COURTESY OF MICHAEL WOODARD.

When the Black Hawk helicopter I was flying landed at the American base near Al Qayyarah in early October 2005, ending my role in Operation Iraqi Freedom, it came as welcome relief from the maddening pace of the previous 12 months.

Naively, I had believed that this deployment would have little effect on me. During my 23 years in the service, I have completed assignments in Europe and all over the United States. As a pilot I was removed from the immediate cruelties of war. I thought I would do my year and go home.

As it turned out, I couldn't have been more wrong. The coming year in Iraq would prove to be totally out of my experience, although at the time I did not realize it.

Alerted for deployment in 2004, my National Guard unit, N Troop 4/278 ACR, is a fascinating collection of citizen soldiers who serve because they want to. Our pilots have years of experience, and our crew chiefs are highly trained experts. "Guard" units evolve into stable, close-knit fraternities.

After training at Fort Bragg, we flew out to Iraq in the latter part of October 2004. The feeling of disorientation that comes with transcontinental flight was taking hold by the time we landed in Germany in preparation for the next leg of the flight to Kuwait. After settling in at Camp Udari Kuwait, we completed a short training syllabus and prepared to fly to our base camp up north near Al Qayyarah, site of an old Iraqi air force installation.

Americans call it "Key West" because the Arabic word Qayyarah sounds like "key." "Key West" was a natural evolution. Although the area sounded exotic, Club Med it wasn't.

The flight up-country from Kuwait revealed a homogeneous and vast landscape. Occasionally, you'd see a few camels or small villages, but nothing else. It has a certain beauty that I think you have to see to appreciate.

Southeast of Baghdad, while refueling at Tallil, I visited the Italians who were working nearby in their hanger. Three flight-suited maestros--apparently fresh from their naps--were very startled to see me. I was embarrassed at having surprised them, but neither of us really seemed to mind. They were gregarious fellows in the way you might imagine Italian aviators to be. In the future I would learn the importance of being able to rest anywhere, as the Italians had.

Our first days in Key West were hectic, and the learning curve was steep. We were replacing a regular Army unit from New York. Their young pilots had accumulated a career's worth of experience and were ready to go home. We spent orientation flying with them and learning our way around. Skimming along the desert floor and weaving our way to the landing zone was the routine for safe flights. The low altitude helped reduce the possibility of taking fire. The Army guys were good people and went the extra mile to make sure we were ready.

Shortly after arriving in Key West, we were asked to provide two crews to the commander of coalition forces in Northwest Iraq. This was my assignment. We operated out of Saddam's presidential site in Mosul, a city best described by one word: brown. The desert comes right up to the city limits, and buildings are a brownish earth-tone color. The Tigris River bisects the town and, aside from the mountains to the north, it is the major geographic feature in the area.

Now, Saddam's former palace is known as FOB (Forward Operating Base) Courage. Occupied during the invasion, the grounds were suggestive of a small college campus, except now sandbags were everywhere. Protecting the perimeter was a 15-foot wall bristling with guard towers and machine guns.

Hard-core infantry units lived here now. These young men daily left the safety of the base to fight in Mosul, where they learned how cheap life was in the Middle East. They were good at what they did. Units like these do the "heavy lifting" associated with American policy in Iraq. It is messy work.

In a place like this, death is troublesome because it is so random. As an example, while picking up wounded we began taking fire. Mortar rounds landed just outside our helicopter's rotors.

Fortunately, we escaped that day, but everyone didn't. An incoming round careened inside a bunker where a young soldier had taken cover. It detonated and took his life. I think of those moments often, about what his family would do now. No happy reunions for them. Moments like these torment those who remain for a long time.

Survival while flying in a combat zone is sometimes a matter of inches. I realized this while approaching the Green Zone heliport in Baghdad late one night. A pair of reconnaissance helicopters passed in opposition, so close to our Black Hawk that our rotors overlapped, narrowly missing a collision. My crew laughed it off and talked about how we'd rather be lucky than good.

Days were long, often many in a row without a break. We did just about everything--flying from the Syrian border to the Iranian frontier, transporting troops, evacuating wounded, and hauling media and political stars who had come to check on the war. We never closed, and there was no saying no.

