When the Smoke Clears

In a few of the free moments or when standing around waiting for others, I read on my Kindle.

Right now, great revitalization of the old Pulp novels: Money Shot by Christa Faust. (Hard Case Crime #40)

“I felt like I would die if I didn’t rinse off. There was no soap and the rusty, lukewarm water dribbled out of the showerhead like blood from the wrist of a reluctant suicide.”

Sweet

On the hill, cold hits us sooner than the people in the village, but the sun lasts longer, deceiving us into believing the night will not be as harsh. It is.

In the distance we see small lights, the checkpoints on even taller mountain peaks ringing the valley. They will be colder tonight. They have been out there for months, coming down occasionally and taking their supplies. They truly stand fast as guardians of the night, guardians against those who would bully their way into dominance with violence and intimidation. They are the obvious targets.

Earlier today I had lunch with the governor of a frontier district. His office is in a building on a hill just up the street from the town market. The building was built with the idea that far more governing would take place inside. There are numerous offices, most of which have been converted into squatters quarters for security forces. Under a stair sits a propane stove, a pot boiling on top. It has been some time since this building was cleaned, if it ever was. Electricity is an occasional luxury.

The governor paid from his own pocket for a soldier to run into town to secure some food. He came back with far too much. I don’t ask questions such as what exactly the meat was. I imagine it was goat kabob. And there was the nân… the flat bread. We noted the bread was very good, but we wondered why the nân being taken to the sentries on the mountains wasn’t nearly as high of quality. The governor told us it had to do with the wheat supplied for their food. A person in town was paid to make the soldiers’ food, but could only do so much with the flour he had. It was the poorest of the quality.

And of his concerns, the governor most wanted help with a road and with schools. The dirt track into town runs through a stream wash. And he wants schools. We had a chance to visit one. No children were there, the school open to anyone to enter, situated behind the shops and stalls of the main road in town on a patch of land.

The school has the most basic of equipment, and yet is still lacking. There was no desk for a teacher. The children’s desks were well worn. Only one window pane in the entire school had any glass and that pane was broken. It will be an impossible place to learn in this winter if improvements aren’t made. But on the blackboards there were still lessons. I recognize the math going on in one corner and the grammar covering the rest of the board in spite of the strange characters.

We assure them we will do our best to try to secure something, to get these simple things running again. In my head I do a little math. For the amount of money we spend sending one child to a public school in a city in the US, we could more than cover the costs of outfitting this school, building a wall all the way around, hiring the teachers, many of whom have volunteered their time teaching so far, maybe even find a heater for the whole school and still have money left over. And it would put local tradesmen to work as well.

But these people are also scared. What happens when we go away? We don’t man the checkpoints, some of their people do. We try to assist in making things happen, being present to hopefully reduce the corruption. And when we are no longer around, when it gets dark out and we cannot be called on when the real monsters return in the night, what then? They want to live. If they can improve their situation, so much the better, but without the basics, it’s still survival existence.

While the children always want balls or candy, many of our soldiers prefer to hand out simple school supplies such as pencils, small notebooks. Watching their faces light up at the sight of a colored pen melts our hearts. Something so simple.

Literacy here is very low, less than 30%, women less literate than men because of the previous regime. In remote villages such as these, it is dramatically lower. But the parents want their children to learn.

Back in our camp, we ward off the night. One of our vehicles has ac power. Someone thought to bring along a projector and laptop. We set up an impromptu movie theater along a tent wall. Some folks sit on the gravel, some on broken folding chairs. Kelly’s Heroes sets a glow from the tent that attracts the attention of others who are not on duty. A few of the local forces timidly enter, shy at first, and look for a place to sit once we recognize and acknowledge them. They don’t understand the words, but they understand our laughter. It’s a moment to bond.

I found a spot in the corner on a cot next to a table. While watching the movie, I also had my laptop open to Dari lessons. The squiggles and dots are becoming more recognizable. A very young soldier sat next to me, unsure at first if it was acceptable behavior. I nodded. He watched the movie for a few minutes, then started looking as I worked my way through another lesson. The glow from the screens highlighted the intensity of his concentration. I was merely trying to figure out which forms of the letters were missing from the sentences. It seemed that he was trying to sound out each of the words, careful to whisper his way through. With reading and writing skills so rare, they mean better positions and promotions. He was determined to learn. When I glanced at him to see how he was doing, he looked shocked and then apologetic. I had to break my warrior stare to smile and let him know it was alright. Tashakor. Thank you.

