ROCK HILL --
On a quiet residential Rock Hill street where little kids ride bicycles and daddies hug daughters and kids dream, the war in Iraq is still waged.
In a house with a red Firebird that has disabled veteran license plates, one of the countless heroes of that war lives.
Sometimes, the hero wakes up in the night - punching and kicking and screaming at an enemy that will never leave his head.
Our president told the nation and the world late Tuesday night that the seven-year combat in Iraq is over. President Obama said he is in "awe" of the valor of the soldiers who fought that war.
He was talking about the hero on this quiet street, Cedric Caldwell.
Caldwell watched those words on TV, and he looked at the wall where a plaque says "Bronze Star with Valor" and "Purple Heart."
He thought about saving two fellow soldiers from certain death in April 2006 after their Humvee was bombed.
He looked at the scars on his arm, felt his aching back and shoulders and leg, and was reminded about the painless pain in his head.
"I thought about Squires," Caldwell said of his thoughts during that speech in which Obama thanked people just like him. "He lived for a while. And then he died. Burns.
"I thought about Torres. Hole in his leg, walks with a cane now. I thought about the little kids I saw, and the death. And me living."
That is what heroes do after wars. Remember.
Men like Cedric Caldwell, husband, father of two daughters, a sergeant who pulled soldiers named Squires and Torres from that burning Humvee as the bullets rained down on all of them.
Despite his own injuries that would leave him disabled for the rest of his life, Caldwell saved them.
Heroes remember, and they wish they didn't.
To deal with memories of Iraq that will not die, Caldwell feeds his 3-month-old daughter, Trinity. He plays with his 4-year-old daughter, Tiffanie, born while he was in Iraq.
He looks to his wife, Tiffani, who has loved him unconditionally through the kicks and screams in the night.
"We have a wonderful family, my husband is here, we have to move forward," said Tiffani Caldwell, who is herself an Air Force reservist.
'People just like us'
Cedric Caldwell, 30, knows what he is talking about when he talks about the end of combat in Iraq.
"On the one hand, that is great; I am glad there are no more combat missions for soldiers to go through," said Caldwell. "But the war remains in Afghanistan. I was there, too. Twelve passed there in the past week - seven in just one day.
"This is like a punch in the gut. I wish I could do more. The combat isn't going to end. It just moved."
This son of a preacher, this gentle but hard soul graduated from Northwestern High School in 1997. He now attends York Technical College at night, studying business entrepreneurship, and he hopes to open a sports bar some day.
He is still music minister at his father's Baptist church.
Once in the military, Caldwell served first in Kosovo-pre-9/11, then Afghanistan-post-9/11 - where his job was more about outreach and befriending locals than killing.
"One of my best friends used to be Taliban," Caldwell said. "He switched to us. Not uncommon. People just like us, that's what they are over there. They want jobs, to feed their families.
"The leaders are the ones who kill people. The rest, they want to survive."
Especially close to Caldwell was a clan of Pashtuns - members of the largest ethnic group in Afghanistan - with a little boy about 10 years old, whom Caldwell dubbed "Little Rock."
"Named for Rock Hill," Caldwell said. "I taught him some English; he taught me a bit of their language."
The Afghan clan called Caldwell, "Tor Khan."
"Black Pashtu Man," Caldwell said. "That meant I was family to them. I was proud to be family to them, too."
'War, period'
Caldwell's unit then deployed to Iraq in 2006, where he served as a sergeant in the Army's Alpha Battery, 3rd Battalion, 321st Field Artillery Regiment. He oversaw a squad of 17 men.
There were no friends on those highways where the squad provided convoy security. No locals making him family.
