Baltimore, MD

We deplaned and went through another round of US customs. Most people went through just fine. The custom officer I went to looked at his computer screen for a long time after I presented my military ID card. Without looking at me, he said, "Do you have any other surnames?" "No," I answered. Still looking at his screen he asked, "Are you a citizen of the U.S.?"

A number of potentially smart ass remarks went through my head like, "I'm a commissioned officer in the U.S. Navy and am in uniform just arrived from Iraq, dumb ass. Of course I am."

Instead, I took a deep breath and said, "Yes." He let me through. Thanks, oh so much, Customs' finest.

Any frustration I felt quickly evaporated as I left customs and entered the terminal. There, like in Maine on the outbound flight, and Dallas, on my return to the US for leave, a group of well-wishers, including children, adults, veterans and some Navy personnel in dress blue uniforms, were gathered and cheered our return. I shook a lot hands and high-fived some kids.

As I made my way through the line, I came to two elderly veterans in wheel chairs, wearing world war two baseball hats. I saluted each and shook their hands. "Welcome back, commander," one of them said. He must have served in the Navy. I fought back tears. "Thank you, sir," I said. "It's good be back in the U.S."