But soon enough the movie ended. We packed up our equipment. I found a spot away from the wind, curled up and went to sleep. Even as an officer, I was still on the roster to pull a few hours of guard duty. We were only a few men out here. And I requested the middle of the night, the least liked time, the interrupted sleep.

And I, with others, kept cold watch over my trusting soldiers. And little lights blinked from the mountains as the others kept watch with us through the night.

It’s a day for a pause.

I’m going to do my best to not really go to work today, though that could change at a moment’s notice. After several weeks of getting my feet on the ground working 14, 16, and a few 18 hour days since being pushed out to a remote location, it’s time for some laundry. And I’ll still be reading things for work.

Temperatures are dropping. Afghanistan in the winter will be a challenge. We are at some elevation. Gaps between my door and the frame are excellent egresses for any captured heat. A little wind and I should have my own, private snow drifts. We are preparing.

And of all the people in my life, who should I be out here with at this mini-base but none other than my own blog-son, the Viking Medic? We have to be careful of what we write. There are far more stories to tell, details that have to fall short. And it pains me. It’s like having to rush from one side of a school to another just as classes are changing. No running. Almost every step cut short as someone gets in your way. My literary hip hurts.

Whereas Bagram was crowded with thousands, our home is crowded with few. The space borders on suffocating, landscape taken up with as much efficiency as possible. We think of our brethren on submarines. At least we get to breathe fresh air. Dust-riddled, but not recycled. We receive packages, care packages, things to lift our spirits, but often the irony makes us laugh. When there’s not enough room to store, things are kept in the open, lying about in whatever space can be found. It doesn’t rain. Dust will cover everything regardless of whether it is left outside or in.

Most of the buildings are no more than 5 feet apart, whatever “open” spaces taken up by vehicles with a little more room to maneuver those vehicles. There are no building codes, and it’s obvious. We fashion what we can out of plywood and whatever was left behind by the previous occupants. For some, that means living in a building with 7 other men. For some, a shared large tent on a slab of concrete. And for a few others, we carve out a space inside of a Conex… a steel container used for shipping goods. In one corner stands a flagpole and memorial stone to a fallen soldier. His unit will probably never return.

Outside one of the huts sits a large box, someone’s idea of boosting our morale. The box is open, scavenged through. Softballs, bats, bases, frisbees, etc. Items for sports, all of which require large, open fields. Not even close. Everyone here would be making home runs every pitch. For us to go somewhere that we could use this equipment would require major planning and lots of firepower: Map recon, a forward party, 360° security, snipers at lookout points. Perhaps another unit would be better served, and I have seen other posts where they could pull off some recreation like this. Some of the guys do grab a glove and ball when they are about to go on a mission for a few days. Sometimes they can secure enough space and time to toss a ball back and forth. For the rest of it, we will find a way to get these items to a school before the snows fall. Maybe not the baseball bats.

We look for places to walk where the gravel has worn down, but the tires on our trucks make too many piles to make walking very easy.

Blue is the color of purity and truth. It is the color of so many doors, of the common gem lapis lazuli, of the chaddari still worn by many women here. The Taliban forced the women into those chaddari and it has become a part of the culture. There is also fear in some that if the Taliban return, if we leave, those who discarded the chaddari will be punished worse than they were before we came. It will be even worse for widows, the zanane bee sarparast… the unprotected women. Blue is the color of our gates, though rust streaks drip down in some spots, the little bit of rain affecting what it can. It’s not April. It won’t rain for a while.

Grass grows on the tops of some of our barriers. It’s extra concealment. Nothing grows on our grounds, but the animals do survive. Our existence is their entire ecosystem. Wasps flit about, massing in the latrine at times, but never bothering us in there. It’s a neutral zone. They occasionally attack the unwary outside. Mice are our bigger problem. They scurry about, infiltrating care packages. With the gaps in my door, they have easy access to my sleeping space, so no food in there. I have been awakened in the middle of the night by their loud scratching, apparently several deciding that my parts of my newly built shelf would make excellent resources for their hideouts. I fought back. Now I get the sound of the occasional snap from the trap.

And while the sun is still high, I will wander over to our gym, our real site of activity and recreation. It’s not big, but it is nice and we keep it that way. I need to visit it more often if only I could get the time. Soon I will be back outside the confines of our post, doing what I can, helping where I can, and watching for the ones who intend to stop me.

