"I'm leaving...And I'm taking the rat with me!"

Finally, at long last, the end came.

It took a while though. My last few days seemed to slow to a crawl. My work had been parcelled out to my colleagues and I was shifted from the night shift to days. My boss told me he only needed to see me once a day to prove I was alive, and outside of that, I was free.

Free? What does that word mean? At least in Iraq, it really means little. There are precious few things you can do to enjoy your freedom, and since all your friends are still tied to work, you're not really free to do anything but wander around the base alone and think. And with the weather topping off around 120 degrees, wandering around just isn't a good idea.

I did get a few things done - saw a few things I hadn't been able to see before. But in the end, I kept gravitating back to work. Some of the projects I had worked on needed to be updated, and I knew it would be too long before my coworkers could get to them. So I'd come in anyway. One project was being shut down, but I'd committed to updating it until the end of the month. That meant getting in extra work before I left, but I didn't want to go out on a whimper.

"Why are you still here?" one of the sergeants asked. "Don't you have to pack or something?"

"Already have packed," I said. I had packed and unpacked and then packed again. Then I unpacked, stuffed some of my personal things in a box and mailed it home. Then I packed again. I had traded in my guitar for a measly 4 DVDs and given away my fishing pole and tackle for free. The only other thing I could do was sit around my trailer reading a book on the Battle of Britain.

At work, I spent most of the time running around doing administrative stuff to prepare for my leave. One night a small going away ceremony was held for myself and an Army Major who was also leaving soon. After the Colonel spoke kind words about each of us, we were given a round of applause and everyone in the facility came down to shake our hands. About 80 people came by, each one trying their hardest to crush my hands with their grasp. About halfway through, I began to wish I had taken my college ring off, but it was too late, and each time a marine came up, he squeezed with a vice-like grip, grinding my ring against my fingers.

I came in for a couple of days after that, feeling like a lame duck president. But finally, my project finished and my flight time set, there was no work left to be done. The crew that I worked with - who had all come in as green novices four months ago - were now just as expert in their work as I had become before they arrived. In those days, I feared that they'd never get it right, and that things would really fall apart when the "old hands" left. But I have no such worries now.

I worked in a facility called the Joint Operations Center - which is laid out like a NASA control room. Over the last 10 months, it had become my home, and its personalities and peculiarities had shaped my experience in Iraq. Now, it was time to say goodbye.

"Alright, Sir, it's time," I said to my boss, offering my hand, which he shook. "I'm leaving...And I'm taking the rat with me!"

Shortly after the previous corps had departed in February and the new corps took over, they had banished the proliferation of personal items that had decorated desks and computers. The most devastating blow was the removal - and likely disposal - of the "JOC security rat" - a small rubber toy who had guarded the stairs to prevent unauthorized access.

It had been a stunning blow to morale, but by an odd coincidence, someone had placed a small brown beanie-baby rat on the WalMart table outside just that very day. I don't know what kind of person thinks: "How can I help support the troops in Iraq? I know. I'll send them this rat!" Nonetheless, their anonymous gift was greatly appreciated. Smuggling the rat into the facility, I placed it in a position of high importance - and low visibility - where it could stand watch, and guide us through our work. With the addition of a small wizzard hat, it became the mascot of the Intel department. When one person complained that the wizzard hat looked more like a sombrero, the rat got the nickname "Speedy" after the Looney Tunes mouse.

So, stuffing Speedy into my cargo pocket safe from the eyes of the Sgt. Major - the enforcer of the Draconian anti-fun rules - I grabbed my weapon and my hat and headed out the door. The traditional farewell in the JOC is a departing salute. My boss came up on the intercom and announced, "Attention in the JOC! Now departing for the very last time, LTJG Bernsen."

Five hours later, I was back at Baghdad International Airport, once again sleeping on the hard concrete, waiting for the morning to come, and with it, liberation from Iraq. But the airport had changed. The first two times, I'd had to sleep on gravel. The third time, I got to sleep on concrete. This time, I slept on concrete inside a tent. An airconditioned tent. That concrete was like paradise.

With unusual efficiency, I was aboard a C-130 by 9 a.m. As the back hatch slowly closed with a high-pitched whine, the little line of bright sunlight pinched and then vanished. Turning to the little round window next to my head, I gave a last look at Iraq. As the plane began to rumble down the runway, I turned back around and breathed a sigh of relief. In just over an hour, I would be in Kuwait, and Iraq would be behind me. Forever.