I woke up.
It was Christmas Day, another unspectacular one of memory. They had at some point lost their luster. But dead guys, bombed-out buildings, the ever-present threat of attack or sniper, and the decaying, dead horse in the courtyard couldn't quell the spirit.
The hand shaking me was a little too frantic, a little too Davidson-wake-the-fuck-up-and-do-it-now for this to be just another day at Puente Del Rey. Cpl. Mike Stone shook me. He leaned close to my face sarcastically and whispered, "merry fucking Christmas, Davidson."
It was 4 am; we had been rotating guard duty- two awake, one sleeping. Propaganda had suggested an attack was coming Christmas Eve or day, and it hadn't come during the night. I had refused to wake, and Stone wasn't dealing well with that.
I sat up, mumbled something about a cigarette and tightened my helmet straps.
A breeze off the gulf wrestled in tree branches; critters crawled through the grass beneath them. In the distance, someone was whispering. What little nightfall had done to relieve us from the Panamanian heat, tension had undone.
Darkness consumed everything. Even after sleeping, I couldn't see my hands. A drink of water, a splash on the face, I spun to stare blankly at the horizon. No sign of light. This was our fifth morning, fourth in Panamá City's suburbs.
We kept hearing and seeing things. Stone wore the night vision goggles, scanning 360 degrees. Pvt. Stewart and I kept unfocused eyes on the perimeter, looking for any sign of movement.
Later, Stone and I stood guard at the barrier on Via Cinquentario while Christmas services were held. They sent us back at noon. Stone went and crossed himself –or whatever it is they do in rural, southern Indiana –then we ate our MRE Christmas dinner.
While we ate, somebody took a run at the barrier. When he refused to stop, the gate guards opened fire. A rooftop .50 caliber followed suit, and soon the roadside roared a symphony of armament, the buzz of automatic rifle, the symbol crash of shattered glass and twisted metal and the percussive rhythm of the machine gun accented with the pop, pop, pop of imploding tires.
The translator found a rocket launcher in the trunk; apparently, the driver had been coming to turn it in. He must've gotten nervous that we might shoot him. One of the platoon sergeants stole his watch.
When the smell of cordite finally abated, they took Stone and I, attached us to third platoon, and sent us out kicking in doors. We inched up and down Panama Viejo's streets, stopping periodically, eyes constantly sweeping for any sign of aggression.
I turned away from the roadside long enough to make wise-ass comments to Stone when it happened; a man burst out of a building, running toward the guy in front of me. I spun around and dropped to my knees. Even in the screaming, it was possible to hear 35 rifles click their safeties off.
No one fired though. He wore shorts, sandals and a T-shirt depicting Noriega as a pineapple. He was screaming, "Kill him. Kill him," and pointing to the face on his shirt. Pointing toward his own chest. Most of us laughed. But not one lowered a rifle.
After we stood down that night, Stone and I were sent to deliver our status to the command post. The honor was mine. I stepped into the makeshift clerks office to fill the lines on the proper form for food and ammunition for the next couple of days, then left.
In the hallway, Stone was mimicking a game of hot-potato with one of his canteens. An urgent look on his face told me we should be leaving. Behind cover, he lead me to the side of the building and to a boulder jutting out over the gulf.
In the distance, maybe even in Colombia, lights twinkled. The breeze blew stronger here, and soothing waves rolled gently from surf to shore. Stone asked for my canteen cup. He had taken hot water from the command post.
We mixed a thick, sweet hot chocolate using twice the recommended amounts of cocoa, coffee, sugar, creamer, and for good measure, some caramel candies. When it was finished, he commented on how a cigar would taste with it, and took a sip.
"Oh, yeah," he said, reaching into one pocket and then the other. He handed me cookies stolen while I had filled out the requisitions. I had one already stuffed into my mouth when he finished rummaging.
He held up his hand. "I found these too," he whispered, pouring two nips of Jack Daniels into the cocoa. "I had hoped for something from Kentucky, but all they had was this shit."
We sat a while in silence, enjoying the night best we could, staring at stars or wandering in thoughts each his own.
It had been a testament to the mettle of men, not me, being able to find joy in a Christmas Day separated by 5000 miles, and just as many guns, from their families.
The cocoa gone, we stood to leave. Stone slapped my back and shook me like he had that morning, knowing I was not a fan of the holiday. Leaning close to my face, sarcastically, he whispered in a tone that would have better fit an insult, "merry fucking Christmas."
Friday, July 10, 2009
Uninvited Guests: Part 2
They say time sure flies when you’re having fun. No one ever really talks about how it moves when you’re not.
The landing hadn’t cost me anything a few beers and a good nose-picking wouldn’t cure. Now that the easy part was behind me, I dug out my compass and gathered my bearings. The acacia I’d stared at after landing guided me toward the airfield, while light in the distance suggested where Panama City was.
Not quite the triple canopy that most picture when thinking of a jungle area, I was in a small clearing. Many plots of trees had grown randomly above abundant brush, stands of palm, and the ever-present elephant grass. Most towered above me, but the night sky was visible in patches.
Despite the fact that I was involved in a full-scale invasion, that small-arms fire and explosions seemed ceaseless in the distance, and that I could hear the wind passing through the elephant grass and trees, it was eerily quiet around me. I loaded a bullet into the chamber of my 9 mm carefully, aware of the way sound seemed to be carrying; I guided the slide forward to keep quiet. Going forward at a crouch, I lead with the barrel. With each step, leaves on eight-foot stalks of grass gripped my uniform, bending and twisting with my movements. When they released, it sounded to me like ripping paper in an empty room.
About a minute into the grass, I could make out the top of the airfield fence line silhouetted against moonlight. In places, trails cut through the grass, paralleling the fence. I followed them briefly, looking for smaller trails. When found, I’d disappear again. A breeze still kicked through the plant life, making little steps here, a whisper there. It was the metallic scratching of chain links that got my attention.
As I approached the low grass bordering the fence, I slowed, took care to make no noise that I could control. Peeking toward the source of what was now a rattle, I braced myself. My trigger finger had already taken up the slack; it rested a hair’s breadth away from the hammer fall.
About a foot off the ground, a soldier hung from the fence, facing away from me. He would have been lying on the ground, other side of the fence, had the concertina wire atop the fence not caught the lines from his chute and his ruck, which was on my side. I aimed at his the center of his back. “Don’t fucking move.” I said. He jerked to a stop. “Manifold,” I said, improperly offering the challenge.