Wow. This site went down for a few hours. Turns out it was time to renew my domain name. Four years. And today is all about fours.

The one that hits hardest hit today.

Forty.

My kind mother brought me into this world forty years ago. Oh, sure it should have been forty years ago yesterday, but I was stubborn. She remembers the time because she was able to watch All My Children twice during labor. She said they bundled me up and laid me down next to her and I just screamed into her face. She screamed back into mine. Thus set the tone of our relationship.

So today, I have to thank her. She gave me the strength to become what I am willing to work for, and to keep trying for something different, always establishing my own measures of success to live up to, not the usual lifestyle-expenditure gauges.

And at 40, where am I? Hidden away in a part of the world I always wondered about living an adventure normally experienced by those half my age. (Not gonna lie… it really helps when I get looks of incredulity once people find out my age, thinking that I am much younger.)

And she? Back at her home trying to estimate how to balance the quality and beauty she wants every day of her life with the treatments she needs to undergo to get to the next event. Support from friends helps. I wish I could be there, though. But we talk.

I am meeting amazing individuals, some good, some very evil. Sorry, there is no other word for these men. I am in a forgotten place I shall soon describe in some detail, though not too much. And many of these people are just beautiful, and by beautiful I mean what radiates from them. There are those who give off such a feeling of goodness combined with strength. One thing I can say for certain: These people love their children, and any society that places that high a value on those priorities deserves our respect. And help.

It’s… challenging. A lot of the comforts that many troops do have at many locations, we are lacking. But we have electricity and we can flush. We even have internet. And the complete lack of any sort of a PX or Bazaar to which we can go means we are all saving massive amounts of money. It’s a fairly communist existence here, which is odd considering where we are from. We just know it would never work back home, nor would it work in a larger unit. (And it also means that the loss of my camera is a really rough hit… my FAVE camera… while on a mission… since I can’t just run down to the store and get another and it can take a month or more to get mail.)

But we are a small group in a forgotten area in the (until recently) forgotten war. It’s not to say there isn’t a great deal happening, it’s just that you won’t hear about it because reporters don’t come out here. Looking on most maps, there is a big blank spot in the area where we work, as if towns don’t exist. They do.

So on my desk sits scraps of paper on which I practice writing in Dari. I try deciphering things I find in notes, words on bottles and even the Coca Cola can, a taste of home, with the unfamiliar. But then again, that’s in Arabic. Similar, but not the same. This is my “normal.” For now.

And no matter what comes of all of this, it has been a fantastic life. Even in the worst years, it has been pretty danged good. So I hope to share a few more stories before it’s all gone.

“You will learn to drink tea before this tour is over,” Vicki advised me.

“I already drink tea,” I assured her. “Regularly.” Night was bearing down, no stars in the sky from all the dust a storm stirred up earlier in the day. People crowded around tables though all the shops had already closed, leaving only the fast food places and Green Beans, the coffee house, open.

It’s always crowded at Bagram. Packed into a piece of land, most of which is taken up by airfields, the inhabitable portion is maximally squeezed for space. Tens of thousands of Soldiers, Marines, Airmen, sailors and civilians vie for movement along the one main street. Effectively, all plumbing is above ground, with the accompanying reek.

Mahmud worked his way to our table balancing four large cups on a tray. “Forgot to ask if you prefer coffee,” he asked. No need. “I’m okay with tea,” Vicki acknowledged as he put the cups down. Handing each of us a cup and setting one aside for his friend who was due to show in a few minutes, Mahmud seated himself directly across from me.

“It has mango, very good,” I said after a sip.

“Or peaches,” Vicki added.

I smiled. “Mango Ceylon. I know the tea.”

Mahmud toasted me with an approving smile. “Very good, sir. I had not heard of this but it was all they had for black teas. You are exactly right.”

In the distance a tone went off, crashing through the night, followed by a clear voice, “ATTENTION: The air firing range is now hot! I say again, the air firing range is now hot!” It’s meant to let us know to not be alarmed by the sounds of artillery fire, but with so much noise, so much slow-moving traffic along the road, most people cannot hear the artillery, even later at night.

“Must smoke,” Vicki said, holding her hand out to me. I had been designated as her carrier as I was in uniform with large pockets. She took them and hurried off.