Being gone so far away and for so long understandably creates changes in perspective. After about three months in Iraq, one begins to appreciate what separation from home really is. During this period the deep bonds of friendship seen only in combat begin to form. Contact with home becomes less frequent. E-mail, packages and phone calls can only do so much.

Gradually, I began to see Iraq as my home, and these people with whom I lived and worked were now like my family. Military life has always required a good deal of separation, but a deployment of this length and under these conditions was definitely uncharted territory for me. My crew became my brothers, and each of us would have done anything for the other.

Even my Iraqi friends offered normalcy in an abnormal situation. We shared holiday traditions, treats from home and thought-provoking conversation. Some of the Iraqis took enormous risks to help us.

You feel marooned in the Middle East, and home is a distant abstract thought. Life is lived in the moment. There is no tomorrow and no yesterday. There is just "now," and only your crew matters. Rank dissolves, and your team operates with a satisfying sense of purpose. You lose track of days, confidence builds, and you feel bulletproof. It is addictive.

All of this changes when it's time to go on leave, about midway though your tour of duty. You are extracted from this madness in a rush of jet transports, and you arrive home only hours after dodging small arms fire. American excess is too much now. I was home, on leave, and yet my mind remained back with my unit where I was needed.

Afterwards, we told lies about great times we'd had back home, only to later learn the difficult truth: No one really did.

When my leave ended and I returned to Iraq, temperatures daily rose over 125 degrees and terrorists were more active in attacking our base. A long, hot summer lay ahead of us in more ways than one.

The things that one becomes accustomed to are amazing. Small arms and mortar fire seem routine. During the usual assault one evening, I headed for the safety of a bunker with a freshly scooped bowl of ice cream in my left hand. On the way I tripped and impaled the palm of my right hand on the edge of a counter. Blood gushed as I headed off for stitches, sewn by a disgruntled reservist medic who had just signed up for some college money. I still have the scar, which reminds me of the ribbing I got about the lengths that I'd go to for a medal or a bowl of ice cream.

In August 2005 rumors about going home began spreading, but I didn't give them much thought. Finally, in September we learned our replacements were in Kuwait and would be flying up any day to relieve us. We knew then that we had to at least think about going home.

It sounds strange, but when we were asked about staying until January if Gen. Rodriquez or Gen. Bergner needed us, everyone instantly said yes. Such was our dedication to the mission, but really more so to each other.

Living near violent death as we had for so long had a price that would someday demand to be paid. So as the end neared, we vowed to leave this experience behind, in Iraq. It would not be fair to anyone to bring this home.

The new guys would learn this as I had. For now we tried to make sure our replacements had the knowledge to be successful, as our predecessors had done for us.

Before we left, the general gave a very nice send-off by saying that we would be missed. In the military no one is indispensable, so this was high praise. We had earned official awards for our actions; however, they pale when compared to the respect and trust our colleagues placed in us. This bond exists only among those who endure the hardships of this path.

The next morning we flew to "Key West," joining friends we'd left there the year before. During those last days I thought about home a lot. For me, coping had required complete withdrawal from American life to live fully in Iraq. Now all that would need to be reversed--quite a psychological workout. After a few days we flew to Kuwait, deposited our unit's helicopters on a ship, boarded a jet, and flew to Fort Bragg, N.C. I slept all the way.

My wife drove over the next day, and we began to get reacquainted. It was a happy time for us. I passed on the military's C -130 ride, choosing instead to drive home and just look at America on the way. As we made our way through East Tennessee, I began to enjoy the clean, cool air of the mountains. I realized how much I had missed my home and family. Most people don't get the opportunity to see the rest of the world from the perspective I have, but if they did they would realize as I do what a beautiful country America is and how very fortunate we are to be here.

After a few days at home, someone told me that it would be all right to look back at my time in Iraq because remembering those who don't come home is important. But, I was cautioned, "Don't stare."

From time to time I think I will look back on that lifetime lived in Iraq that year. Staring won't be a problem because there are still 160,000 troops deployed and I'm still in the military. It doesn't take a genius to know what that means.