He hesitated a second, “Who goes there?”
“Davidson,” I said, “I’m going to fucking shoot you. Manifold….”
Jerking a little, he almost shouted his response, “floodlight.” I think the stress of the moment had fogged his head, and he’d been buying time to remember the password. He’d almost paid a price he couldn’t afford, but at his response, I crept forward.
“What the fuck have you gotten into?” I asked.
He didn’t know. He’d spent his time since landing trying to figure a way out of it. His rucksack had come down outside the fence, and his lowering line—the strap from which the aforesaid hangs for landing—had caught the razor wire. His parachute had drifted back into the fence when he’d released his riser. He was just hanging there, one big target.
“Cut my lowering line, will ya?” he said. As I reached for my bayonet, grass rustled behind me. Whirling to plant myself prone behind the soldier’s wayward rucksack, a figure appeared from the grass ten feet away.
“Halt,” I said. This time, it was me who almost shouted. “Who goes there?”
The man in front of me was wearing a helmet I’d not seen before and carrying a grease gun, which looked a lot like something German troops carried in WWII. Still partially concealed by the elephant grass, I couldn’t make his outline perfectly, so I aimed for what seemed like it would be center mass.
“Rodriguez,” came the reply. With his response, he’d shifted slightly. I had a clear shot at his chest. His name suggested that he might be a local, but the lack of an accent encouraged me.
“Manifold,” I said, half expecting sudden movement. As he hesitated, I pulled the slack out of the trigger, preparing to fire. Behind me, I heard the bolt from an M-16 push a round into the chamber. It seems dude had managed to free himself and finish removing his rifle from its case, fear, apparently, becoming quite the motivator.
“Floodlight,” Rodriguez responded. Normally, I’d have told him to advance, but the odd weapon and different shape of his helmet had me in quandary.
Then, from behind me, the other soldier growled, “What fucking unit are you with, asshole?” Rodriguez spat out a collection of numbers describing his unit, and when we didn’t respond right away, he continued “3rd of 73rd, I’m a tanker, drive a Sheridan.”
We called him forward. Turns out, he had already donned the helmet he wears in the tank, expecting to find his vehicle before he found random Joes hanging out by the fence. His Kevlar helmet hanged from the back of his rucksack (We both recommended he put it back on). We pulled the fence up—rather than cutting it—to crawl under, and with the hanging guy leading the way and Rodriguez pulling rear guard, we resumed our course.
A few minutes back into the elephant grass, hanging dude put up his hand, stopping both of us. We dropped to our knees instinctively, hearing whispering from ahead. A second later, a black captain, standing six-feet-and-change tall, walked back and surveyed the two of us. He wasn’t carrying a weapon.
At first, I assumed that it had somehow been lost during the drop, but as I looked, I discredited that assumption. He wore almost no camouflage paint, didn’t even have a sidearm that I could see, and his rucksack was too small and dainty to be carrying a combat load (I later asked: he was from division headquarters and had found his way onto the jump by bumping someone who had actually served a purpose on the ground. We would learn, after counting several members of our company as missing in action, that a large collection of paper pushers had done the same so they could get combat jump stars. Rumor has it that they were severely punished and subsequently denied the gold star.).
So the captain fell in with us, walking upright. Quickly, I slowed and waved him up to me. “Sir, you can’t walk upright,” I said. “You make a big target, and any little brown guys hanging out in the grass might see your helmet.” He didn’t listen until, a moment later, I heard Rodriguez say something similar in a much harsher tone, and I clearly heard: “If someone pops you a new asshole in the forehead, we’ll leave your stupid ass here.” It was like a deal had been struck, and Capt. Pogue understood: We won’t tell you how to drive your desk, and you don’t argue when Rodriguez tells you how to unfuck yourself.
Not five minutes later, we arrived at the edge of the runway we were supposed to have landed on. Hanging guy pulled out his night vision, got his bearings and passed them on. I saw the infrared signal for Alpha Company toward the southwest end and knew where to go. Rodriguez had already spotted his place, and we took off, leaving Capt. Pogue to find his own way.
About 100 meters down the runway, I approached Alpha Co.’s marker. A sergeant held it. There was another marker farther down, but it wasn’t mine. “Sergeant,” I said, “anybody here from Charlie?” There wasn’t, so I moved a ways down, dropped my ruck and watched for movement in the grass. For the next few moments, I was Charlie Company.
Our first arrival was a Pennsylvania kid named Bill Clepper, who instantly handed me his weapon, pulled out his poncho and smoked a cigarette. I stuck my head in for a drag and returned to watch. Next, members of the company started filing in rapidly. When Sgt. Husketh arrived with Charlie’s marker, I finally thought to look at my watch.
What seemed like forever had been less than half an hour from the time I’d stepped out the door of the plane. Time didn’t fly. I assume this means I wasn’t having fun.
The landing hadn’t cost me anything a few beers and a good nose-picking wouldn’t cure. Now that the easy part was behind me, I dug out my compass and gathered my bearings. The acacia I’d stared at after landing guided me toward the airfield, while light in the distance suggested where Panama City was.
Not quite the triple canopy that most picture when thinking of a jungle area, I was in a small clearing. Many plots of trees had grown randomly above abundant brush, stands of palm, and the ever-present elephant grass. Most towered above me, but the night sky was visible in patches.
Despite the fact that I was involved in a full-scale invasion, that small-arms fire and explosions seemed ceaseless in the distance, and that I could hear the wind passing through the elephant grass and trees, it was eerily quiet around me. I loaded a bullet into the chamber of my 9 mm carefully, aware of the way sound seemed to be carrying; I guided the slide forward to keep quiet. Going forward at a crouch, I lead with the barrel. With each step, leaves on eight-foot stalks of grass gripped my uniform, bending and twisting with my movements. When they released, it sounded to me like ripping paper in an empty room.
About a minute into the grass, I could make out the top of the airfield fence line silhouetted against moonlight. In places, trails cut through the grass, paralleling the fence. I followed them briefly, looking for smaller trails. When found, I’d disappear again. A breeze still kicked through the plant life, making little steps here, a whisper there. It was the metallic scratching of chain links that got my attention.
