Leave II

A mere few days after I was in Afghanistan, I found myself launching the old brown wooden boat into the East branch of the Choctawhatchee River. The old man was seated next to the motor, and we eased a few hundred yards until we reached the river opening. The river was still and peaceful, and I gazed at the bloated Cypress trees growing out of the water, thinning out after a few feet. Haunting gray clumps of Spanish moss hung down from the branches, and I felt at home again.

Florida has always possessed a powerful hold on me. The Spanish ghosts can be felt in some quiet corners yet. The tourists and sunglasses huts I can do without, but in the still quiet places, there is magic.

We caught a mess of bream and one catfish on the slow river. I had forgotten the smell of worms on my fingers and fish slime on a coke can, the delicacies of my boyhood. I gave the old man a cigar and we both bit and spit our tips into the water. Blue smoke clung into the still air, and I remember seeing him on brutal mosquito-infested mornings light up a cheroot to keep the insects away. I remember the sweet smell of the smoke, the pleasing image of my old man and his cigar, puffing and waving the smoke around us, a North Florida incense.

We fried them up that night for dinner, cole slaw and cheese grits on the side and sweet tea in real glasses. (I hadn’t eaten on a real plate or drank from a glass in months. You forget the feel of civilization when you live off of Styrofoam takeout containers and plastic forks)

Some will cringe, but you that do have not lived yet. After you’ve peeled the delicate dorsal fin off the crisp fish and slide your teeth down its bones, collecting all the hot flaky flesh, after there is nothing left on the carcass, the best part is the tail. It gives a beautiful crunch, the consistency of a potato chip, and is the perfect last sendoff to the noble North Florida bluegill.

Before I arrived, my mother dusted off the French press I bought her for Christmas, and we ground the beans while the water boiled. We sat around the table drinking coffee, my nephew still awake and cooing and laughing at us worshipping him. He’s around 16 months, and is now able to walk around and make known his desires. He is enamored of anything with a motor. He loves music and food. And women. I showed him a video of sultry Eartha Kitt singing and flirting with the camera, and he stopped and took notice. He perks up at the sound of a motorcycle and makes rumbling noises. I took him for a ride on the old four-wheeler, and while sitting in front of me, he spit out his pacifier so he could push us along faster with his engine noises.

I love him deeply and can’t wait to do uncle things with him, order a pizza and watch action movies that my sister won’t let him watch, show him my old record collection, introduce him to Mark Twain and Elia Kazan.

We went offshore a few days later. Black Snapper season was in, and we were going to give them hell. The water was rough and the sky was cloudy, but the boat owner wanted to go out, so we obliged him. We stopped at a preset location on his GPS machine and made ready our hooks. We had a live well full of little Chofers and some frozen cigar minnows. I hooked one and went to the bottom. In true fashion, the old man got on first. He is the most natural outdoorsman I’ve ever seen. He does not thump his chest and the only bragging he does is on the account of those with him. But he is consistently the one who catches the biggest and most fish. He exudes something from the line that is irresistible to anything swimming. As a boy, I would always silently try to outdo him, but could never manage it. That day on the Gulf, he got on again and again, but with Red Snapper and Grouper too small to keep. I found my niche and they finally started to bite. The Reds knew they would be thrown back and were happy to trade a nice breakfast for a short trip to the surface, but the Blacks were wary of this free meal. But how they fought for those 100 feet, the thick deep sea rod bending and quivering, and the anticipation of whether or not it would be a Red or Black, and the occasional Black Snapper and Triggerfish thrown into the ice-box assured a good dinner that night.

We all saw the old man silently fighting something big. In true fashion, he didn’t announce it or whoop or shout, but let someone else notice it. He had put on a big Chofer and on the way down, it was eaten by a 30 pound Cobia. He pulled the rod, wound in line, let the fish run, pulled him in some more. The first two eyes of the rod dipped underneath the water, and after a while a gaff was at the ready and the fish was thrown thrashing into the ice-box. The old man sat on the side of the boat, grinning and shrugging off the congratulations by the other fisherman.

