A Choice to be Made

Looking back to the dimly lit basement we sat in - drinks in hand - remembering the conversation is easy. We spoke of things related to nothing, caught up on the times in such a manner as to catch up on only ourselves – we commented upon things past and present. My drink, some previously unknown beer, swirled in the chalice it came in until the choice was made. It slid past my tongue, thick with an abundance of words, and landed deep in my stomach.

The conversation drifted onward, and even in my memory the room then drenched in wood colors seems lit by a red hue as if to apply ominous and foreboding tone. As if to raise a marked flag on that spot and force my mind to recall it at whim.

The words were alive with her tone; they seemed to hint that by elevating themselves in pitch and intonation, they would ring more truth. My muscles found my head and forced it to nod in agreement; they forced it to nod an acceptance. What she was said wasn’t new to me, it had been heard before but was so to say, the camel’s back that broke my straw. My ideas, repeated, and then dashed atop one another until forced into place where their own weight was sufficient. Sufficient to crush themselves.

She said only that the freedom to do anything - that was my freedom. My choices were almost unlimited, and she hinted that they would be squandered. Again, my head found itself motioning to agree, the freedom given to myself through servitude and training did allow for seemingly unbounded freedom. Yet my desire was, and remains, unimpressed with options.

The only choice wanted then was the choice to choose, not to act. It is such still. Where as then it was not yet a battle to decide upon an act, it became a furious war of options and whims. And so it remains! A daily pondering of my future choices – an attempt to find my future perfect. Yet, no closer now than years ago, my options seem humorous and meager – finding positions to fill and goals to accomplish were never much of my persona.

The choice must eventually be made however, so the battle will rage on. The marked flag will continue to wave in my face and must eventually be answered. The time to decide will eventually run out, and my fear is that my decision will only be made when time has expired.

It is unfortunate that the words ring true – “Desire is not an occupation. – K.M.F.DM.” But thanks for the wakeup call, even though it might have only woken me up to my own lack of ambition. Perhaps a resolution for the coming year can be to plan. To start swimming, either with or against the current, but a plan to stop just floating on.

Dear Anyone...

Dear Santa or Anyone who wears a Santa suit and performs construction with a hardhat on around Iraq:

This year, for Chrimtams, we request the following in no particular order:

*84 Inch flat screen TV
*Brinner (Breakfast for dinner)
*A mission
*No more fucking cats
*Laptops that are HMMWV proof
*Non-transient housing
*Transformers that don’t burn the floor
*American plugs on American bases
*Dining Facility Guards who don’t ask for magazines
*Mud resistant boots
*Hot (or at least consistent) shower water
*Exterior lighting
*More cowbell
*24 hour pancake bar
*Bigger “Piss Bottles”
*Quicker repairs on things we willingly destroy
*Fitted sheets that fit
*A gymnasium which does not reek of feet
*Internet café’s that work on Holidays and pseudo-holidays
*A command presence with logic
*Playtime with First Sergeant
*Iraq to stop being a 9-5 job
*Siesta, every day
*Karaoke everyday to include Tuesday nights from 7-9 but to exclude Sundays from 0300-0500 and 0800-1800
*Better supplies of Fat Burning Pills – For experiments
*Bottled water labeled in English
*Furniture (to include basket weaving) classes
*A saw
*No more “two a days that should have been stopped in High School football”
*Engrish speaking team members
*Old White Man back
*Heated toilet seats
*Hard stools
*Urinal target practice, the fly style
*An overthrow of the Mayor Cell
*Medics who do not wish to see you suffer in pain
*ATMs or cash-back options
*And some goddamn Hawaiian Punch Powder!

Thanks Construction Santa, you rock! Now go order around some Pakistani looking elves!

Sincerely,
Blue, Thin Mints, VW

Merry Chrimtams!

In Balad we showed up for work one day and were handed a stack of Christmas Cards. Homemade at first glance, they turned out to be products of children. 5th graders, Sirsquatch informed us, hailing from some classroom in Maine where a relative taught.

Instantly we poured through them, laughing about every misspelled word and unidentified drawing. During the ordeal it dawned on Thin Mints and myself, that these sketches of young, impressionable children, truly demanded replies. So, after moving to Kalsu and finding acceptable desk space, we began Operation Christmas Card, soon to be renamed Operation Chrimtams. The original intent, the goal, was to repay the children who were kind enough to draw some cards for us, by drawing our own cards. What it turned out to be was nothing short of a disaster.

