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Chaplain Lt. Col. Douglas A. Etter confronts the difficulties of life after a combat tour in Iraq.

Since Sept. 11, 2001, more than 17,000 of Pennsylvania's National Guard soldiers and airmen have been deployed as a result of the global war on terror. Currently, we have 805 soldiers and airmen deployed in 15 different countries, as well as along the Arizona border. More than 5,500 of these sons and daughters of the Pennsylvania Guard have been involved in direct combat.

I am one of that number.

I served with the 1st Battalion 110th Infantry, 2nd Brigade 28th Infantry Division, under the control of the 2nd Marine Division. We were stationed in the heart of the al-Anbar province 55 miles west of Baghdad in one of the most dangerous places in the world. Our forward operating base was located on a former Iraqi Air Force base halfway between Fallujah and Ramadi. Fallujah is a name I am certain you all recognize because of the heroic battle waged there by members of the U.S. Marine Corps. Ramadi is the capital of al-Anbar province and a stronghold for enemy combatants. It was, and remains, an area filled with Saddam loyalists and Baathist party members. The name of our particular FOB is Habbaniyah. Earlier units called it Camp Manhattan. There, we worked cooperatively with members of the Marine Corps, Navy and Air Force in numerous joint operations. As you might expect in a high-intensity combat environment, inter-service rivalry melted away, and we lived, worked, ate, slept, trained and fought together as a cohesive band of brothers, Americans one and all.

We conducted combat operations and had contact with the enemy on a daily basis. As a result, we now personally know the thunderous earth-shaking of rocket and mortar attacks. We experienced the forceful blasts of improvised explosive devices during mounted patrols in our up-armored vehicles, and during dismounted patrols or walking within the cities and villages for which we provided security. We experienced the single deadly accuracy of enemy snipers and we stood toe-to-toe with enemy combatants in multiple gun battles. The explosive power of RPGs were commonplace, and booby traps of all shapes, sorts and sizes were regular discoveries.

Nevertheless, in spite of all this, we experienced great success. We oversaw two national elections, stood up an Iraqi Army brigade to whom we turned over battle space, recruited and trained Iraqi police officers, destroyed enemy arms and munitions, and neutralized, captured or killed enemy combatants.

Our success did not come without cost.

My battalion lost 13 soldiers and two Marines. I held some of those boys in my arms as their lives slipped away, like Spc. Mark Melcher from Pittsburgh. Mark was a Mellon Bank employee who was felled by an enemy sniper's bullet just 28 days after he joined us as a replacement. I kissed him and more than one of those boys on the forehead after making the sign of the cross there. We awarded 61 Purple Hearts, the military's award for being wounded by enemy combatants. Some of those wounds were horrific; all of them, I suspect, were life-changing.

Overall, our brigade lost 83 soldiers, sailors and Marines. One was one of my best friends, Lt. Col. Michael McLaughlin. Mike was the highest-ranking officer killed in action from the 28th Infantry Division since World War II. He died on a cool but sunny Thursday afternoon in January when a single pellet from the vest of a suicide bomber struck him in the back of the head. A Marine dog handler and his trusted K9 died at the same time. So did about 40 Iraqis applying to become police officers. The news noted all of that, but what it failed to tell the American public was after the mess was cleaned up and the human carnage was addressed, those Iraqi police recruits - more than 1,000 of them - got back into line in the hopes of bringing law and order to their land.

For those of us who have tasted it, the experience of combat is unlike anything we knew before or will experience again. And it's not simply the fighting, the fear, sweat, blood, smells, noise, exhaustion, strain and pain; it's also the everyday little routines of living.

For the first five and a half months I was there, my shower consisted of a plastic bag above my head and a plastic bin at my feet. All of my needs for a bathroom were met by a lightweight plastic Porta-John that was sweltering in the summer and freezing in the winter. Our area of operation had highs in July and August of 135 and lows in January of 29. We ate semi-warm, bland food that was cooked on another FOB and brought to our base, where we dined in an old Iraqi truck garage. Most of the time the food tasted like metal. I gave haircuts to all the officers, and my assistant cut mine. Our laundry was boiled or we washed it ourselves, and I heated my shaving water in a coffee pot each morning.

