I tagged along with Kat’s aunt to see her off. Our official reason was to retrieve Kat’s car. The real reason we went was simply to be there.

We joined hundreds of other kinfolks of the 500 men and women gathering to go.

At any given moment, a half dozen kids were getting lifted into the air, suspended overhead by a pair of fatigue-covered arms. Moms and Dads stood with cameras. Grandparents reached out their arms in every direction. Wives and husbands stood close by their own particular soldier. Children climbed on duffel bags and tried to pick up backpacks.

Other men and women stood alone with their duffel bags and packs, watching the crowd. There were an awful lot of soldiers with no one to see them off.

I didn’t see any television cameras recording the event.

A half-dozen white buses arrived. An older man standing nearby quietly said: “Well, it’s almost time.” His wife started crying.

A bullhorn of a voice brought the soldiers to formation. Names were bellowed. One by one, each soldier went into a building. Each one returned bearing a machine gun and ammo clips.

Helmets were adjusted for proper fit. One young man standing nearby said to his Dad: “I was hoping not to wear this thing again.”

The mood changed. There’s something about having a machine gun slung over your shoulder that makes hugging a little more difficult.

Duffel bags were stacked. An older Sarge loaded each one onto a waiting truck. Another command was yelled, and backpacks were piled and loaded. Each soldier was making adjustments to a flak vest and weapon straps. In just a few moments, a parking lot of 500 grinning young men and women had transformed into a parking lot of titans fully dressed for battle.

Older men throughout the crowd quietly watched the scene. Every once in a while, each man would look down at the ground and shake his head. Every time they’d look back up, each man’s eyes were a little wet.

Another bullhorn-voiced command brought the soldiers into formation again. “Alright, when I call your name, get on the bus.”

One by one they responded: “Movin’, First Sargent.” One by one, they boarded a bus. Kinfolks and friends made their way to the buses. Now the women were crying hard. Fatigue-covered arms were reaching out of bus windows, touching uplifted children. Bus doors closed.

As the buses were pulling out of the parking lot, several of the quiet, older men moved quickly from the back of the crowd to the front of the crowd. They moved out from the crowd and into the parking lot. Their hands were high in the air, making sure that any of those 500 men and women who looked back knew somebody loved them.

(Editor’s Note: Reach David Clark at dclark@outofthesky.com, or write him at P.O. Box 148, Cochran, Ga. 31014.).