The first stage in Operation Chrimtams was sorting the cards received. A red card showing what seemed to be an amoeba wearing a star as a hat from Shaun, a pink and blue monstrosity featuring penciled in organs from Erica Treba, and an entire stack of dull and repetitive cards from some little girl calling herself Karly. Karly’s cards were borderline insulting. Besides having the same message for each card, they lacked any sort of originality. Karly clearly suffers from my own disease – no artistic ability. At all. Flipping through her no less than seven cards (the next highest number was four, and two after that) you notice a severe decline in quality. Card #1 has two colors, and some drawings of snowflakes. Card #7 has Solder instead of Soldier and X-Mas rather than Christmas. If I could find you Karly, I’d burn down your imitation Hallmark factory and throw a snowball in your face. The red amoeba card from Shaun? His message was awesome, and read as follows:

to someone, from shaun…
dear someone
beit the bad guys know mater what.

If I could mail a dollar and some Iraqi teeth to Shaun and have no doubt he’d get them, you better believe I would. Maybe I’d also draw him a Christmas tree with shape.

Suffice to say, we never got around to responding to all of the cards. The first challenge for myself was a lack of artistic ability – the second obviously laziness. Hannah D., who sent four cards in total, actually got two replied to. Thin Mints took a look at her version of Frosty the Snowman, pictured above, and drew his own response. It was his reply, and my counter to her Merry Chrimtams message, which re-enforced the idea that he and I were in no way going to be allowed to mail these off to children.

Hannah D., besides having a very angry looking Frosty the Snowman, also supplied us with a card exclaiming, “Merry Chrimtams”! Pondering for a minute about this newfound holiday, I replied to her letter with the following...

Merry Krimtams! To: Hannah “D.” The “D” is for Diversity!
Dear Hannah, You sent me a card which said “Merry Chrimtams”. I’m not sure what holiday that is, but I love & support it anyway. So Merry Chrimtams! Happy Qualms-Duh! Have a safe New Deer! And other such days. Much love, from Iraq! [Where diversity causes conflict!] – V.W.

It wasn’t meant to be harsh, or above their 5th grade level, but it turned out that way. So following are some more Chrimtams cards we created for the class of 5th graders.
Hannah Hodges sent a couple of cards with candy canes and ornaments, along with the note that although her card might be like two other boys, it was still true. Fair enough, so here was my response:

Neil informed us that we were his shining star, so Thin Mints informed him that stars have a very special gift when it comes to providing someone with light…

Lastly, Lauren thanked us all for our patriotic attitudes (I was fairly lost on that one) so I informed her that patriots aren’t always thanked…

Overall, chastising children for spelling errors and structurally unsound Christmas cards has been an excellent experience. I only wish that I had enough time, patience, and colored pencils to write back to all of them. Until then – thanks go out to:

Rachel, who over the course of four cards informed us how much she hated the cold and would rather be with us. Welcome to Iraq Rachel, it’s rainy and muddy here!
Ian, who appears to have addressed his card to Frosty the Snowman and drawn a rather large bomb on the inside.
Jacob Chimitt, who nicknamed himself Prez, Lil’ Chimitt, and Jake.
Ian, whose pagan altar on the front of his card was nicely coupled with a drawing of a stocking.
Jonah, who writes in all capital letters giving his card the appearance of shouting at all who read it.
Mark, who like me, admits to being “Not good at art”.
Stacey G., who drew a rainbow heart and informed us that not only are we awesome, fearless, wonderful, Army Strong (fucking marketing), but she also gives thanks for our lives. As if we’re already dead… [This other message of hers makes me laugh… “Dear Solider, every day I take a bow to you. Wondering how you can be so strong, but I know your there, and your awesome. Thank You. Love, Stacey G."]
Sidnie, whose compass shaped snowflakes and Tree filled hearts make my eyes hurt.
And to Grant S., who thanked us “four serving” our country. Four servings of country to you too Grant!
Additionally there were seven cards with no name as to who created them. One had a hotel being snowed on and a monster growling, another apologized for the marker bleeding through, and one just said “Have it.”

So Merry Chrimtams, have it!

Death By Power Point

“So what’s the, what’s their-”
“Chaos!”
I personally love it when briefers answer questions before they’re asked. It establishes the appearance of topical knowledge, understanding, and above all not giving a damn about the question or who asks it.