As I approached the low grass bordering the fence, I slowed, took care to make no noise that I could control. Peeking toward the source of what was now a rattle, I braced myself. My trigger finger had already taken up the slack; it rested a hair’s breadth away from the hammer fall.
About a foot off the ground, a soldier hung from the fence, facing away from me. He would have been lying on the ground, other side of the fence, had the concertina wire atop the fence not caught the lines from his chute and his ruck, which was on my side. I aimed at his the center of his back. “Don’t fucking move.” I said. He jerked to a stop. “Manifold,” I said, improperly offering the challenge.
He hesitated a second, “Who goes there?”
“Davidson,” I said, “I’m going to fucking shoot you. Manifold….”
Jerking a little, he almost shouted his response, “floodlight.” I think the stress of the moment had fogged his head, and he’d been buying time to remember the password. He’d almost paid a price he couldn’t afford, but at his response, I crept forward.
“What the fuck have you gotten into?” I asked.
He didn’t know. He’d spent his time since landing trying to figure a way out of it. His rucksack had come down outside the fence, and his lowering line—the strap from which the aforesaid hangs for landing—had caught the razor wire. His parachute had drifted back into the fence when he’d released his riser. He was just hanging there, one big target.
“Cut my lowering line, will ya?” he said. As I reached for my bayonet, grass rustled behind me. Whirling to plant myself prone behind the soldier’s wayward rucksack, a figure appeared from the grass ten feet away.
“Halt,” I said. This time, it was me who almost shouted. “Who goes there?”
The man in front of me was wearing a helmet I’d not seen before and carrying a grease gun, which looked a lot like something German troops carried in WWII. Still partially concealed by the elephant grass, I couldn’t make his outline perfectly, so I aimed for what seemed like it would be center mass.
“Rodriguez,” came the reply. With his response, he’d shifted slightly. I had a clear shot at his chest. His name suggested that he might be a local, but the lack of an accent encouraged me.
“Manifold,” I said, half expecting sudden movement. As he hesitated, I pulled the slack out of the trigger, preparing to fire. Behind me, I heard the bolt from an M-16 push a round into the chamber. It seems dude had managed to free himself and finish removing his rifle from its case, fear, apparently, becoming quite the motivator.
“Floodlight,” Rodriguez responded. Normally, I’d have told him to advance, but the odd weapon and different shape of his helmet had me in quandary.
Then, from behind me, the other soldier growled, “What fucking unit are you with, asshole?” Rodriguez spat out a collection of numbers describing his unit, and when we didn’t respond right away, he continued “3rd of 73rd, I’m a tanker, drive a Sheridan.”
We called him forward. Turns out, he had already donned the helmet he wears in the tank, expecting to find his vehicle before he found random Joes hanging out by the fence. His Kevlar helmet hanged from the back of his rucksack (We both recommended he put it back on). We pulled the fence up—rather than cutting it—to crawl under, and with the hanging guy leading the way and Rodriguez pulling rear guard, we resumed our course.
A few minutes back into the elephant grass, hanging dude put up his hand, stopping both of us. We dropped to our knees instinctively, hearing whispering from ahead. A second later, a black captain, standing six-feet-and-change tall, walked back and surveyed the two of us. He wasn’t carrying a weapon.
At first, I assumed that it had somehow been lost during the drop, but as I looked, I discredited that assumption. He wore almost no camouflage paint, didn’t even have a sidearm that I could see, and his rucksack was too small and dainty to be carrying a combat load (I later asked: he was from division headquarters and had found his way onto the jump by bumping someone who had actually served a purpose on the ground. We would learn, after counting several members of our company as missing in action, that a large collection of paper pushers had done the same so they could get combat jump stars. Rumor has it that they were severely punished and subsequently denied the gold star.).
So the captain fell in with us, walking upright. Quickly, I slowed and waved him up to me. “Sir, you can’t walk upright,” I said. “You make a big target, and any little brown guys hanging out in the grass might see your helmet.” He didn’t listen until, a moment later, I heard Rodriguez say something similar in a much harsher tone, and I clearly heard: “If someone pops you a new asshole in the forehead, we’ll leave your stupid ass here.” It was like a deal had been struck, and Capt. Pogue understood: We won’t tell you how to drive your desk, and you don’t argue when Rodriguez tells you how to unfuck yourself.
Not five minutes later, we arrived at the edge of the runway we were supposed to have landed on. Hanging guy pulled out his night vision, got his bearings and passed them on. I saw the infrared signal for Alpha Company toward the southwest end and knew where to go. Rodriguez had already spotted his place, and we took off, leaving Capt. Pogue to find his own way.
About 100 meters down the runway, I approached Alpha Co.’s marker. A sergeant held it. There was another marker farther down, but it wasn’t mine. “Sergeant,” I said, “anybody here from Charlie?” There wasn’t, so I moved a ways down, dropped my ruck and watched for movement in the grass. For the next few moments, I was Charlie Company.
Our first arrival was a Pennsylvania kid named Bill Clepper, who instantly handed me his weapon, pulled out his poncho and smoked a cigarette. I stuck my head in for a drag and returned to watch. Next, members of the company started filing in rapidly. When Sgt. Husketh arrived with Charlie’s marker, I finally thought to look at my watch.
What seemed like forever had been less than half an hour from the time I’d stepped out the door of the plane. Time didn’t fly. I assume this means I wasn’t having fun.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Appendix B: Stuff…? It’s what’s for dinner
The old guy never sent back his swordfish.
Each time I visited the table, he had more bad things to say, but he refused my offers to bring a new piece. I brought about a gallon of tartar, a bottle of malt vinegar, butter, even some mustard, but he never settled down until, of my own volition, I brought over our cache of hot sauces—seven different bottles from five different brands using four different chilies. He jumped on the Tabasco, and before my very eyes, the fish disappeared.
He shut up, and I understood.
“You were in the military?” I asked as he and the wife debated dessert versus departure. He didn’t have that hard-line look that so many Vietnam era vets wear like a badge—the cropped hair, piercing stare, and mannerisms that suggest they’re still in.
“Yeah,” he said. “How did you know?”
****
Hot sauce.
