Huge deployment of Florida troops pulls couple apart for third time

ORLANDO — In the dark doorway of the airport hangar, he held her. It was warm inside, with all the other soldiers and their families. But she couldn't stop shivering.

"Don't cry," he said, pulling her close against his camouflage jacket. "It'll be okay. We've done this before."

She didn't nod. Wouldn't look up at him. Just squeezed his waist more tightly.

They had done this before, sure. Two times in the past four years, Christina Aguiar, 25, had to say goodbye to her boyfriend, Derrick Jayska, 25, as his National Guard unit shipped out to Afghanistan.

But this time was different. This time, the Tampa soldier and 600 others from the 2nd Battalion, 124th Infantry were heading to Kuwait, then on to Iraq where they would guard convoys of American soldiers for at least a year. This time, he was one of 2,500 soldiers from the Sunshine State being sent overseas — Florida's largest single deployment of National Guardsmen since World War II.

The governor was coming to commend them. And the lieutenant governor. A major general. All sorts of state senators and representatives and representatives' representatives. Everyone started piling into the Orlando airport hangar early Wednesday for the official send-off ceremony.

Christina didn't care about any of that. She didn't want to hear important speeches or suffer through heart-felt pep talks. She just wanted to hold onto her new husband for as long as she could.

They had only been married six days. They hadn't even had time to print their wedding photos.

About 9:45 a.m., the soldiers started falling into formation, and their families sank into folding chairs. Toddlers stood on laps, waving flags. Moms dabbed at runny eyeliner.

The newlyweds clung to each other, kissing, until another soldier tapped Derrick's elbow. "I gotta go do this," he finally told Christina, prying out of her arms. "Don't cry. I'll see you again before we have to get on the bus."

• • •

They both grew up in Tampa. Met at Monroe Middle School, in eighth-grade algebra. On a school trip that year, on the bus ride home from Epcot, they held hands.

They were together, on and off, through high school. He worked at Rent King and Sam's Club — but always wanted to join the military. He signed up for the National Guard at 21. She started waiting tables at Macaroni Grill.

Nineteen months ago, they had a daughter, Lilliana. In November, they had another and named her Madeline.

Derrick didn't propose until he found out he had to go back to war.

"Maybe we should just do it now," he told her. "In case, you know, something happens."

They never talk about "what if …"

But it's always there.

• • •

By the time Christina went to sit down, all the folding chairs were full. So she stood where she would rather be anyway: in front of her husband, who was in the formation's front row. He remained at attention, hands clasped behind his back, while the elected officials and Army officers took the stage.

He was supposed to be watching them. But he winked at her.

"Our state and our country are truly grateful for your service," the governor told the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen, you are looking at the truest of heroes in our society."

Derrick tried to listen, he wanted to get in the right mindset, let the words pump him up.

Christina tried to tune everything out. She knew this was an honor, a big deal. But it was also terrifying and horrible and … lonely to hear words like "sacrifice," "hostile enemies" and "never surrender!"

She thought about their girls, back at home with her parents. She thought about lounging on the couch with Derrick, watching Criminal Minds. She thought, "Now I won't be able to watch the news for a year." Because every time she sees something about Kuwait, or Iraq, she will worry. And she won't know. And she might not be able to find out for weeks. Or longer.

Last time, they went up to three months without even being able to e-mail.

"So let us pray," said a chaplain, closing the hour-long ceremony.

Christina bowed her head, but kept her eyes on Derrick's suede combat boots. She shuffled her pink Converse, stuffed her fists in the pocket of her black hoodie.

"Please," she prayed. "Please let me hear from him. Please, just let me know he's okay."

• • •

She ran to him when it was finally over. They kissed and kissed and kissed. Then he cupped her face in his hands and gently wiped her tears.

"We still have an hour," he whispered. "Don't cry."

They took photos on her cell phone: Of him, of them together, of friends and fellow soldiers. They called their toddler, who can barely talk. "Daddy loves you. I'll be home soon, Lilli."

By the time he gets back, the baby will be talking too.

He taped the girls' pictures into his agenda book. Christina promised to e-mail the wedding photos. He said he would rather have prints, and a real letter. He never knows when the Internet will work. And there's just something, he said, about hearing his name at mail call — and seeing her handwriting.

"Second Battalion soldiers need to line up in formation outside the hangar," an officer barked through a loudspeaker just before noon.

Christina and Derrick were sitting in folding chairs, drinking Coke from Styrofoam cups between kisses. They both looked up.

How could their last hour be up?

They put down their drinks. Derrick hid his face in her shoulder. She held him, stroking his shaved head, until the chairs emptied around them.

In the dark doorway of the airport hangar, she kissed him one last time and let him go.