As fall approached, Sgt. 1st Class Janelle Johnson scheduled home leave so she could take her 5-year-old daughter, Elizabeth, to her first day of kindergarten.

It was a two-week chance to be a mother again. She shopped with Elizabeth for a pink jumper, curled her daughter’s hair and watched her step aboard the yellow school bus. She marveled that her 18-month-old daughter, Emily, who had no hair and blue eyes when she last saw her, had blossomed into a blonde-haired, green-eyed, walking, talking toddler.

Her husband, Chad, was doing a great job.

But in the blink of an eye, the two weeks were over. Before Janelle could begin to settle in, she was back in Iraq — and, strangely, at a school that made her think of the kindergarten back home.

Her unit was delivering soccer balls and backpacks stuffed with school supplies, another mission designed to give an Iraqi community a helping hand.

The school was little more than a collection of desks in a mud building surrounded by a dirt yard and a fence; children who couldn’t attend because they didn’t own shoes watched forlornly outside as the soldiers arrived with their offerings.

Later, when Janelle received a photo scrapbook of Elizabeth’s first months at school, she thought about what she had seen and she was grateful for her daughter’s fortunate life at Knight Elementary School in Randall, Minn. She sent a thank you note to Elizabeth’s teacher with a special gift: an American flag that had flown over her base.

“As the days got long ... there was always one thing that would brighten my day, seeing the American flag,” she wrote. “Every morning it was raised and reminded me of what a great nation I come from. ... I hope this flag also brings you and your class the joy and contentment it has brought me.”

A birth

Seth Goehring had prepared for fatherhood, as best he could from a war zone.

He had monitored his wife’s pregnancy with photos she had sent by e-mail, storing them chronologically in computer folders. The doctors even obliged by providing ultrasound images — with labels for the boy parts.

In another era, a father-to-be would have to wait weeks for letters and, if he was lucky, a snapshot or two. But Seth and Alicia were in constant, electronic contact. They mulled over possible names for their son. Alicia sent a list of possible of strong “cowboy” names before they settled on Kolton.

On a November afternoon, returning from patrol, Seth got the word from his platoon sergeant: The Red Cross had relayed the message that Alicia had gone to the hospital.

He quickly dialed the cell phone of his mother, who’d proxied for him at his wedding and now proxied for the delivery room doctor.

“Congratulations!” she declared. “You’re a father.”