For the first time in my life, I was craving hot sauce. I wasn’t choking but I really wanted to be; a good Heimlich maneuver would have really settled my stomach
I was eating food Uncle Sam gave me, food I wanted to give back. It was my first MRE—Meal, Ready to Eat. Wrapped in a dark brown pouch that had chaffed my right thigh all day, it made a complete meal. Protein, starch, fruit, crackers, even peanut butter, preserved and made portable in a pouch that fit the pocket of my camouflage trousers.
Menu 2: Ham and Chicken Loaf: a jagged dash across the salted slab marked the border between processed meats, one side pinkish, the other grey. The juices had merged thanks to salt content, imparting identical flavors with differing textures. I fought the gag reflex the moment I smelled it.
Another pouch held “bean component”: graying pintos floating in tomato sauce, like watered-down Spaghetti-Os with stale beans subbing for pasta. They almost crunched. Dehydrated peaches smelled edible, but after 10 minutes soaking in water, they never completely softened.
Every MRE felt this way.
In addition, Accessory Packet C provided all the necessities: salt (in case my arteries weren’t hardening at a sufficient pace), candy (a reward after forcing lunch down), coffee, creamer, and sugar (to help revive the diner after nearly passing out), Chiclets gum (to get the taste out), matches (in case I wanted to light myself on fire before I ate another), and toilet paper (which needed to be collected because MREs, I would eventually learn, rallied during digestion and came out as a group, even though they had entered individually and at timely intervals).
I learned a couple of weeks into basic training that most of the jokes made of the MRE acronym are more accurate than the real name. Meal, Ready to Eat morphed through the years into Meals Refused by Everyone, Meals Rejected by Ethiopians, Meals Rumored as Edible, and—based on the way they seem to resist digestion—Meals Refusing to Exit.
Until that first smell, I had been excited at the prospect. Unfortunately, the military doesn’t look at food the way civilized peoples do. Sustenance falls right in with guns and bullets on the priority list, and if Uncle Sam has to cut corners somewhere, most Joes prefer the skimping be done on food. The Army doesn’t worry about pleasing Joe with it. They figure as long as he thinks he might die soon, he’ll love whatever is offered, no matter how bad it is.
And bad it is.
But Joe is resourceful. If he can find something to improve on dinner, he’d use it. Improvements ranged from rituals to condiments. A Sergeant named Pantaloguos used to use the same spoon for every meal. When he finished, he would simply lick it clean and return it to his breast pocket. Bacteria, he said, “adds flavor.” And if he got sick, it meant he was back at the billets before everyone else. One of the guys bought an MRE cookbook that had everything from cheeseburgers and chili to peach cobbler and pudding.
Spices helped. Cpl. Mike Stone carried tins of curry and mustard powder, but I carried everything else. Through years of trial and error, I found that variety in spice made life more livable.
My position was a regular stop for our first sergeant, lots of Joes and some of the officers because I was keeper of the spice rack. In a beat up tanker’s bag that I’d liberated, I carried salt and pepper, celery salt, Tabasco, Frank’s, Pete’s, Taco Bell hot taco sauce, horseradish sauce, steak sauce, and a few other flavors that I can’t remember. At each meal, I would fool my taste buds into thinking something horrible wasn’t about to happen, mostly, through spices.
Based on the law of declining standards, some meals turned out surprisingly good, using only the contents of the pouch. A meal featuring the bean component and a freeze dried beef patty made chili that, especially if it could be warmed, would almost be worthy of eating in the real world. Other Joes would turn the same meal into a cheeseburger on crackers.
Whenever possible, we’d heat our MREs. In the days before the flameless heater, we’d go to any extent for a hot meal on a cold day. Boxes were burned if the situation allowed. Pouches would be stuffed in pockets, inside T-shirts, in the trouser waistline. In non-tactical operations, a solid fuel tablet called a heat tab would boil water and, in the process, heat an entrée.
But that leftover boiled water—that was the one thing the Army got right. My squad used to gather on cold mornings and make a mocha that was thick enough to stand a plastic spoon in. We’d put everything in there: Chiclets, caramels, creamer, coffee, sugar, three, four, or five packets of cocoa. We’d hold it to warm our hands, take a sip and pass it on. When we’d been shivering for two hours and could look forward to another 14 hours of the same, a hot cup and a few sips of cocoa feels like a little brush with heaven.
That same cocoa and creamer could be combined with peanut butter for pudding. The creamer, along with reconstituted peaches, jelly (optional), sugar, and crackers, made a peach cobbler that, considering I don’t like peach cobbler, was as good as any I’ve had since I got out.
Many entrees were beyond help, and the only salvation for them was hot sauce. My mouth would burn so badly that I’d plow through the meal in seconds just so I could drink water and cool my palate. The Omelet with Ham entrée was one of these. Usually a solid mass of egg and chunks of ham sitting in egg-scented water, it had the texture of a stale curd. To force it down, I’d add just about every spice in the rack, along with crackers and the sawdust-textured Oatmeal Cookie Bar before mixing it with the included potatoes au gratin. Even then, eating was a matter of need rather than desire. Everyone had a meal they saved for last, usually in hopes that they’d skip a meal at some point and not need it, or that re-supply would arrive in time to continue putting it off. The omelet was mine.
But for most of the guys, hot sauce provided the sole salvation. I was willing to carry extra weight to hide the built-in shelf-stable flavor. Not everyone was, so those little bottles of Tabasco that came in the accessory packet worked wonders.
By the time I was done, I bequeathed the spice rack and my extensive knowledge of how to make an MRE diet livable to one of the guys in my squad. I could’ve written my own cookbook at that point. And it gave me a lifelong appreciation for hot sauce.
And to this day, I believe I can spot a former soldier, based simply on his or her application and preference of hot sauces. A civilian adds hot sauce like they like the sauce, either directly on the meal or on the side, and in a manner that suggests they want some spice. A former, Joe, jarhead, squid, Air Force hippie, or coastie will add it like they mean it, like they’re trying to hide something, even when they like the food. If they’re using hot sauce, they are putting it on with vigor, as though they need it.
If a civilian uses his hot sauce with the reserve of a connoisseur tasting cognac, then a Vet uses it like a drunk getting his first taste of rot gut in weeks.
****
“How’d you know?” he asked again, reviving me from what may have been a bad dream.
“Hot sauce,” I said. “You didn’t add a flavor to your fish; you gave it a new one. Civilians don’t do that. Civilians will send it back first.”
