The rest of the hours were for sessions on things like dealing with stress. As a mild-mannered captain led a session on psychological triggers, I sank into my seat at the mention of one I hadn’t thought of: politics and politicians. “Remember as you go home that this is an election year. There’s a lot of political advertising about war and military issues that we’ve found is a stressor, so you may want to steer clear of that.”
Gradually, we dismantled our active-duty mind-sets and selves, and prepared mentally to return. At a folding table, I sat giving my disassembled M4 and M9 one last, exhaustive cleaning before yielding them immaculate back to Uncle Sam, along with the other gear, from Gore-Tex parkas to a gas mask. Most of the contents of the “three seabags of huah” I’d been issued in Norfolk went into various large bins and boxes to be reissued to the next person who comes along; pants, shirts, boots, and the like were mine to keep. Then, after our three-day sojourn, I was munching on ham and cheese sandwiches lovingly packed for us by the USO at Ramstein, and boarding a 747 for Baltimore.
Back at Norfolk, the focus shifted from our personal well-being to our physical and bureaucratic health. A flurry of paperwork saw to it that we were realigned with parent commands, registered for the VA, and clear of any number of physical ailments. Someone with a clipboard asked how many weeks of leave I was going to take; you were entitled to several, and urged to use them. But I couldn’t be back in South Bend and not be mayor for long. I asked for the longest I figured I could get away with: one week.
At the airport in Detroit, waiting for the connection to South Bend, I realized that being in uniform among civilians is a bit like being an elected official among residents. Heads turn, a few people come to shake your hand, and others glance at you but then look away. I looked for a seat in a quiet corner of the gate, and then got to talking with a lady sitting next to me who was on her way to visit relatives. She didn’t know me from Adam, and as we sat describing her relatives and my own time in the service, I felt for a moment like this might be the last normal conversation I would have for a while. Another passenger seated across from us looked up at me with a discreet, knowing smile as my new acquaintance asked, “So is South Bend home for you?”
South Bend’s airport director had kindly arranged for my parents to come through security so that I could greet them before facing the crowd and the cameras. Mom held a rose, and she and Dad looked as relieved as you would expect. After a few hugs, and a few words, it was time to go out into the main concourse and start being mayor again.
It was about nine in the evening and I’d only been able to give a few hours’ notice to my team, but a sizable crowd was waiting. One City Council member, who had opposed nearly every major initiative I had put forward, barreled past everyone else to embrace me in a bear hug as if I were a long-lost brother, small American flags poking out of his suit pockets. A bit more reservedly, other colleagues, friends, and strangers greeted me one by one. Mark Neal, who had stood in for me, was there, as was Kathryn Roos, who had run the office in my absence. There was Governor Kernan, Mrs. Chismar from Saint Joe High School, Father Brian from Saint James, and some young kids I’d never seen before who had made a welcome-home poster. And there were the TV cameras, of course.
I knew it was my job to give a little speech, and I had prepared in my head what to say—a thank-you to everyone who had helped run the city, to the community that had supported me, and to everyone who came to help welcome me back. I got as far as mentioning that not everyone would get to come home like this, or at all, and began to choke up, barely getting out the rest of what I had to say. I have no memory of the rest of the evening, except that Mom and Dad saw to it that I got home, and that a burger was waiting for me on the dining room table. I ate it as gratefully as I have any meal before or since.
MY STAFF HELD BACK for a few days while I unpacked my gear and reacquainted myself with my house, friends, and family. But the following Monday, it was time to get back to work. Each department had a list of updates and pending decisions.
Resuming the routine of TV appearances, meetings, emails, and decisions wasn’t that hard, but regaining a civilian mentality took longer than I expected. I found myself speaking frequently with Brian Pawlowski, my deputy chief of staff and a Marine Iraq veteran, about how to make sure I was taking the residents’ concerns as seriously as they did, even when everything seemed to have less urgency than what I was used to overseas.
One day soon after I returned, Kathryn came into the office with a worried expression to let me know there had been a bomb threat at the courthouse nearby. I walked over to the window and peered down at the courthouse complex, then turned and thanked her for the heads-up. “Good to know—but unless it’s a huge bomb, we’re probably outside the blast radius. It would have to be a five-hundred-pounder, which doesn’t seem likely, so I wouldn’t worry too much.”
I nodded appreciatively and went back to my desk to resume working, while she gave a sidelong glance and retreated into the hall. A few minutes later, she knocked on the door again, probably after consulting Brian, to tactfully ask if I was thinking as a civilian when I was reacting. She wanted to see if evacuating the building might be appropriate, and I took the point; we agreed to check with the fire chief. (The threat turned out to be a false alarm.)
Getting into a car, I would sometimes pull so hard the door would fly open and bounce on its hinge, forgetting this was not the heavy, armored Land Cruiser door I was used to. And merging onto a highway one day with my mother in the passenger seat, I caught myself just in time before barking, “CLEAR RIGHT?” to her, as I would to the gunny sergeant, to make sure we could safely proceed.
THE COMMUNITY WAS NOT JUST accommodating but effusive, too much for my comfort. Someone organized a welcome-home event at the Century Center complete with a visit by the South Bend Cubs mascot. I felt uneasy, especially when Joe Kernan, an actual war hero, came onstage to thank me for my service. I was proud to have served, but I was one of hundreds of thousands, most of whom had nothing like this kind of welcome. The only way to reconcile the treatment I was getting was to tell myself, and the audience, that I accepted their well-wishes on behalf of everyone else who had served, and those still out there.
There were exceptions to the kindness. One far-right blog ran a piece titled: “South Bend Welcomes Spook Mayor Back Home: What Have You Done For Us Lately, Pete?” The article said the public of South Bend “still hasn’t figured out that the man they elected as mayor has likely been working for the CIA all along.” A still nuttier individual showed up at a speech I was giving and demanded to know if I was prepared to admit that the CIA had introduced heroin to Afghanistan.
But there wasn’t time for battling with conspiracy theorists, any more than there was time to wallow in some kind of patriotic glow. The rhythms of South Bend waited for no one, and it was time to get back to work. The budget was due for passage in a matter of days. There was just one year to go on the “1,000 houses in 1,000 days” effort. It was almost time to announce my plan to run for reelection. And, I had realized, it was time to get serious about sorting out my personal life.
5 That is, the Central Command’s area of responsibility, which included the Middle East and Afghanistan.
16
Becoming One Person