He grilled them that night with his lemon butter sauce, and I fried some potatoes. Mom made her banana pudding, and after dinner, we sat on the rocking chairs and drank coffee and Dad and I smoked cigars.

My ears ache at the quiet stillness of the old country home. Afghanistan is a constant mechanical hum. Air conditioner units, generators, airplanes and helicopters, there is never a quiet moment. But here, I can hear the Spanish moss whisper to each other. I can hear the hoof beats of the old horses, and the rusty metal of the Spaniards’ helmets.

I revisit my favorite restaurants and have a few drinks at a few places, have a sandwich and tomato soup at Liza’s, but spend a lot of time at the bookstore with a cup of coffee. To be surrounded with more books than you could read, more ideas you could process, more poetry and beauty than your mind could process in 10 years is a beautiful feeling.

The time passed quickly, and I found myself sitting at the beach the night before I had to leave. I snuck onto the property in front of one of the giant ghost-condos that the real-estate boom erected and the economy crash left nearly deserted. I sprawled out on a beach chair and smoked my chewed cigar. The stars weren’t out, and I couldn’t see the water, but I buried my toes in the cool sand and listened. The waves came in and out just like they did when I was a boy. Exactly the same as they did when Galileo’s trial was happening, when the Roman Empire was booming, when there were no human ears on the planet to hear them, they still crashed and lapped the sandy shore.

I will hear the whisper of my homeland when I am back in my tiny pine-walled barracks. When I am sucking MRAP exhaust fumes on ludicrous PT tests, I will see the flash of a Red Snapper swirling in the water beneath me. I will miss this place when I am gone.

Leave

“Leave”: The magical word on the tip of my tongue for 4 months. A period of indulgence and rest, to be away from Afghanistan and work while everyone else is still there. I piled into a blue Huey helicopter, hearing “Fortunate Son” in my mind as I looked out the window and heard the rotors thump and high pitched whine of the engine increase. We sailed past the Tora Boras, lush green landscape, and the towns and homes next to the river gave way to the barren rocky wasteland before we reached Bagram. Bagram is a cool, fresh air respite, an oasis in the burning mountain country. We turned in our weapons and waited for our flight outside of the USO. The sun was subtle on our shoulders and the cool north wind whispered at our ears, and my heart was sick with excitement to be going home. Ramadan just started, the election season is heating up, and I get to go home for break.

I left my cigars back in Jalalabad, and took a long walk to the PX and bought two Cuesta Rey Tuscans. I had lunch at the chow hall and took a leisurely stroll back to the USO center. The flight wasn’t until 1am, and the weather was perfect for a cigar and a coffee. I signed in and grabbed a styrofoam cup and filled it with the strong black coffee and retreated as fast as I could outside. There was a giant TV and very expensive speakers inside the building, and the only movies the American soldier can tolerate is something with lots of torture and women victims screaming in agony, or something with fast cars, loud machinegun fire, explosions, or anything based on a comic strip or toy from their childhood. I smoked and read until sunset brought a chill in the air most welcome. I watched jets roar past on the runway, their afterburners flaming and touching the asphalt as the plane angled upward on its takeoff. The muezzins haunting voice carried through the air for the last prayer of the day. It was Ramadan, and the sun had set, and water was being drunk after a long dusty day in the sun. I saw construction workers looking tired all day, despite the relative coolness of the central Afghan climes. I heard outgoing mortars thumping the outside landscape, and I remembered the scene in “Lawrence of Arabia” when Omar Sharif gazed at the horizon as the British artillery flashed and boomed, he said “God help them who lie under that”. “They are Taliban” my inner Lawrence reminded me. “God help them”.

We flew to Qatar, and then Kuwait. At Kuwait, the thermometer only went up to 120, and the needle was leaning on the number, trying to break free of its constraint. It is a flat desert country, a blistering, scorching oven. There were rocks covering the ground, and after being baked all day, when the sun sets, the rocks continue to radiate an obscene heat. Perhaps two hours pass, and temperatures drop to a cool 105. I can’t imagine being a member of the nomadic tribe that decided to stop there and settle. I nearly dehydrate walking to the bathroom and back to the tent. I slept all day, not wanting to move.