As it turned out, the Master Chief had retired after 30-plus years in the Coast Guard. We stood for awhile, comparing taste bud horror stories until the impatience of both his wife and my bar manager pulled us apart.
As they made for the door, he came to the bar and offered his hand, thanking me for having worn green. I shook it. As he smiled, he said: “Remember, son, for those who have fought for it, filet mignon has a flavor the protected will never know.”
It took us both about a minute to stop laughing when I held up an unopened bottle of Tabasco. “In honor of your years of service and dedication to these United States, Master Chief your-name-here, I am honored to present you and your taste buds with this token of thanks from a grateful nation.”
He laughed, took the bottle, and left with another shake of my hand.
He wasn’t supposed to take the bottle. I had to replace it.
Each time I visited the table, he had more bad things to say, but he refused my offers to bring a new piece. I brought about a gallon of tartar, a bottle of malt vinegar, butter, even some mustard, but he never settled down until, of my own volition, I brought over our cache of hot sauces—seven different bottles from five different brands using four different chilies. He jumped on the Tabasco, and before my very eyes, the fish disappeared.
He shut up, and I understood.
“You were in the military?” I asked as he and the wife debated dessert versus departure. He didn’t have that hard-line look that so many Vietnam era vets wear like a badge—the cropped hair, piercing stare, and mannerisms that suggest they’re still in.
“Yeah,” he said. “How did you know?”
****
Hot sauce.
For the first time in my life, I was craving hot sauce. I wasn’t choking but I really wanted to be; a good Heimlich maneuver would have really settled my stomach
I was eating food Uncle Sam gave me, food I wanted to give back. It was my first MRE—Meal, Ready to Eat. Wrapped in a dark brown pouch that had chaffed my right thigh all day, it made a complete meal. Protein, starch, fruit, crackers, even peanut butter, preserved and made portable in a pouch that fit the pocket of my camouflage trousers.
Menu 2: Ham and Chicken Loaf: a jagged dash across the salted slab marked the border between processed meats, one side pinkish, the other grey. The juices had merged thanks to salt content, imparting identical flavors with differing textures. I fought the gag reflex the moment I smelled it.
Another pouch held “bean component”: graying pintos floating in tomato sauce, like watered-down Spaghetti-Os with stale beans subbing for pasta. They almost crunched. Dehydrated peaches smelled edible, but after 10 minutes soaking in water, they never completely softened.
Every MRE felt this way.
In addition, Accessory Packet C provided all the necessities: salt (in case my arteries weren’t hardening at a sufficient pace), candy (a reward after forcing lunch down), coffee, creamer, and sugar (to help revive the diner after nearly passing out), Chiclets gum (to get the taste out), matches (in case I wanted to light myself on fire before I ate another), and toilet paper (which needed to be collected because MREs, I would eventually learn, rallied during digestion and came out as a group, even though they had entered individually and at timely intervals).
I learned a couple of weeks into basic training that most of the jokes made of the MRE acronym are more accurate than the real name. Meal, Ready to Eat morphed through the years into Meals Refused by Everyone, Meals Rejected by Ethiopians, Meals Rumored as Edible, and—based on the way they seem to resist digestion—Meals Refusing to Exit.
Until that first smell, I had been excited at the prospect. Unfortunately, the military doesn’t look at food the way civilized peoples do. Sustenance falls right in with guns and bullets on the priority list, and if Uncle Sam has to cut corners somewhere, most Joes prefer the skimping be done on food. The Army doesn’t worry about pleasing Joe with it. They figure as long as he thinks he might die soon, he’ll love whatever is offered, no matter how bad it is.
And bad it is.
But Joe is resourceful. If he can find something to improve on dinner, he’d use it. Improvements ranged from rituals to condiments. A Sergeant named Pantaloguos used to use the same spoon for every meal. When he finished, he would simply lick it clean and return it to his breast pocket. Bacteria, he said, “adds flavor.” And if he got sick, it meant he was back at the billets before everyone else. One of the guys bought an MRE cookbook that had everything from cheeseburgers and chili to peach cobbler and pudding.
Spices helped. Cpl. Mike Stone carried tins of curry and mustard powder, but I carried everything else. Through years of trial and error, I found that variety in spice made life more livable.
My position was a regular stop for our first sergeant, lots of Joes and some of the officers because I was keeper of the spice rack. In a beat up tanker’s bag that I’d liberated, I carried salt and pepper, celery salt, Tabasco, Frank’s, Pete’s, Taco Bell hot taco sauce, horseradish sauce, steak sauce, and a few other flavors that I can’t remember. At each meal, I would fool my taste buds into thinking something horrible wasn’t about to happen, mostly, through spices.
Based on the law of declining standards, some meals turned out surprisingly good, using only the contents of the pouch. A meal featuring the bean component and a freeze dried beef patty made chili that, especially if it could be warmed, would almost be worthy of eating in the real world. Other Joes would turn the same meal into a cheeseburger on crackers.
Whenever possible, we’d heat our MREs. In the days before the flameless heater, we’d go to any extent for a hot meal on a cold day. Boxes were burned if the situation allowed. Pouches would be stuffed in pockets, inside T-shirts, in the trouser waistline. In non-tactical operations, a solid fuel tablet called a heat tab would boil water and, in the process, heat an entrée.
But that leftover boiled water—that was the one thing the Army got right. My squad used to gather on cold mornings and make a mocha that was thick enough to stand a plastic spoon in. We’d put everything in there: Chiclets, caramels, creamer, coffee, sugar, three, four, or five packets of cocoa. We’d hold it to warm our hands, take a sip and pass it on. When we’d been shivering for two hours and could look forward to another 14 hours of the same, a hot cup and a few sips of cocoa feels like a little brush with heaven.
That same cocoa and creamer could be combined with peanut butter for pudding. The creamer, along with reconstituted peaches, jelly (optional), sugar, and crackers, made a peach cobbler that, considering I don’t like peach cobbler, was as good as any I’ve had since I got out.
