FORT BENNING, Ga. — I listened as numbers, not names, were called for roll call. There were crying children and the quiet sobs of family members seeing their soldier off. The thin, white rope in front of us held a sign that was cruel beyond belief:
“NO FAMILY MEMBERS BEYOND THIS POINT!!”

It served as a physical reminder of the fact that the soldiers in front of us deploying to Iraq were now beyond our ability to touch or hold. At least for now.

As I watched the deployment unfold last Thursday, I felt like an intruder to the pain of the family and friends around me even while I was feeling my own.

My eyes were on the girl boarding the bus with her red hair up in a bun — my daughter. She was the soldier with the tattoo of Iraq on her leg who rides a motorcycle on her time off. She was the one who kept wearing the sunglasses that weren’t really needed anymore on a hot Thursday Georgia afternoon; the one who sent the Army teddy bear back home with me because she could not show any weakness in Iraq.

She has other soldiers to protect now — she calls them “her soldiers.”

The defiant young child who challenged me in every way is now a 24-year-old young woman wearing a rifle. As an Army Specialist, she is still challenging others, but now it is her battle buddies that she wants to do their best.

Going on her third tour in Iraq in three years of service, her face has taken on a harder edge matched by the same changes in her personality. It’s harder for her to sleep, and she jumps at loud noises.

We’ve gotten more distant. She won’t talk much about the past. Friends have died, and it’s become impossible to protect her from the types of things I have worked my whole life to shield her from.

Despite all of that, she is leaving.

Whatever happens, the teddy bear and I will be here when she returns.

One by one, the long white buses pulled out, going a different way than I expected as red taillights blinked in the distance. I wanted to run behind them and yank her off that bus. I missed a final chance to wave and yell out that I loved her before she was completely gone from sight.

My family and I tried to sort through our thoughts and emotions. Sheer exhaustion set in. Meanwhile, the countdown to homecoming has begun.
Shortly after the buses left, a text message came in from Deanna as she was on the way to the airport.

“Thank you for being here! It made everything easier! I’m gonna come home don’t worry! And I’m gonna bring my soldiers home too! I love you!” she said.

That text came from Deanna, the daughter.

Then a final text from Deanna comes through on my phone.

“I am honored and blessed to have you guys in my life! Thank you again for everything,” she said.

That one came from SPC Cubert, the soldier.