I went to the PX, and saw a little bazaar surrounding it. I tried to speak some Arabic to the shopkeepers, but they looked at me with blank faces. They were all Pakistani or Filipino. I’ve decided I won’t speak Arabic to anyone as long as I’m in the Army, in spite of the 2 years they set aside to teach me the damn language.

On the bus to the airport, I saw 3 pairs of BMWs or Land Rovers on the side of the road, freshly after running into each other. The two drivers stood uncaringly outside their vehicles, waiting for the tow trucks to come. I saw one car barrel out of a merge lane and slam into the bus in front of us. I saw a light bulb, part of the fender, and shards of plastic tumble on the road, and we stopped for 5 minutes, then proceeded to the airport.

The giant plane with an engine in the tail took us to Leipzig. The flight attendants were all distinguished gray-haired Germans with impeccable dress and vocabulary. They were quite the opposite of the plane full of rough and rude American soldiers they were forced to serve. The distinguished gentleman with a perfectly groomed silver moustache and ruddy good looks made his way down the aisle serving drinks. “Would you care for a drink tonight?” he asked with perfect diction, to every person with whom he spoke. “Pehpsi”, the Texan said, without looking up. “Sprite”, the black kid from Atlanta said, interrupting him. The intercom beeped softly, and a soothing voice with the slightest of German accent came over the speaker. “Good evening ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to World Airways, we will be serving dinner momentarily. The choices for tonight’s cuisine will be grilled chicken with cream sauce and vegetables, or tortellini with a marinara sauce. If the two entrees are not what you had desired, please accept our sincerest apologies. Bon Appétit”. Such dulcet tones, such sophistication and class, and she a mere flight attendant. What of the high society types of Europe, I could only imagine the level of grace and civility they should possess.

“Chik’n” the Texan snapped at Hans with the dinner cart.

“I’ll have the tortellini, Hans,” I said. “Danke.”

He looked at me with eyebrow cocked and lips pursed, his European hackles raised.

The flight to Atlanta was stocked with an American crew. Southerners with thick accents and impatient eyes. “Tuh-day’s menyoo is Sahzbuhry Stayk ‘n gravy, or grilled chik’n ‘n veggies”, the twangy voice erupted over the speakers. What a difference a day makes.

When the plane landed and I felt like a horse jumping at the starting gate, we were forced to line up and go through several checkpoints where stamps crashed onto our leave forms, cramping the paper with blue and red and black official looking markings. I found the direction to the Florida terminal and made my way towards it. I found myself beaming at every person that passed me. Little children skipping and excited to fly, their bags strapped to their shoulders smacking against their backs. Beautiful young women with shorts and athletic, graceful legs, sandals flapping against their feet, hair feathered and gorgeous, my heart lunging out of my chest looking at each one, but seeing only bored, cold expressions. What cruelty, what tragedy it was to be ignored by these obscenely beautiful women.

An old man shook my hand and said he was in the 82^nd during Vietnam. I smiled and squeezed his shoulder and thanked him for it, telling him he had it much worse than any of us did.

The little two-engine plane touched down in the new airport in the swampy runway north of Panama City Beach and the humidity pushed down on my shoulders as I climbed down the stairs. I was tempted to kneel down and kiss the ground.

As I made my way through the terminal and onto the baggage carousel, I saw them. My family always in good fun overdoes it with the patriotism. I see half a dozen people with American flags waving and faces beaming . I smile and embrace my mother and do the same to my father and sister. My young nephew is there, 15 months old and he doesn’t remember me from Christmas or the weekend the family got together before I left. He’s beautiful, though and I take him in my arms and kiss him on the cheek. My retired First Sergeant buddy is there with a Davidoff cigar in his hand for me. He’s got an AK-47 scar on his leg and a .38 on his chest. He’s earned 2 purple hearts and half a dozen bronze stars since ‘Nam, and I always love hearing about the old days before safety belts and PT uniforms.

The 15 day countdown starts at midnight. I have an eternity of free time stretching out before me. No mortars, no PT, no sergeants, no latrine graffiti, but cigars and oysters and grilled grouper and my toes buried in the gulf sand. What a relief. I can’t quite beat my sword into plowshares yet, but in good time, all in good time.