Many entrees were beyond help, and the only salvation for them was hot sauce. My mouth would burn so badly that I’d plow through the meal in seconds just so I could drink water and cool my palate. The Omelet with Ham entrée was one of these. Usually a solid mass of egg and chunks of ham sitting in egg-scented water, it had the texture of a stale curd. To force it down, I’d add just about every spice in the rack, along with crackers and the sawdust-textured Oatmeal Cookie Bar before mixing it with the included potatoes au gratin. Even then, eating was a matter of need rather than desire. Everyone had a meal they saved for last, usually in hopes that they’d skip a meal at some point and not need it, or that re-supply would arrive in time to continue putting it off. The omelet was mine.
But for most of the guys, hot sauce provided the sole salvation. I was willing to carry extra weight to hide the built-in shelf-stable flavor. Not everyone was, so those little bottles of Tabasco that came in the accessory packet worked wonders.
By the time I was done, I bequeathed the spice rack and my extensive knowledge of how to make an MRE diet livable to one of the guys in my squad. I could’ve written my own cookbook at that point. And it gave me a lifelong appreciation for hot sauce.
And to this day, I believe I can spot a former soldier, based simply on his or her application and preference of hot sauces. A civilian adds hot sauce like they like the sauce, either directly on the meal or on the side, and in a manner that suggests they want some spice. A former, Joe, jarhead, squid, Air Force hippie, or coastie will add it like they mean it, like they’re trying to hide something, even when they like the food. If they’re using hot sauce, they are putting it on with vigor, as though they need it.
If a civilian uses his hot sauce with the reserve of a connoisseur tasting cognac, then a Vet uses it like a drunk getting his first taste of rot gut in weeks.
****
“How’d you know?” he asked again, reviving me from what may have been a bad dream.
“Hot sauce,” I said. “You didn’t add a flavor to your fish; you gave it a new one. Civilians don’t do that. Civilians will send it back first.”
As it turned out, the Master Chief had retired after 30-plus years in the Coast Guard. We stood for awhile, comparing taste bud horror stories until the impatience of both his wife and my bar manager pulled us apart.
As they made for the door, he came to the bar and offered his hand, thanking me for having worn green. I shook it. As he smiled, he said: “Remember, son, for those who have fought for it, filet mignon has a flavor the protected will never know.”
It took us both about a minute to stop laughing when I held up an unopened bottle of Tabasco. “In honor of your years of service and dedication to these United States, Master Chief your-name-here, I am honored to present you and your taste buds with this token of thanks from a grateful nation.”
He laughed, took the bottle, and left with another shake of my hand.
He wasn’t supposed to take the bottle. I had to replace it.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Eating away my warm welcome
Hungry as I was, I was glad to be eating last.
“Gimme five,” a voice beyond the screen door shouted, indicating that the next five diners should enter. Each meal brought a different method of determining who went next. As we stood in two rows, some drill sergeants would take five from one row and then five from the other. Others would send in the closest five to the door. Still others would be more inventive, choosing arbitrarily or through some unknown criteria who or what number were next to enter.
Eating in the Army rarely qualified as a pleasure, especially in basic training, except that trainees were always hungry at meal time. The simple act of filling our stomachs was a pleasure, regardless the taste of the food.
I was happy to be eating last because the drill sergeants monitoring chow couldn’t eat until all recruits were fed. We had about as long as they took. Troops at the start of the line had no time to eat. Back of the line also meant larger portions, and occasionally, seconds. Which, it turns out, isn’t always a good idea.
Drill Sergeant Moore stood before the door deciding who would go next. Inside, Drill Sergeant Bartlett made sure no one lingered too long over their lunch. Leeway came only to those who prayed first, and even that had a limit. We could hear him clearing the chairs.
“Shovel it down and move the fuck out,” Bartlett yelled. “What you waiting for boy?” His drawl was transplanted Kansas, not originally from there but bred into an existing accent more southern.
Moore’s method for moving the line today came straight from the Smartbook, “The Soldier’s Handbook,” the compendium of all that need be mastered during basic training. He stopped the line five feet from the door, asking questions of the next five Joes. Anyone who answered correctly moved up to the door. If a question were answered incorrectly, the troop waited while Moore asked the one behind him.
According to Army standard operating procedure, basic training was officially over. In a system called OSUT, basic trainees finished basic training in nine weeks, then moved on to five weeks of advanced infantry training. We were about 10 days into that, but with no change in venue and with the same drill sergeants breathing down our necks all day, it still felt a lot like basic.
The next five through the door, I stood at attention, marched one step forward, and returned to parade rest (a modified position of attention). Moore quizzed me on the maximum effective range of the weapon I was learning about that day, and the answer—which I can’t remember now—rolled crisply from my tongue. Behind me, I heard Deblois (they pronounced his name deb-lee-ous) deliver the wrong answer. The guy behind him advanced.
I don’t remember our lunch options that day. They usually had a second choice of entrees in case of allergy, and plates sat atop the counter already made up. We could get our own salads and deserts, both already prepared. The dessert counter caught my eye.
Nothing says “I love you” like a creamy, chocolaty cup of pudding. A perfectly formed dollop of whipped cream on top sold me. “I love you,” I told myself by taking a cup of pudding. They rarely offered pudding. Usually it was cookies or pie, occasionally cake—and then, usually something with re-hydrated fruit and unnaturally colored frosting. Drill sergeants always made note of who ate dessert, especially those who had weight problems when they arrived. I had not, and no drill sergeant ever looked twice at me for taking dessert.
I ate it first and then plowed into my meat substance. As I was finishing the pseudo-potato, I heard the most magical words I’d heard in 10 weeks, “Everyone’s welcome to seconds on dessert if they want,” the lady at the counter said. I nailed off my veggies like a ravenous rat working its way through a meat farm, ate my cornbread and ran for the dessert counter.
Apparently, I don’t hear so well.
As I turned, prepared to love myself again, Bartlett called my number. “313, just what the fuck are you doing?” I don’t remember exactly what he said, but that was the gist. I looked up in confusion. Was I about to have it taken away?
“So you think my orders don’t apply to you, Davidson?” He asked as though I had done something wrong. I could see his flippant albino eyebrow bouncing around above his freckled red face. His lip twitched like saliva was about to cascade past his chin and fill a coffee cup. I never wanted to slap anyone so bad in my life.
I stood at parade rest with the pudding directly out in my right hand.
“You hard of hearing or something?” He had walked away from his plate and was now so close he spat on me as he spoke. “Apparently,” was not the answer he wanted to hear. “Did you not just hear me tell third platoon to stay the fuck away from the dessert counter?”