Outfitters to Wookiees and Warlocks: Paul Bielaczyc, BS'02, MS'04 (standing), and his brother, Michael, only use their special powers for good, helping solve the age-old problem of what to wear to your next Renaissance festival or science fiction convention. The brothers create ogre masks, elf ears, faun pants, fangs, wounds, swords and more. Photo by Chip Talbert

My boyfriend makes elf ears. Long, pointy, flesh-colored things you can slide over the tips of your real ears when you pretend to be a goblin or fairy or your favorite Lord of the Rings character. His name is Paul Bielaczyc, BS'02, MS'04, and he makes these ears with his brother in an East Nashville studio, along with noses and foreheads, masks and scars -- basically, any costume prosthetic you can imagine. And while I always have a good outfit on Halloween because of him, every time I tell people what he does, I am faced with blank stares and confused, sometimes horrified, expressions.

"Elf ears?" someone will say at a cocktail party. "What on earth are those?" I find myself at a lot of cocktail parties these days, talking to people I don't know because I'm supposed to learn how to network. I'm 25 now, four years out of college, and my social life is slowly migrating from two-for-one drink specials to wine-and-cheese night at someone's Pottery Barn-themed apartment.

The small talk at these soirees is always the same: big, friendly smiles, enthusiastic head nods, and superficial discussions about things I don't actually care about. If I mention my boyfriend in conversation, my new acquaintance will ask a few perfunctory questions about our relationship. How long have Paul and I been dating (six years), how did we meet (as undergrads at Vanderbilt), and what does he do for a living? And that's when things get interesting.

No one responds to the mention of elf ears with a nod and a smile, the way they do when the answer is "lawyer" or "accountant" or any other one-word job description. Sometimes I wish I didn't have to explain Paul to everyone I meet. "He makes fake wounds and gashes?" I imagine someone saying at a party. "How interesting--so do I!" But this never happens. Paul has the prosthetic bullet-wound and exposed brain-bits market all to himself.

Over the years I have perfected my description of Paul's job. He owns his own company, I tell people. It's called Aradani Studios. He started it with his brother. First it was ears, but then they moved on to other prosthetics, then costume jewelry and customized weapons like flails and maces. Last summer they hired a seamstress to sew made-to-order costumes. They don't have a storefront, but they do have employees who travel to conventions and festivals for them, and sometimes they travel themselves. Oh, they're also artists who illustrate fantasy books.

The conversation usually ends there, punctuated by an awkward silence that hangs in the air one second too long before someone decides to change the subject. But sometimes I'll see a spark of recognition in a person's face--usually a man's--and he will say, "What kind of fantasy books?" And that's when I throw out the terms Paul has taught me: Dragonlance. White Wolf Publishing. I don't know what these words mean, but I say them cheerfully and forcefully, the way my father taught me to recite "vice president of the financial division" when I was in first grade and had to do a report on what my parents did for a living.

"Dragonlance?" the closeted geek will ask. He will look at me with wide eyes, and suddenly I'll realize that I'm facing a man who wants nothing more than to drop out of business school and play Dungeons and Dragons all day. "I love Dragonlance! What did he do for them?"

"Ominous Night," charcoal by Paul Bielaczyc

"I dunno," I'll reply. "I think he drew a horsey?"

The truth is, I don't really know what Paul does. I see his drawings and look at his latest ear molds, but I don't know which piece of artwork is sold to which company. And because I'm not interested in sci-fi or fantasy--I'm more of the shoe-shopping, America's Next Top Model-watching type of girlfriend--I really have no idea why he's so upset when he comes home from work in a bad mood because 20-sided dice wouldn't glue onto a flail.

"What's a flail?" I will ask, or "Why are you gluing dice onto it?"

That's when Paul will turn to me with a look of mild pity, as if I'd just asked him to explain how to ride a bicycle. "A flail is a type of medieval weapon. I'm gluing dice onto it because then geeks will want to buy it."

"Oh, like a Bedazzler!" I'll reply. "For the type of people who cover their cell phones in pink rhinestones. I get it."