Mahmud smiled and turned back to me. “She is nice.”

“She wants you to follow her,” I offered. He laughed. “Seriously, the two of you have been flirting all night.”

“She likes the attention,” Mahmud added. “Not much pride in herself. So many men here and she thinks she must work to find one.” It could be him, though. Mahmud is unusually handsome, though chameleon-like. In the states he often passes for hispanic, and speaks Spanish with an Puerto Rican accent, or Colombian, depending on his mood. He is also a talented artist.

“And you?”

“My wife would not like it.” He took a sip of tea. His accent when speaking was almost imperceivable, but he occasionally let it slip… for comedic purposes: “Nor would either of my girlfriends.” He winked at me, the wrinkles around his eyes creasing deeper.

Mahmud is young. His home is technically in the States now and he has been working with the US translating a myriad of languages. He returns to Afghanistan for most of his time during the year, though. It was back in the US where I first met him and was impressed. Randomly finding him here in this throng was a comfortable happenstance.

But parts of him have aged greatly. He has seen too much. He has taught me only a dusting of what he knows, some of them little things that will give me more credibility among the Afghans, some as simple as knowing how to click my tongue to communicate any one of a number of messages without using words. It’s less rude. One doesn’t say “No” in this culture.

“How old are you really?” I asked. Some numbers weren’t adding up. He had told me before but it didn’t make sense.

Again, smiling, he pulled out his wallet and produced a US state’s driver’s license. He was 21.

“You can’t be 21.”

“The US Government doesn’t lie,” he said with an impish grin.

“Point taken.”

He looked around. Vicki had finished her cigarette but was talking to another woman. Leaning in close, he whispered to me, “I’m 28.” Very Americanized, Mahmud consciously would close the distance between us so I would not be as uncomfortable with the diminished personal space I would encounter over here. Normally he liked the greater distances himself.

I smiled at him, eyebrows raised, clicking my tongue to tell him to go on with his story.

“My parents, when I was born, had an extra birth certificate made for when I got older. The Russians used to require at least four years of military service from all males. My dad was going to be certain I would not be taken by the Soviets, so when I needed to be older, I could, when I needed to be younger, I was. They were planning for later.”

“Interesting.”

“So with the last bit of documents we had before the Taliban came, I was younger. So it stayed that way.”

Vicki rejoined us, scooting in close to Mahmud even as he was leaned in closely to me. For me it made a very uncomfortable intimacy among the three of us.

“So where are you headed tomorrow?” Vicki asked me.

“Back to my guys. Only I’ll be out there, somewhere,” indicating I might be going back towards my base, but that I wouldn’t be spending much time on it, though I couldn’t discuss where I would be.

“This is our third cup of tea, sir,” Mahmud told me. “According to that book, it means we are good friends now.”

“Is that book right?” Vicki asked, knowing he referred to Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortenson.

Mahmud clicked. “For some it is that way. I think sir and I have been friends since before then. It is too bad, though. Eid is coming. I would have liked to have had you as a guest, maybe bring my brother for you to meet. My mother would cook for us.”

I think Vicki understood the honor even more than I did of what he was offering.

“Well, I thank you. But you know my flight…”

“And I know flights get cancelled. Maybe it is to happen. Either way, I want you to be safe.”

“I am,” I replied. “Besides, the chance to see some of these incredible places and historical sites…”

“See, you see good in people and things. That is a blessing, but it is also bad. There is much good here, but it only takes one bad. I worry about you, my friend. I worry,” he said, hand on my arm.

“That is why you teach me when you can.”

And I worry about him. He has placed his life far more at risk than most any other soldier. His family is still here, though many should be moving to the States as well. Very shortly, Mahmud will receive his US citizenship. He has worked for it. He has earned it. He is now a US Soldier as well. He has placed himself at risk for us and for his family. He understands life. Having lived under both the Soviets and the Taliban, he understands the rewards and responsibilities of liberty.

He understands what it means to be an American far more than most any of us ever will.

One thing I asked was that while I was away, please don’t let my country get too messed up. Slow it down a little and think about what is going on instead of going purely on emotional appeal.

And so, one of my friends is doing it. I want to see him at a more national level but this is a good start, and a start in a place that desperately needs men of honor: Illinois.

Matt, I’m in for $25. Scotch is on me when I get back.