Sandbag Detail

Holding the rank of a lower enlisted man in his majesty's army, I am entitled to a few certain priviledges not privy to the higher ranks. Such as filling a Humvee trailer and bed with sandbags (about 200 a trip, 2 trips) and reinforcing the outside of a concrete bunker. We got 5 Afghan locals to fill up the bags and me and a comrade had the pleasant task of chucking them on the trailer as soon as the blackguards had them filled.

It started a slight drizzle, and the brown devils started using the green bags as articles of clothing. They adorned them as capes, tying the little white string about their necks, one on each foot for waders, and most ridiculous of all, I had 5 heathen pontiffs surrounding me with green plastic mitres affixed atop their heads. They wore them regally with no sign of embarrassment. They waved graciously at American soldiers walking by, blessing them when hearing whistles and catcalls.

Once the swarthy assassins realized they weren't going to be the ones loading and unloading the bags, they made sure to fill the bags as full as possible, then pat them down with the shovel and shove a bit more in. They even scooped stray rocks lying around into the bulging green bags, a-chattering and cooing in their unintelligible heathen tongues, feigning ignorance at our precise King's Diction. We told them in plainest terms available to us mean and simple soldiers to please limit the gravel input to no more than 49%, and that any more would betray our Christian integrity in calling these profane things "sandbags".

They nodded excitedly and "salaam"-ed me and carried on with their shovel fulls of geology.

Other than that little diversion, it's been exceedingly dull. I am comforted with the idea of soon having a dozen Appalachicola oysters on the half shell and a bottle of ale to try to lift my spirits. They are stubborn things, my spirits. If one bottle won't answer, then two will. Three will be too many, and then four won't be enough.

Lai

I have a few tricks here where I am able to get a small share of beauty and escape from the steady diet of gristle and bitter wine gleefully given me by my “superiors”. I have to do it in secret, for the military man has an uncanny sense of detection concerning the arts. Not that he appreciates it; he is far beyond that in his masculinity. But if anyone in a quarter mile is reading a book over 200 pages and without pictures, or a movie being watched that was not based on Hasbro action figures or a Sunday comic strip, be sure that he will find it out. His quiver will be full of stinging barbs, and he will gleefully employ them. Even knowing the name of a play or musical is certain proof of a man’s limp-wristedness. If you put cream or sugar in your coffee you are gay. If you eat a corndog or pick up a banana to put in your corn flakes at the chow hall, you might as well be the drum major (ette?) at the West Hollywood Pride Parade, resplendent in leather chaps, a bullwhip, a pink tutu, and General McAuliffe in Arlington spinning in his grave.

On my laptop I have a video of two modern ballet dancers. Watch how they circle each other, how they move with stunning grace and fluidity, whose limbs entwine and separate, all to a mournful cello movement. This is routine for them, to surround themselves with art and beauty and even make a living from it.

I have a Korean cellist playing Haydn’s concerto finale and some Paganini variations. Her eyes dance with the conductor, urging him to keep up. She is beauty incarnate. The tempo in the “variations” decreases and she plays with such concentration and passion. Her lips gulp air in short swallows, as if forcing herself this duty.

I have Chaplin’s “City Lights”. It’s a movie not made by committee, but the vision of one man. He composed the music, he ran his own studio, and he made all the decisions. I defy you to watch that final scene when the formerly blind flower girl recognizes him, and not be struck down by it.

When the vintage is especially bitter and my teeth stained with the dregs, I have a secret weapon. When I hear the mushbrains wax barbaric about what they would do to that attractive girl that just walked by. Or when I feel nauseated after using the latrines, seeing the hate-filled, racist, sexually violent, illiterate scratchings on the stalls that could be mistaken for a 1937 Mississippi Klan outhouse, I go to Lai.

My hair grows slow, and I always tell her not to cut it too short, so I can come back sooner. I get off late, and I always find her still working. There’s never anyone there, so she takes her time. She’s probably 50 and from the Philippines, and like all Army barbers, she has hands of silk. She steadies your head by keeping her hand on your neck. Her clippers hum hypnotically and move in small strokes over your ears and across your nape. She eventually changes to her scissors and uses small snips and takes off a pinch of hair at a time. She uses such care and employs no rush in her trade, and you are thankful. For one year, this is the only affection you are entitled to. 