“No, drill sergeant,” I said. “I didn’t hear you.” I started to turn toward the dessert counter as I said “I’ll put it back.” But he was having none of that.
“That’s unsanitary,” he said. “Do you think anyone will be able to eat that after you’ve had your dick-slappers all over it?” He motioned to my table and tray. “Sit down and enjoy it, 313, because you’ll be paying for it.”
I didn’t actually want it anymore, but I sat to eat it. As I started, Bartlett came over and told me to meet him upstairs in our billet when I was done. And, he said, “Pray to God you get there before I do.”
When he was gone, I finished it, knowing that I was going to suffer. While I was picking up my tray, Moore asked to look at my pudding cup. “I know you finished that like you were told,” he said. Sweat shined on his bald, black head as he smirked. “You better hurry. Drill Sergeant Bartlett doesn’t like to wait.”
Drill Sergeant Bartlett was an asshole. Not that it was part of his job, I believe it was part of his personality. In his introductory speech to our platoon, he informed us that his transfer to our company would include a few days in the vintage WWII billets because his wife had started a disagreement, and after too much “lip,” he said, “I knocked the bitch out.” Quite fitting, he thought, to coincide with reassignment to a unit whose motto was “death before surrender.”
I beat him by enough time to catch my breath. I heard him coming up the stairs. I did every exercise he could think of until every muscle couldn’t do it any more. Then, he started again. After about 20 minutes, he sent me to get ready for duty formation.
At formation, Bartlett had the entire platoon doing pushups for not looking out for me. “You might think this is Davidson’s fault,” he said, “but he wouldn’t have gotten up for pudding if you lazy cocksuckers had been looking out for him.” He emphasized “cocksuckers” because they weren’t supposed to say things like that. It was Bartlett’s way of saying he wasn’t afraid to break the rules. “This is not Davidson’s failure,” he said. I wished above all else that he would stop saying my name. “This is third platoon’s failure and it has resulted in Davidson failing individually.”
Apparently, only Bartlett saw it that way. I heard shit from everyone in the platoon at some point that week. Toward the end of it, I started blaming them outright for being whining pussies and told them I had every intention of doing it again.
They watched me like hawks at every meal.
And each time Bartlett had dining duty, he’d ask how I was enjoying dessert. When he monitored the line, he’d ask if I was planning to have seconds. On graduation day, they had a reception for family and friends after touring the barracks and grounds. Bartlett told my dad how I had stepped up in the face of an angry platoon and won, simply by applying a little psychological warfare.
It seems the only thing that stood out more than my eating a second helping of dessert was how I dealt with the backlash from it.
“Gimme five,” a voice beyond the screen door shouted, indicating that the next five diners should enter. Each meal brought a different method of determining who went next. As we stood in two rows, some drill sergeants would take five from one row and then five from the other. Others would send in the closest five to the door. Still others would be more inventive, choosing arbitrarily or through some unknown criteria who or what number were next to enter.
Eating in the Army rarely qualified as a pleasure, especially in basic training, except that trainees were always hungry at meal time. The simple act of filling our stomachs was a pleasure, regardless the taste of the food.
I was happy to be eating last because the drill sergeants monitoring chow couldn’t eat until all recruits were fed. We had about as long as they took. Troops at the start of the line had no time to eat. Back of the line also meant larger portions, and occasionally, seconds. Which, it turns out, isn’t always a good idea.
Drill Sergeant Moore stood before the door deciding who would go next. Inside, Drill Sergeant Bartlett made sure no one lingered too long over their lunch. Leeway came only to those who prayed first, and even that had a limit. We could hear him clearing the chairs.
“Shovel it down and move the fuck out,” Bartlett yelled. “What you waiting for boy?” His drawl was transplanted Kansas, not originally from there but bred into an existing accent more southern.
Moore’s method for moving the line today came straight from the Smartbook, “The Soldier’s Handbook,” the compendium of all that need be mastered during basic training. He stopped the line five feet from the door, asking questions of the next five Joes. Anyone who answered correctly moved up to the door. If a question were answered incorrectly, the troop waited while Moore asked the one behind him.
According to Army standard operating procedure, basic training was officially over. In a system called OSUT, basic trainees finished basic training in nine weeks, then moved on to five weeks of advanced infantry training. We were about 10 days into that, but with no change in venue and with the same drill sergeants breathing down our necks all day, it still felt a lot like basic.
The next five through the door, I stood at attention, marched one step forward, and returned to parade rest (a modified position of attention). Moore quizzed me on the maximum effective range of the weapon I was learning about that day, and the answer—which I can’t remember now—rolled crisply from my tongue. Behind me, I heard Deblois (they pronounced his name deb-lee-ous) deliver the wrong answer. The guy behind him advanced.
I don’t remember our lunch options that day. They usually had a second choice of entrees in case of allergy, and plates sat atop the counter already made up. We could get our own salads and deserts, both already prepared. The dessert counter caught my eye.
Nothing says “I love you” like a creamy, chocolaty cup of pudding. A perfectly formed dollop of whipped cream on top sold me. “I love you,” I told myself by taking a cup of pudding. They rarely offered pudding. Usually it was cookies or pie, occasionally cake—and then, usually something with re-hydrated fruit and unnaturally colored frosting. Drill sergeants always made note of who ate dessert, especially those who had weight problems when they arrived. I had not, and no drill sergeant ever looked twice at me for taking dessert.
I ate it first and then plowed into my meat substance. As I was finishing the pseudo-potato, I heard the most magical words I’d heard in 10 weeks, “Everyone’s welcome to seconds on dessert if they want,” the lady at the counter said. I nailed off my veggies like a ravenous rat working its way through a meat farm, ate my cornbread and ran for the dessert counter.
Apparently, I don’t hear so well.
As I turned, prepared to love myself again, Bartlett called my number. “313, just what the fuck are you doing?” I don’t remember exactly what he said, but that was the gist. I looked up in confusion. Was I about to have it taken away?
“So you think my orders don’t apply to you, Davidson?” He asked as though I had done something wrong. I could see his flippant albino eyebrow bouncing around above his freckled red face. His lip twitched like saliva was about to cascade past his chin and fill a coffee cup. I never wanted to slap anyone so bad in my life.
I stood at parade rest with the pudding directly out in my right hand.
