An editor asked: Will Memorial Day be different for you?

The answer is, no.

Truth is, pretty much every day has been Memorial Day since I returned.

Not a day goes by that I am not constantly returned by headlines, or just momentary quiet thought, to the sacrifices and hardships of Hawai'i-based soldiers in two war zones.

They are big and small. From the supreme — killed in action — to the overlooked that just come with being a soldier, like being away from family for 14 months. Normal for the military, unthinkable for civilians.

Oh, the back-home luxuries of a bed, flush toilets, cable television and showers that reliably supply hot water.

These moments are not a snapshot, but rather a book-like narrative of people and places infused with the rush and fear of skimming the ground in a military helicopter, constant worry about roadside bombs in Iraq, the sheer exhaustion of foot patrols at 10,000 feet in Afghanistan, and sometimes, the grisly, disturbing details of war.

About 4,000 25th Infantry Division (Light) soldiers are in Iraq; about 5,500 more are deployed to Afghanistan.

There was Spc. Jarod Myers, who as a 20-year-old had to cope with the death of his best friend, Pfc. John D. Amos II, killed when a suicide car bomber unleashed the explosive force of two artillery shells in Kirkuk, Iraq, on April 4.

The injured Myers was sent to a Baghdad hospital where he further witnessed horrific wounds suffered by Marines during fighting in Fallujah and Ramadi.

A big man with a Ranger-style haircut, the Charlie Company, 1st Battalion, 21st Infantry Regiment soldier was shaken to the core.

"This is the worst week in my life by far," he said after the memorial for Amos. "Losing your best friend, and seeing what I saw down there, literally scarred me for life. It ain't no movie. This is for real. That's why we're here experiencing it, so people back home don't have to."

There was Spc. Matthew Yost, 31, a turret gunner on an "up-armored" Humvee who just happened to be leaning over to get some food when the blast that killed Amos blew like a hot wind over his back.

For 3› days on a 600-mile convoy trip from Kuwait to Kirkuk, Yost, an ardent supporter of any college football program that happened to be based in his home state of Florida, unflinchingly stood in the turret buffeted by cold winds made frigid at 50 miles per hour.

Soldiers, as with all the military services, are volunteers. Ultimately, going to war is what they train for. It's their job.

But few professions require a year-long separation from family. Or the necessity of shivering through the night in a mountain canyon. Or the daily possibility of being killed or maimed — the latter of which happened to some Schofield soldiers when an incoming 107 mm rocket exploded over shipping container-like living quarters called "conexes" on the night of March 30 at Kirkuk Air Base.

Eleven Schofield soldiers were injured; one lost his foot.

There was Capt. Dave Parkes, 29, a supply and logistics officer for the 1st Battalion, 27th Infantry Wolfhounds, who traveled by convoy more than his fair share between Kirkuk and Al Huwijah 40 miles to the southwest in the tip of the Sunni Triangle, an area of frequent attacks on U.S. forces.

"I've been here 26 days, and I've probably gone out on 23 convoys," Parkes, who has a 3-year-old and another child on the way, said in March.

He didn't have to go that much; he just wanted to make sure things were going right.

Just a couple of miles outside Kirkuk Air Base, Parkes had pointed to a gap in the concrete median from an "improvised explosive device" explosion that had missed a convoy the previous week. Parkes was two vehicles back.

"You see the fire, explosion and black smoke. You feel it and hear it, of course," he said.

There was Sgt. Dennis Moore, 23, who served in Afghanistan with the 3rd Ranger Battalion in 2002, parachuted into Iraq on March 29 of 2003, and is on his third combat deployment and back in Iraq with the 25th Division.

Moore transferred to Hawai'i hoping he wouldn't get re-deployed. He got married in December of 2002, but combat duty got in the way of a honeymoon. He wasn't complaining. That was what his voluntary duty required.

In April, he got 15 days of rest and recuperation, a trip home to Hawai'i, and a honeymoon to Maui.

There was Sgt. Michelle School, a 24-year-old military police officer who was struggling in Afghanistan with the need to reach out to people as part of peacekeeping efforts — the bulk of what Schofield soldiers do in Iraq and Afghanistan — yet remain on guard for possible attack.

"One minute you're driving down the road and you see a guy with a two-way radio (who can be planning an attack)," School said, "and the next you're handing out candy and pens to kids. It's going to take some getting used to."

And finally, putting a fine point on the sacrifice faced by soldiers in a war zone, there was Pat Tillman, killed on April 22 near the Pakistan border.

The larger-than-life former professional football player turned Army Ranger was felled about 15 miles from where 2nd Battalion, 27th Infantry soldiers from Schofield had conducted several days of operations outside a remote mountain village.

As Richard and I waited to board our U.S.-bound flight from Bagram Air Base, the pilot announced that Tillman's body would also be going home. A procession of mini pickup trucks and a minivan delivered a silver, American-flag-draped casket, and six soldiers moved it with some difficulty through a narrow side door of the C-17 cargo aircraft with as much dignity as they could muster.

The casket was strapped to the floor in the cavernous cargo hold for the flight first to Uzbekistan and then to Germany.

It was a sobering end to our journey to Afghanistan. I wish it for no one else.