When Lai finishes with her clippers and scissors, she plucks a new razor blade from the box. She puts warm shaving cream on your neck, and with small gentle movements, trims your sideburns, shaves a perfect arc over your ear, and tidies up the nape of your neck.

She finishes with a short neck massage with her warm soft hands, your too short ration of female tenderness for the half-month, and lastly, frantically musses up your hair with a laugh.

To hell with Betty Grable and Marilyn Monroe and Raquel Welch, I've got Lai.

First Care Package

It's been only one month and already I am restless. Trudging the dusty gravel sidewalks, the furnace blast eastern Afghanistan summer air. 84 hour workweeks. The same schedule every day. Wake up, work, lunch, work, PT, dinner, work, then read a bit and sleep. The days go by, nameless. I forget what month it is, even the year. I am stuck in a timeless vacuum of existence with no landmarks to help guide me.

Then one day as I signed my weapon in at the CP before heading to the gym, the Puerto Rican lady at the office saw me, and with her singsong accent poured honey in my ears, saying "Ju got a package toda-ay".

My heart rolled. I had had my fill of the rind of the melon, the gristle of the chop, and now I was set for something substantive and nourishing.

I hurriedly scribbled my initials on the form and walked calmly to my room. I wasn't about to open my treasure chest in front of people at the company. Hungry eyes and high ranks bode poorly for a lower enlisted boy.

Home, I flicked the blade from my knife and hungrily sliced the tape from the box. I savored the moment before discovery, and then dove in.

Candied pecans and cashews from Trader Joe's, real tortilla chips and garlic lime salsa, bruschetta (is this real or a dream?). Pencils, good pens, journal notebooks, the Christopher Hitchens memoirs wrapped up in time for my upcoming birthday.

And a small bag. Could it be? My heart quickened. I opened it, and in doing, released a leathery rich aroma into my small room. Cigars. My God, good cigars. I have been smoking dried twigs compared to these miracles. There was even a humidor packet in the bag. Also enclosed was the familiar business card from my favorite shop back on Alvarado Street.

I am a Raja. A Xerxes. A Caesar returned in glory from some obscenely successful campaign. My wagons are loaded with treasure. My horses strain and sweat at the colossal weight of it all. I am overcome with riches.

Guard Duty

Had tower guard for the first time. I found it relaxing. I shared the tower with an Afghan soldier who spoke as much English as I did Pashtu. I offered him one of my atrocious cigars, which he declined. He noticed my torch lighter with a silent and hungry gaze. After lighting my cigar, I handed it to him. He fumbled with the switch and smiled when the jet flame leapt out. He handed it back to me, and I extended my hand, motioning for him to keep it. His eyes flashed at me and proudly tried to refuse it. I insisted, and clasped his shoulder and pushed his outstretched hand back towards his chest. He beamed at me, and fished out a 10 Afghani note from his wallet. I mocked outrage and told him I'd have none of it. He searched his pockets and found a limp box of Pakistani matches with a bootleg Donald Duck painted on the cover. I marveled at his generosity, I shook the box to my ear and smiled. I struck one of the blue tipped matches and touched up one side of the cigar that didn't light properly. I shook his hand and thanked him.

I went outside and smoked in the late afternoon air. Due to some thick gray clouds, it was not entirely unpleasant. There was a small farm across the gravel road, corn, fruit trees, cows, sheep, boys off in the distance playing cricket. It was a welcome sight, being unable to see any dull army buildings or equipment.

An inch into the putrid cigar, I saw a young boy pedaling a thin framed white bicycle. He was having a hard time at it, the road being gravel and four of his mates piled on the seat, the handlebars, the front and rear bumpers. They saw me up in the tower and immediately jumped off and started chattering. They bent down and found small sticks and smoked them with me, making dramatic movements bringing the wood cigarettes to their lips and blowing elegant imaginary smoke. The pilot of the bike, a daredevil, rode far behind his friends and at a blazing speed, took off and braked hard and turned sharp, skidding superbly on the gravel road. His head snapped towards me, his eyes searching for a reaction, and beamed when he saw my thumbs up. They showed me their cricket bowling with round rocks found on the road, and just then the Afghan soldier came onto the tower. The boys saw him, jumped on the bike, and strenuous were the pilot's efforts to get going. I guess they knew some were more impressed with their charms than others.