The class, if you can call it that; was held in Kuwait inside our Company’s tent, a beer festival sized monstrosity housing all of the males. Eventually, for reasons termed “military necessity”, it also housed three females, though even a quick glance into their tent yielded tens of unused cots. Necessity indeed.

In the midst of the class, whose topic revolved somewhere near 2 year old intelligence reports surrounding extremist groups, I glanced towards the cot of our company commander. He was lying flat on his back, eyes shut and chest rising rhythmically. Clearly, asleep. I snapped a photo too grainy without flash and turned back towards the slide show amidst glares from the presenter.

“Do you have a question?” I have no nickname for him, all of them would be too explicit and long winded, so instead I’ll call him by the third person Arabic name he references himself as constantly – Sharif.
“Nope. I’m good.” I smiled a smile which said, You’re a prick, but I’ll pay attention because you outrank me.

I glanced at Thin Mints as my camera was handed off to Sirsquatch, who took a photo of us pretending to care. The pretend was genuine, as Sharif had bored half of the unfortunate group of students into a daze. Looking around the room the faces in the crowd offered a myriad of expressions. They said stop! Bored. Where am I?

Absent minded regarding the drivel I was exposed to, yet still somehow awake, I zoned out to such a degree that I came back into focus with a mechanical pencil digging a shallow trench in some cut I had received. It’s only when you’ve started to dig into your own skin that you are truly, no longer paying attention.

Generality 4

General So-And-So, with his magic bullet point briefings. Trust in your leadership, in your training. And now this: trust in your battle buddies.

It’s a concept we’ve been battered with since basic training, a sort of cross between safety in numbers and cover your ass. Or in this case, cover someone else’s ass. But trusting your battle buddy, it’s something I agree with whole heartedly.

For the most part those “battle buddies” we end up with are by choice. They’re the friends you make through work, the wingmen and women you go out to bars with, the acquaintances you know but don’t really hang out with, and the confidants you come to collect. The battle buddy, my guess is it was designed for battle specifically, someone you can trust on during a fire fight to watch your back, make sure you’re not alone, and in dire circumstances, get you some help. It was an oversight by your peers; a sort of watchman you watched.

And while the concept still applies easily to wartime operations, stateside it is much more than that. You bring a battle buddy to go speak to your chain of command as a sort of witness just incase. You bring one to the bars to make sure you don’t get too drunk and to look out for you against others (or yourself at times). You train with them, live with them, and become entirely trusting of them, even when you don’t know them.

In the convoy down to Kalsu, the thought of this popped into my head because I was a gunner on our HMMWV. I was covering the left sector of fire, and it didn’t even cross my mind to look behind me during the over 2 hour drive because I knew my “battle buddy” had me covered. In the case of something happening it would have been entirely too easy for someone to pull out a gun and shoot me, but they didn’t and I attribute that to the “teeth” our convoy showed.

Regardless, the third point of General So-And-So was valid. But it makes it extremely hard to follow when your chain of command rips the people you’ve trained with and come to trust out of your team. It is hard to say, “Yes. Old White Man may be an asshole at times, but like everyone else on Team 3 I trust him with my life” and then for zero reason have him removed.

This happened a day or two before our convoy to Kalsu. He was one of our main drivers, and was replaced (if you can call it that) with The Scream, a Korean with little English ability, zero confidence, and zero trust in our eyes. I wouldn’t give the Scream a weapon if we were about to be overrun. I certainly don’t trust the Scream’s driving ability. He is more off the road than on the road, and in this I am not exaggerating in the slightest. Convoying behind him to Kalsu and the dust was so heavy in my face I wondered for a moment if I would ever again get clean air.

So Old White Man, who I trusted, whose trust I feel I gained – was removed without due cause from our team. He was removed and placed on a team in Mosul because one of their soldiers, Troll, became pregnant and is no longer combatable. I’ve asked and pondered why him, why Old White Man and I’ve gotten no good answers. He was our number one resource at media exploitation. The Scream cannot be understood well enough to converse with. The Scream has no abilities in any area, period. Old White Man was part of our team, and he is already and will continue to be missed terribly.

As for The Scream, I will in no way ever trust him. He will never be on this team. He will never be my battle buddy.

Thin Mints

A knock on the door and there stood Thin Mints. Child-like grin on his face, Army Shirt with woolen cap on his head. And of course, striped blue underwear and flip flops. Blue had been in the middle of asking me a question, but I still shouted to the knocked on door, “Come in!”