For Boneman…

A “Fobbit” is a term used for someone in Afghanistan or Iraq who spends their “combat” tour inside a Forward Operating Base or “FOB.” They earn the right to wear a combat patch as a result, even though they never go on missions and probably only go outside the wire to get a ride to wherever the nearest airfield is. Yes, sometimes they can be on a FOB that gets rocket or mortar attacks. Almost all of them do anyway. Should they be anywhere near one of those attacks, they will be very quick to ensure they also get their Combat Action Badge (CAB) which is what anyone who is not infantry or a medic earns for being involved in a firefight.

It’s kind of a simplified definition, but there you have it.

It’s true, normally I’m in remote places. About to be in even more remote places.

Things I have learned:

* Kabul International Airport (KIA… unfortunate letters) has great wireless internet access in the lounge.

* There are MANY more shades of brown than I thought possible.

* Working with NATO forces can be cool.

* Fobbits will whine like their lives are ending when told they have to give up their 9mm pistol because they don’t go outside the wire to someone who does. Deal with it. Their comfort walking around day to day is not my concern.

* Brand new things look aged here very quickly. It’s hard to tell the difference between history, aged and modern. Perhaps that’s why time is much more fluid than linear to them. (the wall on the left is the new one, the right is old.)

* Afghans adore their children. Any group of people that loves their children this much will survive and flourish. Their priorities are right. The path is what is difficult.

Re: Situations

1. If Facebook can connect several million people all over the world at the same time including chatting and transferring messages, it’s about time y’all figure out how to keep the email (AKO/DKO) site up and running for official work/communication.

1.a. Fewer wow features and web programming would be nice since y’all usually send us to crap places where we have to pay for even crappier internet access just to read that official communication.

1.b. Spend the $90 to register your site security certificates so we don’t all have to assure whatever computer we’re working on that you’re not a risk EVERY FREAKIN’ TIME. Seriously. Hell, to help my fellow soldiers, I’ll pay it for you.

2. It’s a war-zone. I get it. But if you’re going to house me in a giant tent of squalor, please be sure to have more than a couple of sandbags between the CANVAS tent-wall (where the head of my bed is) and the main paved road running through the post less than 8 feet away. (I’m not making this up.) One MRAP rushing towards the gate and going slightly off course will leave us with a bad day.

3. We are a nation of builders, dreamers, doers. We have mastered the non-squat toilet. How about using some of our American know-how rather than going with whatever local brand is available and guaranteed to clog and be otherwise disgusting because of their design flaws? I’ll take the port-a-john or a hole over those attempts at plumbing any day.

4. Want to improve troop morale? Invest in wireless access. And I mean INVEST. Especially stateside. Yes, there are those who can clog up a network with their video chat, online gaming, etc., but colleges have figured out how to control sites and limit shared bandwidth so everyone has decent speeds. Don’t rely on the USOs with their ability to access a minor ISP that they then run through a single wireless router that can only handle about 20 people at once.

5. Do not hire someone if you cannot fire them easily and quickly for incompetence.

6. Folks running the chow halls in theater: outstanding. Thank you. Take a lesson. Good food, wide variety, mostly fresh vegetables and fruits. (yes, I can tell the tomatoes were frozen). Folks running the chow halls stateside in the mobilization stations: fire them. Start over.

7. Slightly rethink seating on the big flight planes, please. Yes, you can barely fit a body into those spaces and I’m sure they were a great design in WW II. However, many of our soldiers are a LOT bigger now. Warriors should not be limping off a flight due to overly cramped space (where they usually have to sit in their armor) and the impossibility of moving around. Wait for one of those killer blood clot stories to hit the papers and see how quickly you recover from that firestorm.

8. Please don’t tell us we need to put everything on these Eagle Cash cards and then send us to places where we can’t use them and cannot otherwise access our money.

9. At extremely busy posts in theater, let’s reconsider this whole saluting policy. I hate walking down the street because all I do is flap my right arm. As long as they say “sir” at the right time, I promise to do the same. We can save the emphasis on military courtesy for stateside… where it is SEVERELY lacking.

10. New policy: If you are E6 (staff sergeant) or above, you DON’T get to come over for 2-3 months, hear a couple of rocket attacks that come nowhere near you, and then return home and call it a combat tour. It happens too much among top leadership, I just want to say to all senior NCOs and above (including me), set an example.