I looked off into the distance and saw a young girl wearing a long dark red cloak. Her hair was covered with a dark brown shawl. She lay on her back on a small stone wall and with a long stick, traced the clouds in the sky. Her leg was bent, one knee in the air, and her other foot dangled and bounced against the wall. Abruptly, wakened from this fancy, she looked to her left and saw an old black goat and a faded sheep wandering away from the fields. She stood, dusted herself off and tramped in a great circle and flanked them before they reached the road. She was fluid in her motions, her stick coming down expertly upon the haunches of the errant goat. She took great strides and shortly the beasts were back in their place and she returned back to her spot on the stone wall.

I am enchanted with these people. They belong to another age. They move with a dignity and confidence that I certainly do not possess. A people that belong somewhere. It's refreshing.

I respect what I've learned about the Pashtun culture. One tribe was insultingly called "The Ungovernables" by a kingdom attempting to conquer them. They took it as a compliment. "Ungovernable" meant to them unwilling to submit.

There is a bit of a scandal going on now. Certain foreign aid services are being accused of spreading Christianity to the Afghans. There have been public demonstrations and calls for harsh punishment and expulsion of the workers. It's because no Pashtun would offer his other cheek when one had been struck. Nor will he be told to love his enemies. Tell a Panjshiri that he must humble himself and carry another man's cloak not just the one mile required, but an extra. The teachings of the Nazarine cult are not admirable to a man with a Shinwar heart beating in his chest. His religion is one of resistance and struggle, and he is a zealous practitioner.

Settling in

At Bagram, our tent was next to the Polish troops. They were intimidating looking fellows. Stout and square jawed, hands thick as hog farmers. We were just normal people in uniforms. Short and ordinary. These Europeans looked natural in the theater of war. They sunned themselves in the daytime with ridiculous Speedos and sandals. It didn't take away from their ferocity like it would me.
We saw some locals at work at a grill outside a chow hall and decided to stop in. They had ribs, chopped BBQ, chicken wings, a nice feast with real food instead of the frozen staples of Army contracted meal service.

Touched down finally at our FOB courtesy of Molsen Air. Got some good photos of the landscape and mountains. When we flew over Jalalabad, I could see people playing cricket next to the river. We stepped off the bird, and a blast of furnace wind hit us in the face. It was a good 15 degrees hotter than Bagram. We lugged our two giant duffel bags, assault pack, armor and rifle a few hundred yards to the bus. Then we drove to the company. A sergeant told us we had to have everything lined up facing the same way. After we did all that, a Lieutenant came out of the building and told us to bring the bags inside the building and line them all up facing the same way. After she watched us place the last bag on the office floor, she told us that now she wanted the Charlie Company bags outside with the Bravo Company bags inside, lined up, facing the same way.

We were shown our barracks, and my heart sank. It was four plywood walls about 7X7, 10 rooms in all. There was a bed that took up half the room and just space enough for a little plastic bureau. My home for one year, Jesus. I unpacked my clothes and left the useless stuff back in my bags. Gas masks, chemical suits, boots, etc. I found my towel and soap and headed for the showers. I found there is a special knack needed in order to get the water just right. First, turn the cold water on all the way. That'll give you a nice limp trickle. Then, standing as far away from the shower head, hold your breath and touch the hot water dial as delicately as possible. A great industrial burst of water will gush forth from the spigot and burn a hole through the curtain, melt the rubber floormat, and eat through the metal beneath it. And through this great influx of steam, you should have enough moisture to soap up. Using your towel wrapped hand, strike a fast blow at the hot water faucet, careful not to scald your skin, and with the dribbling of cold water you can rinse off the remainder of the soap that the steam didn't burn off.