No one ever heard me when I shouted at doors, as if the paper-thin walls stopped their audio translucency at the metal door. Really, why re-enforce a doorway if the roof and walls were made of Paper Mache. Regardless, I still bellowed at every knock and noise. I’d vary between a demand of “Who is it!?” to the simple “Come in” to the ever-pointless, “Just a sec!” I mean, with no one hearing what I shouted, why did I bother?

But Thin Mints opened the door as was his ways, and stood there cherub smile tainted with mischief on his face, cigarette in hand. “Hey buddy!” Thin Mints beamed at me.

“Hey Buddy! What’s up?” I replied, cigarette-less and lying in bed, my rhetorical question going unanswered.
“Why are you only wearing underwear?” It seemed as good a question as any I suppose.
“Yeah it’s fucking cold out,” he shivered.
“So anyway, what time do you think I should get up if I have to be up at 0445?” Blue continued to ask, ignoring Thin Mints in his undergarments.
Thin Mints took the opportunity to respond – “0445!”
“I said I have to be ready at 0445, so when should I get up?” Blue asked again.
“Four forty five. Did I stutter? God,” Thin Mints replied bitterly, finishing his smoke and coming inside.

Call Sign

Sirsquatch told us that we needed to create a call sign for ourselves. Create some sort of identifier for us to use when we were on the radio. Watch any movie about war; everyone has a little cute call sign. Devil3. Firefly6. Whatever1.

So we sat and thought, and Old White Man called it best. “Klepto. It has to be Klepto.” Short for the obvious kleptomaniac, the term is so fitting it’s ridiculous. Nothing is safe within the grasp of our team, sticky fingers forever. Anything and everything is fair game for us, if it looks tempting look again, and it won’t be there anymore.

But Sirsquatch didn’t agree. “The infantry guys will make fun of us for that.”

The infantry guys will make fun of us for being M.I., I muttered to Blue, who agreed. But the decision was made up by Sirsquatch; there would be no usage of the name Klepto as a call sign. He instead decided upon something lame, something I can’t even remember. Blue then thought of a better one – Spades.

Sirsquatch, Thin Mints, everyone was in agreement. Spades would work. Until Sirsquatch fucked it up, deciding it was too long to say, and made it simply Spade. Spade defeated the entire point of using Spades, without plurality it was a singular word, the Ace of Spade if you will. We chose Spades because we play Spades, because it’s what we’re doing when we’re not doing what we’re told. It’s the way we kill time and the way we bond. Stress relief, team building, all of those bullshit human resources terms which don’t truly apply but can if you work at it. Spades. The game. Not Spade, a gardening tool, or worse yet, spayed the act of neutering female animals. Arg.

So later that night, sitting around eating dismal dinner, a better name, a much better name came to me. It embodied everything that we are and can be. Every nuance of the word applies, and I told the table what I’d come up with.

“Ruthless. It’s what we are, it’s how we act towards ourselves and others, and it’s us.”

And we are ruthless. Ruthless - like when Old White Man rags on 68 for no reason and 68 threatens to stab him. Ruthless – like when I instinctively slapped Thin Mints full speed for knocking a drink out of my hand. Ruthless – like when our team mocked a fellow soldier so much that within hours of arriving in Kuwait we had him moving across the tent to get away from us. Ruthless – like when a suicidal soldier was suggested to be on our team, and Tyrone told our commander that she would be torn apart by us.

Sometimes we go too far though. Sometimes people get pushed too hard, and in the wrong direction by far. Like when Old White Man told 68 he’d dig up his grandmothers’ cremated ashes and stab her in the face. Like when 68 kicked Old White Man in the crotch.

But what can I say. We’re ruthless after all.

Absent

I haven’t been writing much lately. Why, I’m sure I could come up with hundreds of reasons. Let’s just say I’ve come down with two awesome ear infections, a sore throat tantamount to strep, and with the recent addition of two missing team members, I’ve had my time well spoken for.

We’re rolling out of here, out of Balad. Further south. The logic is there somewhere, but it’s far lost by the time is slips down to the lower level man. Trickle down theory at its worst, an ideology designed for pragmatic use in goods and tangible acquisition, never in theory or message dissemination. Fucking Generality two all over again.

Rumor is, we’re not stopping at our next locale, Kalsu. There is no Iraqi city in that region, simple an American establishment located near Al Eskandariat or something like that. I’m in the midst of packing, a bag worth one month of goods. Most of what I’m taking I can do without; you learn to adjust to one outfit lasting a week when you no longer have social norms to tangle with. Among the “monthly” allocation of space is some clothes, both clean and dirty, a rugby ball, more sets of protective eyewear than I can count, and 15 decks of cards. The cards thing is kind of an obsession now; we’ve unofficially made carrying a deck of cards a requirement for every member of our team. Spades, it happens a lot.