11. 214 people… 5 sinks. Hmm…

12. Speaking of rank, either stick with what you have or write a new policy. I’m tired of the vagaries. Somehow on paper a Captain outranks a First Sergeant, and yet when it comes time for anything related to comfort, even government workers above G11, Warrant Officer 4s and 1SGs rank higher. Either set those responsibilities/privileges in stone or do away with this variable idiot-chart. (FYI a 2LT seems to rate just above a Private but below a Private First Class, never mind prior enlisted time, rank, etc.) Basically, why in the hell are Majors – FIELD grade officers – being told they need to shack up with a pile of temporary civilian workers, junior officers and lower enlisted (already at 107% capacity) when the senior officers’ area is only at 11% occupancy and includes higher ranking Sergeants?

13. Issued items: LOVE the new boots. Really like the new combat shirt. Interested in getting the new uniforms with a camo that actually camouflages very soon. We’ll see how the new winter clothes go but they look cool, too.

14. Small gravel rocks cost the same as large gravel rocks. Let me say that again: Small gravel rocks cost the same as large gravel rocks. So why to we have to stumble around on all these large gravel rocks everywhere we need to walk?

So with all the waiting… what do we do when we can’t go anywhere but within the confines of wire?

Why we wander. We visit with people, sharing rumors of how to get on a flight most quickly. I’ve gone so far as to actually be loaded onto and strapped into a seat in a very large plane, only to have to get off, regather all my bags and go back on the waiting list.

Today, then, I knew we weren’t leaving. So instead, I wandered to the USO. Very nice. I want to let y’all know that all those little care packages and donations to get to us. Yes, sometimes the civilian personnel rummage through the packages to find the spoils of the right snacks, usually without reading the note scribbled in crayon or to read the comics someone thought to include. But we get them. And one of the nicest things I have received so far: a fresh, clean, high quality pair of white socks. It doesn’t seem like much and for the most part, when we are traveling, we are loathe to take on more items like clothes, but sometimes there’s a little something at just the right time.

Luxury.

So with fresh socks on, I went to the coffee house, bought some tea and watched the sun rise. During the morning a number of local licensed vendors showed up to set up a little bazaar of sorts. Bright, glittery arabian dresses twirled in the breeze over tables of heavily dusted computer accessories, chess sets, pipes, and other souvenirs.

A Lieutenant Colonel I have been traveling with mentioned a place I should try and I did. A 1-hour massage… cheap. It was entirely chair-based, door wide open into the lobby area, so no funny business. The Korean ladies were obviously not trained nor certified in any particular style, but they were enthusiastic and worked hard. I appreciate that. Leaving the building I noted a number of guys getting a pedicure. It’s an infantry thing, I think.

Next up, haircut. Again, very inexpensive and yet very good quality from a kind Kuwaiti man named “Sham.” Unfortunate name, yes, but a good man.

To top it off, everywhere I walked was like being in a sauna today and the amount of wind stirring up the sand left me with a free dermabrasion.

Who can complain?

I awoke from a dream that finally defined of what the sounds reminded me. Finally.

Sailing in a busy harbor.

I thought I had stored those memories away years ago, so when they started again, I was disturbed by the vaguely familiar footprints on the sand.

Throughout the day we hide in tents of one form or another, some large, some small, awaiting the next flight, hoping we can be on it like an extra in Casablanca. The heat outside is cliché as are complaints about it. Anyone who has taken a fresh tray of cookies out of a convection oven can relate to the heat in the middle of the day of this place.

Behind the heat is the wind stirring the sand and battering the outsides of these temporary structures. Individual air conditioning units keep the dark insides cool, deceiving us with comfort. Should one of them fail, it only takes minutes for the interior to begin baking in the desert sun. But the wind shakes the canvas, pulling at the ropes which groan in protest. This was what I remembered, shifting canvas and groaning ropes.

This tent city is temporary housing for a few hours to a few weeks for thousands of Soldiers, Marines, contractors, coalition forces, with a some Air Force and Navy guys thrown in. We don’t get to leave. For the most part, we don’t get to see outside the concrete barriers surrounding us. Connectivity to the outside is tenuous. There is some free Internet service available in the USO building, but with so many attempting to access it, it’s rare one can actually get on the network. There are pay-by-the-hour services as well, but even these are very slow connections, usually slower than dialup. At the very least, though, we can connect.

And we have food. Good food. For those who want a taste of home we even have miniature Pizza Hut, Subway, McDonald’s and KFCs to name a few.

