Tom Sousa, my neighbor, came home from Iraq on Saturday. He got out of his parents’ car, walked across the street and gave me the American flag shoulder patch he had worn for the past year. During our bear hug, he said I’d understand what he had been through. That’s why I was getting that faded, slightly tattered piece of cloth. It was a handoff from one generation’s war to another.

It was 38 years, almost to the day, since I had come home from a confusing war, and I’m still processing where the hell it fits in. So I can understand some of what Tom has been through, but certainly not all of it. I definitely can’t understand hauling 50 or 60 pounds of weapons, protective gear and supplies around in 130 degree heat while not knowing if the next step could mean deadly contact with a buried explosive. I can’t understand a war fought in the company of iPods and e-mail and MP3 players.

But I can understand the one thing that transcends the gadgets and the politics and the decades. It is the feeling of stepping away from things safe and familiar to go looking for a part of yourself that lies somewhere between the flat-out misery of boot camp and the pure joy of a day like last Saturday.

“It’s the camaraderie — only people who served, especially in a combat environment, can understand,” said Tom as we talked in the Sousas’ living room Monday night. “There are certain types of people in the world. Some are soldiers and some are not.”

He’s one for sure. My wife and I have watched him grow in uniform from the other side of Ray Street in Fall River.

He originally signed up for the Massachusetts National Guard as his ticket to a full ride at the University of Massachusetts. We saw him head out for weekend drills and summer camps. He was the smart, engaging jock from Durfee High School who was suddenly dealing with the serious stuff.

When he reenlisted, the war in Iraq was at full heat.

“I don’t think I could have had my friends in the military over there while I was here.”

So he headed out a year ago and his mother, Marilyn, put a light in a second-floor window.

He is not about to tell war stories. He says only that he and his unit, based out of Brockton, were involved in high-level security. Some of the experience, he says, was awful. He is thankful that no one in his unit was killed, although some were wounded.

Almost every day in Iraq ended in the gym. That is another difference. There are gyms in the war zone. Tom says it was a great stress reliever. He would plug in some favorite tunes and hoist a few tons.

He has played some golf since he got home. The last time he played was in Qatar. He says he never realized how much he loves the smell of freshly cut grass.

He is 24 and considering becoming a teacher. There is a program to help veterans move to the classroom. But there are still more years of duty in the Guard to fit around other things.

He is a staff sergeant now. He was a team leader in Iraq.

He thinks he is quieter since his year away, and maybe a little more distant. And proud that he went.

For his homecoming, I blew my one small assignment. I was supposed to get the Portuguese steak sandwiches from Caravela Restaurant as soon as I heard from his parents that they were leaving Brockton. But I wasn’t there when the call came.

I’m just glad I was there when Tom came across the street and made that wonderful connection.

I’m going to frame that shoulder patch.

bkerr@projo.com