Note from the desk of the opinion editors: It is easy for us to forget the sacrifices American soldiers serving abroad make to represent our country. In a charged partisan climate in which the actions of civilian commanders are scrutinized and used as fodder in mudslinging campaigns, we can overlook the thousands of ordinary Americans making us proud in extraordinary conditions.

This is the final part of a semester-long series where we published the journal of Liz O'Herrin, a UW student who kept record of her experiences in Iraq and has decided to share them with the readers of The Badger Herald. We present this journal in hopes that you can gain insight to a small piece of the Iraq experience for American servicemen and women.

It's our turn to go home. Rushed goodbyes, frantic packing jobs, messes of paperwork. Hurry up, hurry up and then… wait. And wait. Wait for customs inspections, wait for the plane. The kid next to me was lucky enough to dislocate his shoulder and he's all doped up on Vicodin. Lucky him, he won't remember this eternity of waiting. We make several pit stops, and then we're finally out of Iraq. We make another stop in the Middle East, it's familiar territory — I was deployed here in 2004. I'm excited for this, people who I was deployed with last time are back on this base somewhere, and I'm looking forward to playing catch-up with them. The plane finally grinds to a halt on the taxiway and the doors open up. We shuffle out of the cargo hold, tired and hungry, our ears still buzzing from the noise in the belly of the plane. We peer around cautiously. It was eerily quiet. None of the aggressive clamor that is the well-oiled machine of war. No Blawkhawks. No Bradleys. No Strykers. Dropped off the 40 pounds of Kevlar in a bin. Weight off my shoulders, literally and figuratively. Sayonara!

Found familiar faces, talked with people from the last deployment. These people were my "everything" a year ago. They were my family for all the holidays and my 21st birthday. Big enthusiastic hugs were exchanged. Things have changed: A few got married, a few more got divorced, one guy chopped off his ring finger in an accident recently. "Serves you right," his soon to be ex-wife told him. Not much to say. Lots of small talk. What do you say? We don't know each other except in this crazy war environment. We are no longer a part of it. We're different now. We're going home, they're still here.

Looking back, I don't remember much about the rest of the trip home. I vaguely remember seeing my family at the airport. I don't remember much about the weeks after I got back. I remember my first meal: beer and brats.

The first time I came back from a deployment from the Middle East, I was a news junkie. I devoured everything I could get my hands on pertaining to Iraq. I had to know if it was right, if it was working, if we were helping. I came to the conclusion that basically no one knows. No one can tell me anything concrete about anything. This time when I came home, it was different. I still read news articles about Iraq, but this time it was scanning for names, locations, incidents. It was too much to think about the broader implication. It became easier to just ignore it. It was easier to submerge myself in the Wisconsin summer: the grass is green, the cafés buzz, and everyone just kind of meanders. It was easy enough to do — after all, I hadn't really been gone that long. They say you need about a week to readjust for every month you are gone.

A short time ago, I was home alone on a Sunday night. I started hearing booms. My stomach flipped, my heart started pounding. My physical reaction to the noises startled me more than the noises themselves. Fireworks, fireworks, I kept repeating. But it didn't make sense, it was October. I ran to the back door, the front door. I wondered if I was going crazy, but other people were peeking out of their windows too. Thank God. They hear it too. The booms were echoing between the lakes. I grabbed my cell phone, standing on the front porch and started calling everyone I knew until my roommate finally picked up. What the hell is that noise? Fireworks. I knew it was fireworks. Turns out it was for Diwali, a Hindu holiday. Usually on Sunday nights I read the New York Times before I go to bed to unwind, catch up on current events. This Sunday night I sat on the couch alone, staring blankly at all the war stories plastering the front page. I felt nauseated for a long time, a heavy lump in my stomach threatening to force its way out. I read about this happening to other people, but I didn't think it would affect me like this.

Since returning home, one of my primary goals has been to show people that Iraq war veterans are regular people. It was a bit of a gamble to share my thoughts with this campus, to put my personal experience out there for anyone to read. But more than anything, I wanted to share my experience in Iraq, my perspective as both a UW-Madison student and a member of the military.

Liz O'Herrin's full journal is available at http://www.warwillchangeawoman.blogspot.com/.