As I sat at the chow-hall table that first night at an “undisclosed location” to which I’d been ordered, my head was swimming. Severely jet-lagged and sleep-deprived, I could barely recall the events of the last 72 hours.

There was the near-silent ride from home to the airport with my car-load of kit—pressure suit in an unmanageably large case, several large canvas bags of go-to-war supplies, and a thick file folder full of all manner of instructions, shot records, and vague printed orders to a place I’d never heard of and couldn’t pronounce.

We had already had the hard “if I don’t make it home” talk, so my wife and I tried to keep the conversation light for our children and ourselves. The words we did speak were a few octaves higher than normal, betraying our civilized facade and revealing the emotional storm beneath.

The airport security checkpoint was a portal between two worlds. Stepping through, I left family, normalcy and comfort behind. And along the lonely walk to the jetway, a transformation occurred. I became more focused, deliberate, and disciplined in my thinking as I anticipated what lay ahead. Eager to do what I trained to do, I looked forward to joining my squadron mates down-range. Deployments: I hated them and, God help me, I loved them.

But first, the days-long slog: a flea-bag motel in Baltimore, a contract flight connection to Germany with families and retirees aboard, a shower at Ramstein Air Base along with coffee and cookies from delightful USO volunteers. The next flights were much more ominous as we execute tactical arrivals to hot and dusty locations to drop off and pickup throughout the AOR.

Finally, it’s my stop and it’s painfully clear: we’re not in Kansas anymore. Brilliant lights from loud, gas-powered contraptions bathe our aircraft in blinding light. Airmen scurry beneath like a NASCAR pit-crew and I see a perimeter of automatic weapons and military working dogs going in and out of the shadows.

Then the door opens to the air conditioned aluminium tube I’ve called home for what seems like an eternity. My senses are immediately assaulted by hot, moist air that rolls through the cabin and generates instant sweat and nausea. The heavy air has the offensive sent of a sewage treatment plant, a landfill, and diesel fuel. Oddly, in a few days, I wouldn’t even notice it.

A swaggering Colonel boards our plane as the cabin lights come on. He offers an upbeat, ill-timed, unintelligible message over the crackling PA before handing it to a stern Sergeant who barks out very important orders no one understands. Finally, we shuffle out and I’m relieved to see a friendly face. The man I’ll be replacing is eager to get me situated and helps me sift through the mountain of bags just dumped by a front-end loader in the dirt. My luggage had arrived.

My teammate helps me with the bag-drag to the dilapidated construction trailer I’d call home—I’m relieved to see an air-conditioner humming on the wall. Running on adrenaline, I quickly organise, through on a uniform and head to the chow-hall to meet the team.

Now it makes sense…