Please do not misunderstand me. I am neither complaining nor bragging. I am simply reporting to you the truth of our reality. I left home on Jan. 3, 2005, and returned on June 21, 2006. It was the worst and the best 18 months of my life. But it was not easy. It was hard. Very hard.

So was the transition home.

For 18 months, I was surrounded by men with guns. When I came home, I felt vulnerable without them, even in church.

For 18 months, I suffered the indignities and depravities of military life in a combat environment with a core of friends. When I came home, I felt lonely without them, even when surrounded by family or other friends.

For 18 months, I kept a constant watch on my surroundings and the people around me. When I returned home, I could not break the habit and remained hyper-vigilant outside the walls of my home.

For 18 months, I studied every piece of garbage or discarded junk along the road. When I came home, I couldn't stop. Riding in the passenger seat always made me nervous when someone would drive over a piece of trash.

For 18 months as a leader of soldiers, I had to keep my emotions in check. I couldn't let the men see me down, sad or afraid. When I came home, people told me I was distant and withdrawn.

For 18 months, I shared common goals and values with others upon whom I depended literally for my life. When I came home, I found dishonesty, hypocrisy and malevolence in people who claimed to be my friends and share common values.

For 18 months, I had no choice about what to wear, what to eat, what to do or when to sleep. When I came home, I was overwhelmed by choices, sometimes to the point that I was unable to make decisions.

For 18 months, I dealt with issues that were literally life and death, eternal in scope. When I returned home, I found people worried about things whose matter is of no significant consequence at all. None. And yet, they worried. They really worried about these things.

I still don't understand why some people worry about the things they do. But let me tell you about what soldiers, sailors, airmen and Marines were worrying about just one month before we returned home. Let me tell you where their hearts and minds were. Let me read to you from a single letter (below), the last letter I wrote home. The letter has a title: "Quiet Conversations."

We, the current generation of America's warriors, are the recipients of an enormous outpouring of support. We received more care packages and assistance from folks here in the United States than I could have ever imagined or hoped for. Our generation has access to resources unimaginable even 16 years ago. It is not perfect, and it is not where we ought to be, but it is far better than at any time in our nation's history.

So thank you. Thank you for your time. Thank you for your unwavering support of America's military personnel. May God bless you, those whom you love and the United States of America.

Quiet Conversations

Many times clergy participate in quiet conversations. Sometimes the tones are soft because someone is inviting us into a private space in their being, a place generally reserved for no one but themselves. At other times, the voices are hushed because the person is revealing some past hurt or sin. They may be embarrassed. They may not want to revisit the experience again but something inside their soul pushes them to uncover what has been buried for so long. Sometimes there are whispers because people inwardly recognize the sacred and holy dimension of what they are about to share, regardless of their religious affections, or lack thereof. Voices and eyes often drop lower because they cannot bring themselves to make contact more directly or intimately. Whatever the case may be, I have had many quiet conversations.

Some of these conversations are one-sided. Sometimes there's no need for me to speak. I must only listen ... with my heart as well as my head. At times, these conversations center on the hard and difficult questions of life. Many of these are the "why" questions. At other times, the hushed voices ask the "how" questions, the questions seeking advice more than answers. And sometimes, no answers or advice are expected at all; rather, all the other may want is to be heard, to be truly heard and understood. Maybe for the first time.

I have had quiet conversations with all sorts of people ... those with rank and power and those who have been pushed to the periphery, the wealthy and the poor, the educated and the ignorant, men and women, adults, teens and even children. These conversations take place in a variety of locations: kitchens, living rooms, family rooms, hospitals, offices, church pews, sidewalks, barracks, public parks, restaurants, inside cars, over hoods or fences, in funeral homes, on back porches and serene docks with the water gently lapping against the weathered lumber where the boats are tied.