Sometimes when I explain Paul's profession, one of the closeted geeks will be so enthusiastic that he'll get other party guests interested, too. I'll find myself surrounded by people in khaki pants and Old Navy performance-fleece pullovers. They will stare at me like zoo visitors before a baboon exhibit, trying desperately to comprehend a job that allows employees to wear chain mail instead of blue jeans on Casual Friday. "Where does he make his products?" one of them will ask. "What's his job title?" "Who buys them?" "How did he get the idea?" "How many ears have they sold?"

The answer to that last question is 25,000 pairs. Thanks to Aradani Studios, 25,000 people now know the joy of latex prosthetic elf ears. And that's not even counting the customers who buy other products like noses and foreheads and vampire fangs. Paul and his brother even sell furry faun pants to people who want to dress like Mr. Tumnus from the Chronicles of Narnia movie. Of course, those who wish to look like a wardrobe closet are still better off going to Ikea.

Photo by John Russell

When they've satisfactorily investigated the business side of the elf-ear endeavor, the next thing people want to know is how it affects me. I look so nice and normal, they think--am I really dating a man who owns his own set of leather armor?

"Well, he doesn't wear it," I tell them. "It's for decoration."

I do find Paul's profession strange, but it's a familiar kind of strangeness, something that makes sense to me but is hard to explain to others, sort of like telling a foreigner why our democratic political system keeps electing people named Clinton and Bush.

My boyfriend likes his job, so I like it, too. I don't care that he sells costumes to sweaty-palmed World of Warcraft fanatics who smell faintly of microwavable burritos, if he doesn't mind making small talk with someone in chinos who has a strong opinion on shiraz versus pino grigio.

In fact, I try to have as little contact with Paul's customers as possible. I used to attend the occasional convention with him--even I found the prospect of meeting the original Chewbacca interesting--but after a former Star Trek actor hit on me without wearing pants, I decided that the scene was not for me.

Most of my visits to Paul's conventions have gone smoothly, but one particular trip stands out in my mind. My boyfriend is a friendly person, very animated and enthusiastic about his work, and his energy is infectious. One day he talked to another festival worker--a large woman who wore leather gauntlets as part of her everyday outfit--and she decided that she would try to steal him from me. Musketeer-like and clutching a sword, she challenged me to a duel. I'm a fairly wimpy person--I can't play poker because I'm too stingy to make a bet--and there was no way I'd be able to beat a woman who owned her own saber. So I ran away.

Paul (right) with his brother and business partner, Michael Bielaczyc. Photo by John Russell

Other times, I'm the one who looks like an idiot at the conventions. Most attendees are there for one reason--because they are extreme fans. They spend hundreds of dollars on obscure memorabilia, dress up in costumes of their favorite characters, and fawn all over the celebrities who attend the conventions. The celebrity guests expect to be recognized and adored by these fans, but because they're usually B-grade actors from sci-fi or fantasy movies, I have no idea who they are. I once held an entire conversation with the man who voices Space Ghost on the cartoon television show, and when I finally found out who he was, I said, "Oh. That's nice," and wandered away. Only later did Paul tell me that the actor was the convention's guest of honor.

I have similarly embarrassed myself in front of Star Trek actors, Battlestar Gallactica characters, and the guy who played Hercules on that horrible USA television show by the same name. The only convention guest I've ever been excited to meet was LeVar Burton, the blind guy with the visor on Star Trek: The Next Generation. Burton came to the convention because of Star Trek, but I wanted to meet him because he hosted Reading Rainbow. I waited in line for an hour, behind hundreds of people clutching Star Trek DVDs, books and action figures they wanted autographed. When it was my turn to meet him, I shook the actor's hand and said, "Thank you, Mr. Burton. I really admire the way you read Angelina Ballerina."