So we wait, some like myself getting their first taste of a foreign desert.

And the waiting is part of the game. So many games but figuring out how to wait patiently while pushing forward is a skill to be nurtured.

Can’t always get online with my computer. When I can, posts will come furiously, hopefully in the order I wrote.

There’s places I’ve had to be. They don’t often allow access to uploading posts. And then there is the tempo of the day, which often interferes with sleep, rest, thoughts beyond the next step. It reflects in the lack of writing. But I hear I am about to have access to and requests to write more.

Soon I’ll be in exotic locations. Specific details cannot be revealed, of course.

In the mean time, the latest thing has me stuck in a miserably hot/humid part of the South, well away from my mountains. I have a platoon of privates who don’t know each other and have a generally negative attitude towards their situation. I don’t have any sergeants to rely on so it’s all me. We’ve made some progress towards cohesion and discipline which will hopefully serve them well when they get overseas, though none will ultimately be attached to me. While I’ve had a few chewings to give over the last month, and a few soldiers I’ve just about dismissed as being real people, my platoon has been growing more attached to me, especially since they see how hard I fight for their wellness and welfare. Some of the youngest ones seem to seek my constant approval like puppies that have not taken their required Ritalin.

So I leave you with this brief story until I can write more exhaustively. Sometimes I have to be blunt:

PVT: Sir! SIR!

ME: (turns around)

PVT: SIR! You gonna have fun on pass this weekend?

ME: That’s my intention. You?

PVT: AW yeah! I’m gonna totally be all up in my girlfriend!

ME: Nice. (starts to walk away)

PVT: SIR! SIR! She’s really excited to see me and even texted me about wanting me to do this thing I do with my finger and thumb that…

ME: (interrupting) I get it…

PVT: NAW, sir, it’s just that I take it and while I’m…

ME: …seriously, I’m good without specific details of certain aspects of your personal life.

PVT: But sir, you have to try this some time… me and my boy Todd were doubling up and even DP-ing this one chick and I…

ME: (smiling) PVT, sorry to interrupt and while I’m always interested in new techniques, I want you to keep something in mind:

PVT: What’s that, sir?

ME: You DO understand that I’ve been F-ing for years longer than you’ve been alive, right? I think I might have a few things down.

PVT: …

ME: …

PVT: Roger that, sir…

ME: (leaving)

PVT: Sir, SIR! Do you think you could show me a couple…

ME: Oh hell no.

(sorry, mom)

Farah Fawcett passed away due to cancer. The lady messed up my world but I still admire her. See, Farah was a little younger than my mother. When that famous poster came out, she and my mom looked quite similar. I won’t lie, my mother is beautiful. Always has been. But to see someone so hot and realize the similarities with mom? Yeah… didn’t work for me.

And she died of cancer. Mom has cancer now. I seem to recall Farah, in spite of all the attempts to make her into something evil and sullied (why did she really leave Charlie’s Angels again?) was a lady with class.

And so I was thinking about that era and serendipity reared its head again. A friend today just reminded me of another event from that early 80s heyday: when a couple of buddies and I managed to sneak into Pink Floyd’s The Wall. I forgot what an interesting, painful movie that was. For some reason, it all seems connected.

And I know the other “big” celebrity event from yesterday that means little to me. I do not care to mourn a child molester.

It’s true. I am engaged in one.

A buddy of mine where I am now has a roommate… a young man from Miami. He had managed a quality restaurant before joining the Army.

Challenges have been thrown down. For the last few weeks we have been engaged in an all-out chef war. Our friends have been the beneficiaries. When we both don’t have late homework or other work to do during the week, we alternate cooking.

It’s been one culinary treat after another.

I did a smoked pork loin with a cabernet reduction with raspberries. He almost blindsided me with a planked salmon earlier this week. Then he upped the ante: ingredient challenge. Couscous. I don’t like couscous very much because it never tastes that good to me, but I’ve apparently only been trying the pre-flavored boxed stuff.

Tonight: roasted chicken breasts stuffed with couscous, pine nuts, sun-dried tomatoes and feta. A side of roasted asparagus. Dessert was a fresh berry custard. He tried to ding the presentation since a couple of grains of couscous wandered away to sit solo on an inappropriate part of the plate, but after taking a bite… he had to give it to me. Besides, the ladies were having none of it.

AWWW YEAH. Looking forward to what he pulls off next week.