So feeling refreshed and anew, I sought after an agreeable meal. There were lots of locals there, wearing hairnets. Over their beards. Dinner was hot and plenty: fried chicken, fried rice, fried cheese sticks, little fried balls of buffalo chicken stuffed with spicy spray cheese, onion rings, and french fries with chili and cheese.

I waddled my way back to the room and lay down on my bed. There was a nice film of fine sandy dust waiting for me on my sheets. Hacking and sneezing, my pink lungs adjusting to the new environment, I settled in for my first night of sleep in my new home.

And then I heard a great explosion as I was nearly asleep. The loudspeaker screeched and wailed and then a voice, perfectly calm, said "incoming incoming" in dulcid, bored tones. Then another shriek and squeal of the siren.

I was new to the company, just out of training. And in training, you were not allowed to leave the tent during a mortar drill unless you had your armor on. So in the dark, I fished under my bed for my body armor, threw it on, put my helmet on my head and grabbed my weapon. I was wearing my flip flops I just bought at the PX, the only size available stocked for the drummer boy detachment. I plopped into the bunker, and looked around and saw no one else was wearing their armor.

And I had put mine on backwards.

Next day I got tasked for crossing guard duty at the airfield. The week previous, two Master Sergeants nearly got plastered all over the runway because they tried to run for it on a red light. So logically, to prevent it from happening again, create a roster of lower enlisted men to stand guard on the broiling hot asphalt on a 125 degree afternoon to tell the cream of America's crop which color means go and which one doesn't.

As I was out there, a Humvee parked in front of the gate entrance beside the runway. A Lieutenant Colonel told me to clear off everybody in line behind the gate. A Black Hawk helicopter descended and landed. A flock of bald headed Colonels jumped out of the bird, stuffy looking with their body armor. Then the old man jumped out. Two stars on his chest. Salutes were rendered and returned, and a way was cleared. The officers stripped themselves of their armor and piled into the Humvee. There were journalists with their black helmets and tan bulletproof vests doing the same. Just at that moment, a "gator" came speeding by (an open aired vehicle, a bit bigger than a golf cart). A ferocious Staff Sergeant with a beautiful moustache was behind the wheel. He came to a crashing halt and jerked up the hand break. "What the fuck is going on here!?" he screams to the full bird Colonel. "You're blocking my runway sir, I'm going to have to ask you to clear out of the way"

"We've got a 2 star here, Sergeant" the Colonel snapped.

"I don't care if you've got a 3, 4, or 5 star here, you're blocking my fucking runway and if there's a Medivac that lands and needs to get a soldier off the bird and to the med station, then we'll have to wait for you to move your ass out of the way, sir."

I'm assuming it was a combination of the logic in his argument, and every soldier's memory of a screaming E-6 as the first authority figure that got to the good Colonel and scooted His Generalship along.

I was free after two hours and exhausted. I was unused to this kind of heat, but they say you climatize eventually.

As I was walking back home, I met an Afghan soldier about my age with an AK47 slung about his shoulder. I threw him a "Salaamu Alaikum" and his eyes flashed and his tongue loosed a great peal of Pashtu. I didn't understand a word of it, and he introduced himself and we shook hands and in broken English he assured me that this part of the country is perfectly safe, no Taliban here whatsoever. I smiled and accepted his gift. As we parted ways, he placed his hand on his heart, and I did the same.

I had brought some atrocious cigars to hold me until I could order some good ones. I was afraid of bringing the good ones, that they might break en route. So I brought bad ones, and I knew that my luck would never let cheap cigars go to ruin. So I smoked these bundles of straw, these chicken bones. They were dry and awful, and would crack when you cut the tip and unravel when you smoked them. The taste was sharp and hot and dry, but it was still a cigar. Bad cigars serve their own purpose, they let you appreciate the excellent ones all the better.

One night on my way home, I saw a Major and a Captain sitting outside on the deck chairs. The air was cool and still and I saw two orange embers floating in the darkness. The smell of the rich, leathery smoke nearly made my eyes roll back in my head. Forgetting myself, I asked "Whatcha burnin?" All I heard was a grunt from the Major, and collecting my wits, I briskly walked away back to my bundles of paper and dried grass which I lustily choked through.