These are the stories I tell at cocktail parties, and if I'm lucky, I inspire laughter instead of awkward silence. When I moved to New York City last August to attend journalism school at Columbia University, I wasn't sure how to explain my boyfriend to my new acquaintances. On the one hand, New York is full of weirdos, and Paul's career is almost boring compared to the man in my building who makes his living by dressing up like the Statue of Liberty and selling knickknacks to tourists. On the other hand, Columbia is a fancy institution, full of fancy people who wear fancy clothes and do fancy things like win Pulitzer Prizes. Would Pulitzer Prize winners care about the guy who hosted Reading Rainbow?

As it turns out, the answer is yes. Not only do Pulitzer Prize winners like Reading Rainbow, but they love elf ears. I've already hooked up one classmate with a pair of her own ears, and other people have asked to interview Paul and his brother for articles. Even if no one else takes advantage of my Halloween costume connections, at least I'll have something to talk about the next time I find myself at a cocktail party.

When people ask about Paul's educational background and how he developed the skills to follow such a bizarre, unraveled career path, I tell them he learned it at Vanderbilt. He learned about sculpture in his undergraduate studio art classes, and sometimes he crafts 3-D models of his drawings using the Maya animation software he learned in graduate school.

I keep telling Paul he should hang his Vanderbilt diplomas on the walls of his booth, right between the orc mask and the Legend of Zelda shield. When his elf-ear sales finally hit 30,000, he can look up at the diplomas and see how far he's come. At least his master's degree in computer science was good for something.

We never know when one small incident will change lives. It was reading a National Geographic article one September afternoon during my sophomore year at Vanderbilt that changed mine.

Reading the article "Twenty-First Century Slaves" in my dorm room that day, I was horrified and heartbroken to learn there are an estimated 27 million slaves in the world today, and that 800,000 to 900,000 are trafficked across international borders each year. I decided at that moment I had to do something.

I began by gathering a group of students and establishing a student organization, FREE, to raise awareness of human trafficking. During months of research I found photos of children and young women who had been rescued from human trafficking.

Two in particular captured my attention. The warmness of their gaze seemed to assure me that they, these girls, were the reason I must continue the anti-trafficking work that by then was consuming my life. The two girls in the photograph had been rescued from slavery somewhere in a town in India known as Allahabad. Suddenly, I felt the need to sketch these girls into a drawing of Freedom.

Each day as I drew, I was surprised at the images making their home on my paper. I noted that of the six figures in my collage, five of them were from India, a land I could only dream of visiting. Little did I know that within only a few months, I would be selected by the U.S. Department of State for an internship in New Delhi, India, with the Trafficking in Persons Office.

When I packed my suitcase, I included a few prints of my finalized drawing.Maybe, just maybe, I would be able to trace the young girls who had inspired me.When I arrived in Delhi in June of 2005, I showed the drawing to my director. She suggested I meet with Joy Zaidi,who ran a shelter home in Allahabad and would be coming to New Delhi the following week.

One week later I sat down with Joy as he told me about the shelter home and HIV/AIDS program he had begun some years before. As he spoke he dabbed his moist eyes, telling me about children for whom he could find no financial support.Many had been abandoned at the train station, or left to begging rackets on the streets, or rescued from forced child labor, or had been victims of trafficking. The small grant that kept the home open had run out. I promised him I would do what I could to find funding for the SOUP (Society of Underprivileged People) home.

Then I unrolled my drawing and handed it to Joy."Do you know these two girls? Are they from your shelter home?" I pointed to the girl in the center and the girl in the right hand corner. Joy's eyes filled with tears again. "Oh, yes.Yes, these are my girls! It is my Sunita. And the other, she is our precious Grace Malla!"

A year after I met Joy, I finally had the chance to visit the shelter home. Following my graduation from Vanderbilt in May 2006, I returned to India to work in Calcutta with two organizations, and at long last I could meet the children in the shelter home.

On the way to the shelter from the train station, Joy told me stories about the children: Kajal, a 4-year-old girl found at the train station, had been blinded with acid by her stepmother. Surendra was trafficked for child labor and sold to drug peddlers who cut off his left leg. Rahul had been trafficked for the removal of one of his kidneys.

When I arrived at the shelter, the children greeted me with curious, wide eyes--Rinki, Madhu,Ragni, Rita, Sunny,Gautam,Ramesh, Raoul, Surendra, Kajal. I bent down to take Kajal's hand, for she was the smallest. Looking at her damaged eyes stopped a beat ofmy heart.

