I visited Fort Sheridan both days this weekend.

Saturday afternoon I attended a Christmas party for Robin’s unit at the south end of the property.

It looked like Autumn when we went inside, but it looked like Winter when we came back out.

I returned Sunday morning for the departure of some of the 16^th PSYOPS Battalion.

Intermittent precipitation had continued through the night but now it was a cold rain.

I didn’t actually know any of these soldiers, but I felt like I did. They were young, healthy, serious. Some had young families.

Judging from the license plates, some of them had driven from Minnesota and Iowa. They had said their good-byes many hours before. Others were saying good-bye now.

Most of those who would stay behind were cheerful. Some were crying. The soldiers, by contrast, were all of uniform disposition – calm and purposeful. They carried their gear to the bus and mounted. Maybe they were thinking about their work. Probably they were just thinking about their long trip.

I asked a Major what their work was. He said, “Another unit may make 184 patrols and talk to the locals only three times. If we make 184 patrols, we talk to the locals 184 times.”

I was one of three bikes. None of the bikes would make the trip to O’Hare but there were 21 of us at the briefing. So there were 18 departing soldiers and an equal number of PGRiders traveling with them on four wheels to the United terminal.

We attend funerals and we provide “Welcome Home” receptions; sad events and happy ones. A deployment escort is both. The Ride Captain called for a minute of silence in memory of those who have sacrificed for us, and then we went out to smile and wave flags.

I was standing near the door to the bus looking for photographic opportunities and somewhat disengaged from the interaction. I became aware of a soldier walking straight toward me and I looked up at him. He smiled and held out his hand.

My camera was attached to my right wrist by a short strap, so I had to hold the camera with my left in order to shake his hand as if I were wearing handcuffs. He said, “Thanks for coming.”

Then he turned and climbed the steps into the bus. It happened so fast, I barely saw him and didn’t manage to say anything. And now I am watching Bengals/Steelers while he is moving at 500 MPH toward the cradle of 21^st Century terrorism.

photos taken at Fort Sheridan

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