Blindside is playing on my computer now. Great band. Memories float heavy in my mind when I hear their songs, as the lyrics suggest, it’s like a joy of déjà-vu. Déjà-vu, what a perfect term for the Army. Everything I do here, everything, is déjà-vu.

Anyway. We leave soon, and the estimate of our tenure at Kalsu ranges from a season to a month. Nothing like temporary duty in a year long deployment. But as Malthus said, why worry about the long run, in the long run everyone is dead. I’ll be sitting high in my turret for our 4 hour convoy south. I’m excited. Excited to go to step M of this alphabet soup of a plan. Excited to see something not encased in chain link and concrete. Excited to do my job.

Excited to go, that nomadic blood coursing through me demands it. Grab your things and go. Drive, run, walk, escape. How doesn’t matter and it never has, it’s the way I was raised and the way I’ll live. But until the choices are my own, I’ll follow the orders I’m given. And for now, they say move south. South, away from what little of the war I was guessing was left. South, away from the cold.

Inanity 2

They have an armed guard, letting them into their complex?

“This makes me feel really unprotected…” he muttered as we approached the gate, sliding the truck around the jersey barriers and pulling out our IDs. When we actually entered the compound…Wow. It was as if we took where we lived, got rid of all the mud and puddles, smoothed out the rocks and polished them, added a certain level of attractive people, tripled the female populace, took away the weapons, and tossed in a certain level of doubt that we were even in Iraq. The amenities the Air Force had was a slap in the face.

Where we have to walk over half a mile to get to the shop with basic necessities, they had one ten feet away. They had a barber shop, a private gym, a tailor. We had mud, and some bathrooms.

And then we found the H6 Rec Center. It was the cherry on top. Outside it was clean looking, a well manicured basketball court beckoning all to play. Smiling, clean people playing sports. Even the sun was brighter. Inside was an answer to a question I’d never thought to ask – “What does the Air Force really have that I don’t?”

Bean bag tossing. It was simple. The Air Force (Chair Force? Air Farce?) deploys with bean bags. And they toss them. A good 10 meters, laughing while they do it. Helping cute girls learn how to toss. And fear and shame possessed me then.

I cannot say for certain, but I think off in the distance of the large open building was some shuffleboard and a massage parlor. Even a room specifically designed for smashing dreams. Dreams and cake, your choice Airman Person. The dreams are of soldiers, who wish they were taken care of better by the Army. The cakes, those are their too. Smash away!

You got to be kidding me, I was dumbfounded. The worst part was when, a moderately cute girl walked past Tyrone and I, saw our uniforms, saw our weapons, saw our obvious look of not belonging, and gave us a smile that said it all. It said, “I’m sorry. Have some pity. Some cute pity. And deal with it! Hahaha!”

It was a pretty expressive smile.

He and I looked at each other, looked around, and decided that the best plan was to come back for salsa night and start some shit. I suggested stabbing a few people, on principle alone, but his plan was more elaborate.

“I’m going to lock and load and start shooting.” It’s the beauty of being forced to carry ammunition and a weapon all the time. You start wondering how anyone can rightly fuck with you. You see the MPs and wonder are they scared of pulling me over now? They should be, I would be. Knowing, not fearing, but knowing that the person you’re about to confront has a weapon on one arm, and has within reach of the other enough rounds to put down a whole boat full of folks.

Destructive plan in hand, Tyrone and I escaped the compound for the time being and headed to the airstrip.

Mortaritaville

To say that arriving at an airport which nicknames itself Mortaritaville is disconcerting is an understatement. It is in no way reassuring.

You get off the plane in Iraq, and your first thought is, “Wow, they have trees here. Maybe I should have looked at a map, or some type of fact sheet about this country.” You are shuffled into a small bus which takes you across the tarmac, full body armor on, and the question only then begins to nag at you, “Why are we the only ones in armor?” The bus driver, the baggage clerks, even the pilots are wearing uniforms, but a soft cap is the only protection from bombs and bullets. And beans, to reference an old saying.

The flight out of Kuwait is in some giant belly of a plane, the way a normal commercial aircraft might look if every single expense budget was cut, the floor was ripped out, the cargo was stacked towering above you ahead of time by your own hands, and the seats had been stolen from a real plane. Windows? They traded those for green paint. Everything smelled of gun lubricate and sweat. Everything smelled of an aircraft hangar.