I am sure you have had these, too. They are not the exclusive realm of the clergy. They happen between friends from school, among family members making weighty decisions in the presence of strangers wearing hospital scrubs and between lovers resting safely in one another's arms. Fathers and sons have these conversations when they venture into the woods for sport, and mothers and daughters follow suit when they share an afternoon together. Coworkers may have these conversations at the office or some place where they have retreated in order to relax. And more than one church member has had a conversation like this in the parking lot following a committee meeting. The sanctuary is not the only place where souls are touched.

Whatever the case may be, the common thread that runs through all of these quiet conversations is that they are deeply personal, revealing and honest. The masks which most of us wear are removed for the conversation. The barriers which protect hearts are lowered, and the soul surrenders itself in a vulnerable act of trust to those present. And it's obvious, or at least it should be obvious, that those thus engaged are standing on holy ground.

Many of the quiet conversations I am having these days center on the subject of fear or anxiety. The fear is not combat. We are now the seasoned veterans of our battle space. We have been engaged in this struggle for a longer time than any other American force in our AO (area of operations). The fear of going outside the wire has greatly diminished for many of us who do so on a regular basis. Fear is an expected part of what we shoulder, but like the weight of our body armor, we have grown so accustomed to it we almost don't notice it anymore.

No, these quiet conversations that are so honest and heartfelt demonstrate another oxymoron of our experience. We have been gone for 17 months. We have one more to go. Most of the soldiers with whom I talk cannot wait to leave this place and return home ... and yet, that's exactly where the dilemma comes. As excited as we are to go home, many are equally afraid.

And they don't know why. It doesn't make sense or at least that's what they tell me, in tones so hushed one would think they are in confession. Perhaps they are. They certainly are confused and anxious and embarrassed. They are not sure how they will be received when we get home. They are afraid they won't fit back into their family or circle of friends and they are privately nervous about what long-term effects this experience will have on them, physically, emotionally and spiritually.

At least active-duty units return together to the same place and begin training all over again. They are not separated from one another. They live together on a base and continue to socialize and work together. They remain Army. We, however, who have carried weapons every day for a year and a half, who have drawn the blood of strangers and who have shed our own ... we who have laid in ambush for the enemy, watched him through the grasses and then cut him down so that our homes, families and nation would be safer, are now going to be asked to put aside our weapons, our sense of security, to leave one another behind and return to the life of a civilian where most of you have no idea what we have endured or suffered. And how could you? Even the soldiers who have remained on the FOB, the ones who did not have to go outside the wire, even they are anxious about what it will be like to be normal again. How does one even define normal after all this?

So, I too worry.

I worry about them. How will they take these 18 months and make sense of them? Who will translate for them what has taken place, in ways that those who remained home can understand and appreciate the noble sacrifice, the disciplined commitment and the honor carried by these citizen soldiers? We still have much to contribute to our society and the world at large. I have not talked to one person who thinks America owes us anything. What we have done, we have done freely and without compulsion. We do not expect reward or recognition.

What we do expect, however, what we want, what we crave ... but what so many may be afraid to say, is your patience, understanding and support. Please recognize that while this deployment has been difficult, the readjustment and reintegration into the lives we left behind will also be difficult. Without you, we will not be able to do it. We need your help. We can't do it alone. We are counting on you.

So please, if on some peaceful evening as the sun is melting on the distant horizon or during some fierce afternoon thunderstorm with the rain pouring down and the thunder cracking, if you find us sitting alone, don't be alarmed. If we linger a little while in the pew Sunday morning after the service is over, or if you find us sitting outside in the car alone or in some room in the house, join us. Sit with us. We may say nothing at all, or we may say a great deal, maybe more than you'll want to hear.

But what's important is that you'll share a quiet conversation with us.

And remember, you may not have to say anything at all. Your silent presence speaks volumes. It is a language we need to learn anew. It is the language of love.

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