Welcome back home, Charley Co.

Anxious mothers sit in school desks, some holding their young children, some holding their… Anxious mothers sit in school desks, some holding their young children, some holding their dogs, the rest simply fidgeting with anticipation. Fathers stand idle, some outside smoking cigarettes, as children, mostly nieces and nephews, are coloring or watching “The Incredibles” on a big-screen television.

Brothers, sisters, entire families wait for what seems to be the longest three hours of the last seven months. A man in desert camo walks in and informs the room that it should be about midnight when the buses arrive. The room bursts into applause and the mothers yell out in unison “That’s great.”

Our Marines had landed at the airport and were coming to us, thought the families, who for seven months waited day after day for a phone call to reassure them that their proud Marine was still alive to fight for Iraqi Freedom.

The hours fade by and the families move from the classroom to the parking lot in anticipation of the arrival of the buses. The cold temperature is accented by the wind gusts that make North Carolina seem more like Pennsylvania. The families huddle together to keep themselves warm as one person yells out “Here they come!”

As the buses come into sight, everyone starts cheering, clapping or crying since they’re about to see their baby boys for the first time in seven months. Four charter buses pull into the parking lot as the crowd rushes opposite where they were originally standing so they can see the Marines getting off the bus.

The veterans make their way off the bus, some looking desperately for their families, while others go about their business, unloading their bags and making their way to the armory to drop off their weapons.

It’s been seven months since these families had seen their Marines, and they made it home alive.

My brother was one of these Marines, and as he snuck up behind my mom, sister and nieces, I saw him for the first time since Labor Day weekend. He looked taller and stronger, and his eyes looked like he had seen more than he had wanted to. But he looked good. He didn’t look worn out and battered, even having been in the Battle of Faluja, being in a Humvee accident and having to brave the harsh Iraq weather; he looked healthy.

We spent the weekend talking about the last seven months. The first thing he asked was what he missed over here. After we filled him in on what was happening in our family, we basically let him do most of the talking. He told us stories about his translators, about the language and about the packages that were sent to him and his battalion.

The first night home, he didn’t sleep. He was restless the entire weekend, barely able to sit still, and if you watched him closely, you could see that he still wanted to reach for his weapon when he got up to move.

The best part of the weekend was seeing the smiling faces of my nieces. I’m not sure if they knew exactly where their “Uncle Knucklehead” was for seven months, but they do call him a hero, and that’s all that matters.

Next Tuesday, my brother comes home for two weeks. He has a lot of people to see and a lot of beer to drink, and I’m going to try to spend as much time with him as I possibly can.

In a few more months he might face the possibility of going back to Iraq, but no matter what he goes through, no matter what he sees while defending this country, he will forever and always be my little brother.

Brian Palmer will forever and always respect the troops who are fighting to defend our freedom, even if the reasons for war are unclear. Seeing the faces of returning Marines, the young faces that are fighting this war, makes that respect increase even more. E-mail him at bkp8@pitt.edu.