Climbing to some strange unknown altitude and having no view of the outside it’s easy to forget you are actually flying, perhaps this is some giant submarine to transverse the sand and rock and burrow into Iraq; a transnational digging machine. Vaguely reminiscent of the late 1990s mall rides in which you sit down, movie screen in front of you, doors closed, vehicle rocking, and experience some sad journey into some body part of cavern that no one in their right mind would go to anyway. The only pleasant variation I’ve seen is in the Heineken brewing factory, where you journey as a bottle into someone’s mouth. Ahh, consumption.

But you arrive, and are ferried to a waiting room where a video plays for you. It goes as such…
“Welcome to Balad”, the voice-over says, as you see a sign mocking Margaritaville with Mortaritaville instead. “Last year we had over 900 mortars.” Quick math in my head suggests over 3 a days, and wonders when they will start. “In case of the alarm [alarm sounds] do the following…”

At this point I’d stopped paying attention and thought, wow these are bad actors. And who the hell is going to hear an incoming alarm and lay down in the road for 2 minutes? Or worse, as the actors were portrayed, who will sit and play cards outside ignoring it? Why is this airman picking up unexploded ordinance? Who the hell decided to name the loudspeaker the “Giant Voice in the Sky”?

The whole video confused me at first; making me wonder what the procedure to react to mortars was when you were driving, which wasn’t covered. Or what to do if you didn’t have your body armor and helmet readily available? Where to go if you don’t see a bunker after your 2 minute nap?

Let’s just say I had a lot of doubt regarding not only the proper techniques to handling an attack, but also the ability to act and direct on behalf of the Air Force. I’m not sure which vexed me more.

It wasn’t until a few days later that mortar #1 arrived. The alarm sounded, and of all the places to go, Tyrone went to the portable bathroom to pee. The rest of us walked into a building, where we were yelled at for being inside until the sergeant yelling was informed that we had gone in to escape the eminent death surrounding us. Thirty seconds later we were cleared to exit, and found zero chaos. Zero mortar dust, lingering. Zero anything really.

But we did find Tyrone, using hand sanitizer and feeling relieved.

Inanity 1

The mission was to jump in a vehicle. Ride shotgun. Direct the driver to the passenger arrival zone of the air strip. Grab a couple of fellow soldiers and their gear and drive off. Off to the other side of the air strip. Drop the soldiers and the gear off and get out of there. On a base this size, you’d think it’d take 20 minutes. It took 3 hours.

I thought the day was over, my class on computer forensics had ended, everyone was sitting around pointlessly, and I was itching to go to the gym. The gym and some salsa dancing later. I was already sitting in the van waiting for a driver to jump in so that we could drive off and begin the night. But G-Money came to the heavy sliding door and told me it wasn’t to be, I was to help out Tyrone in picking up some soldiers.

So I jumped in shotgun and wondered, why am I needed when I’m not driving, not in charge, and not necessary? But Tyrone wanted to check out the lost H6 Rec center, a fabled entertainment plaza thought to belong to the Air Force, thought to be super-standard, thought to contain the legendary salsa night on Wednesdays. The salsa night which gathered tens of people to dance and enjoy themselves. Tyrone needed my help finding it.

Our first stop included missing a turn, ending up at a dead end, and debating if the truck would make it through a chain link fence. Fixing that error, we went to the Red something or other. Directly next to the flight line, and in view of the airport, but with a few minutes to still spare on the flight arrival.

We walked in, and asked for directions. On the wall was a poster of some Communications Battalion, two shots of them in formation and then a “G.I. Joe” action figure package of each of them, complete with nicknames and crudely drawn pastel faces. The clerk at the desk gave us some directions, drawing a map on a post-it note and pointing us back in the direction we came.

Tyrone and I jumped in the truck, nearly backing over an anti-tank device, and turned it around. But when we got to the entrance to the Air Force compound we were mystified.

A Letter Home

A message, courtesy in part by Thin Mints:

Dear Mom,

Today was awful. I bought a new video game but I didn’t have a chance to play it – I was too busy eating Popeye’s chicken and Pizza Hut pizza. We didn’t get a chance to rest today because after work we went and tried out swing dancing. And smores. They made us smores and a fire. It was horrible. The free bottled waters are starting to get to me. War is hell.

P.S. – Send more soccer balls.