The children wanted to play in a nearby park. Rinki, Ramesh and Madhu never left Kajal's side. Not once did they run ahead to climb the slide or join a game without taking her hand and gently leading her so she too could take part in the fun. The other children took special care to include Surendra in the games despite the limitations of his short wooden leg. They were a family, a team who took care of each other.

While the children slept around me that night, I feared what would happen if we did not find funding quickly.Would they be left to the streets? The rent was months overdue. Funds were so low that the children had no milk to drink.

In the past, worries could pull and push me into a frenzied panic. But these children had, in only one day, taught me a beautiful lesson. If these children who had lived through slavery, abuse, abandonment and pure evil could live each day with a simple faith, finding joy in helping each other, then so could I.My resolve was steadfast, and I was determined to find funding for those children and, if possible, special help for Kajal and Surendra.

A few months later, at Christmas, I once again journeyed to the shelter home.After I had sent out a call for help, family and friends had contributed to SOUP so that overdue debts could be paid in full. Vanderbilt students from FREE raised $4,500 in three weeks--enough to support the home for five or six months.My mother's and sister's Sunday school classes raised enough money for Christmas presents for the children, and there was enough money left over for Surendra to be standing proud and tall on a new leg specially made to fit him.

Now, a small voice called out to me."Ashley di-di, English song?" Kajal tugged at my shirt.

Kajal wanted me to sing her English songs because she would be going to America for sight restoration surgery.My e-mail call for help had found its way to Jenna Ray from Nashville,who enlisted the help of Dr.Ming Wang. Dr.Wang had developed exactly the surgery Kajal needed in order to see--a femtosecond artificial cornea transplant. He offered to perform the surgery for free and even obtained a grant from the hospital.

But we still needed $30,000 to pay for months of hotels, food, transportation, passports, visas and airfare for Kajal and Joy's wife,Grace,who would go with her as a translator and caretaker. Kajal's story went out, and help poured in.Within weeks dozens of families in Nashville had offered to take Kajal and Grace into their homes. People donated to the "Kajal Project," contributing enough for Kajal and Grace to pay for their passports and visas and needs once in the U.S.

Most amazing was how we obtained Kajal's and Grace's airfare.My mother had gone to a Wal-Mart in Monroe, La., to find a USB drive for downloading photos of the children. She did not really know what she needed, but another customer, a man named Curt Gober, offered his help.My mom shared the story of the shelter home and Kajal. Mr. Gober decided at that very moment that he and his family wanted to be part of this project by donating the airline tickets. As he walked away, he turned and said, "Mrs. Rogers, I'm for real, and I am going to do this."And he did--a stranger from another city passing through town, in Wal-Mart, on the same aisle at the same time as my mom.

My smile was uncontainable that Christmas Eve as I watched Kajal play her favorite game with the other children--creating patterns and networks out of hands. One by one she took the children's right hands and placed them beside each other before taking their left hands and laying them in a stack. "Ashley di-di, give me your hand," sang out Kajal. Kajal stood in the middle and began turning so that we all moved in a circle around her.

Kajal is right, I concluded, as I watched her form a web of connections, complete only when she had used both hands from every person in the room.We are all connected, and we all have a part to play, hands to give. While I had worried about how Kajal would find the support she needed to journey to the U.S. for surgery, all I had to do was play a small role by giving my hands and heart, and God did the rest by forming an intricate network of people who gave a "hand" from all over the world.

In July 2007, Kajal had her first reconstructive surgery on her right eye in Nashville. Dr.Wang believes she has a 50 percent chance of regaining sight. Her story has touched many lives, and we hope it may bring help to other children.

Sunita and Grace Malla, the girls whose pictures I had drawn early in my journey, have passed away. Sunita died in June 2006 of a fever. Grace Malla died in 2005 after a battle with AIDS. This is dedicated to them-- this article, this project, this lifelong mission. When I drew their picture three years ago, it was not me drawing the story; they were drawing me into their story. Thank you, girls. This story is yours.