harder toll on me emotionally," his dad said to me. "And this time, a lot of close people were injured badly or killed. This is a much different scene than last time. And last time we didn't think he was going back again. But this time we know he might."
Andrew has re-upped for six more years. He and his parents assume he will be going back to Iraq, but they don't talk about it.
* * *
After the party, Andrew came home with a van full of high school friends. They sat in the driveway, their laughter echoing through the quiet, palm-tree-lined suburban neighborhood. Nick Schepis, Andrew's best friend from high school, reminisced about being 16, about old friends, and about the time that Andrew surprised his parents with a visit while on leave from Iraq.
"Whenever Andy comes back, a bit before he arrives, you get a bit nervous," Nick said. "Wondering if everything is going to be like it was or if anything has changed."
Andrew said he was looking forward to some things. Visiting his high school teachers -- and a lot of bars. "Drinking some beers and smoking some cigarettes," he said. "Because that's what we do."
His smile, at last, was full.
Andrea Bruce is a staff photographer for The Washington Post.
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