“You hard of hearing or something?” He had walked away from his plate and was now so close he spat on me as he spoke. “Apparently,” was not the answer he wanted to hear. “Did you not just hear me tell third platoon to stay the fuck away from the dessert counter?”
“No, drill sergeant,” I said. “I didn’t hear you.” I started to turn toward the dessert counter as I said “I’ll put it back.” But he was having none of that.
“That’s unsanitary,” he said. “Do you think anyone will be able to eat that after you’ve had your dick-slappers all over it?” He motioned to my table and tray. “Sit down and enjoy it, 313, because you’ll be paying for it.”
I didn’t actually want it anymore, but I sat to eat it. As I started, Bartlett came over and told me to meet him upstairs in our billet when I was done. And, he said, “Pray to God you get there before I do.”
When he was gone, I finished it, knowing that I was going to suffer. While I was picking up my tray, Moore asked to look at my pudding cup. “I know you finished that like you were told,” he said. Sweat shined on his bald, black head as he smirked. “You better hurry. Drill Sergeant Bartlett doesn’t like to wait.”
Drill Sergeant Bartlett was an asshole. Not that it was part of his job, I believe it was part of his personality. In his introductory speech to our platoon, he informed us that his transfer to our company would include a few days in the vintage WWII billets because his wife had started a disagreement, and after too much “lip,” he said, “I knocked the bitch out.” Quite fitting, he thought, to coincide with reassignment to a unit whose motto was “death before surrender.”
I beat him by enough time to catch my breath. I heard him coming up the stairs. I did every exercise he could think of until every muscle couldn’t do it any more. Then, he started again. After about 20 minutes, he sent me to get ready for duty formation.
At formation, Bartlett had the entire platoon doing pushups for not looking out for me. “You might think this is Davidson’s fault,” he said, “but he wouldn’t have gotten up for pudding if you lazy cocksuckers had been looking out for him.” He emphasized “cocksuckers” because they weren’t supposed to say things like that. It was Bartlett’s way of saying he wasn’t afraid to break the rules. “This is not Davidson’s failure,” he said. I wished above all else that he would stop saying my name. “This is third platoon’s failure and it has resulted in Davidson failing individually.”
Apparently, only Bartlett saw it that way. I heard shit from everyone in the platoon at some point that week. Toward the end of it, I started blaming them outright for being whining pussies and told them I had every intention of doing it again.
They watched me like hawks at every meal.
And each time Bartlett had dining duty, he’d ask how I was enjoying dessert. When he monitored the line, he’d ask if I was planning to have seconds. On graduation day, they had a reception for family and friends after touring the barracks and grounds. Bartlett told my dad how I had stepped up in the face of an angry platoon and won, simply by applying a little psychological warfare.
It seems the only thing that stood out more than my eating a second helping of dessert was how I dealt with the backlash from it.
Little bunny Feux Feux
Life within the white and brown, cinder-block corridors of Fort Bragg could feel meaningless at times. Like clichés, we were numbers with guns waiting to be called or to expire quietly. To help keep us sane, we would bring, buy or otherwise acquire things to remind us of home. We would place them in our shared 15’ x 15’ rooms to feel a little more like people. These trinkets could be anything, a Bud Man poster, Earl the (stuffed) dead cat, a college sweater hung on the wall. Everybody had something to bring them back while they counted down days in the barracks.
There just needed be something to remind us all that life wouldn’t always be jump boots and camouflage, even if it was something as simple as a stuffed bunny gifted by a baby sister—Dave Reid’s secretly prized possession, a little piece of Maine-made memories that he loved enough to fight for. I know this because I thought he was going to kill me over it.
But the furry little bastard had it coming (Reid, not the bunny).
Coming home from a training mission, April 1990, and looking for nothing more than a cold beer, I had reached into the fridge and found that, not only did Reid drink my last beer, he left in its place a bowl of water, frozen, with my ninja turtles in it. I had two of them. I’d read the comic books before enlisting; when the movie came out a month prior, I had started collecting the action figures.
I felt violated, but I let it go, mostly because he’d done it just before going home for his grandfather’s funeral. Reid was a family-values kind of guy. He’d take a death in the family pretty hard. So, I thawed and dried them. They returned to action poses in places of prominence around the room, and the deed was forgotten…until he got them again. Boredom leads to inventive means of entertainment, another thing life in the billets of Bragg begets: mischief.
This second time, not two weeks later, he wrapped them into a ball of hundred-mile-an-hour tape—dark green duct tape—and left them atop the TV. Getting them out of the ball was like surgery. As I operated, I plotted revenge. These abuses were pretty common among Joes. They didn’t happen because of like or dislike; they happened through a combination of opportunity, vulnerability, and lack of concern for repercussions. Sometimes they ended in conflict, other times, with a good laugh.
I was Reid’s easy target since I was out training on both occasions (we called that a “target of opportunity”), and he and Traveling Matt Farrell, my roommate, were good friends. And while I wasn’t vulnerable, a pair of four-inch plastic turtles weren’t any challenge for Ranger Reid, a martial-arts expert with almost four years of infantry experience. Repercussions didn’t concern him either, as he outranked me.
The second violation told me that I couldn’t let it slide again. If I did, I’d find something every time I came back to my room, so long as Farrell was there. I started planning blindly, immediately, knowing that opportunity would provide me with a victim, and I knew I’d best be ready when time came.
To defeat an enemy, one must know him. Reid didn’t have a girlfriend, didn’t drink much; he really only left the barracks for physical fitness types of things and for food—which he always took at the nearest dining facility. He didn’t qualify as a barracks rat because he socialized within the company, and he would inevitably be found at any room party.
The first keys to opportunity would be finding a weakness, and then finding the victim. Once these found me, I’d be able to set my slowly developing plan into motion.
Now as then, the Army has a stringent policy on physical security, something I always called the “my-shit principal.” To me, the idea was that everybody wanted my shit, my stuff. If I left it out or unsecured, they would take it. Looking through the open door of Reid’s room one afternoon, I discovered his first, most exploitable weakness: he didn’t lock up the way he was supposed to; he’d gone to the first-floor vending machine and left his room wide open.
I scanned the room quickly. Knowing which bed was his (he didn’t have a roommate at the time), I found my target. In the corner of the bed, where walls intersected, sat a bunny. A soft, brown and so very cute stuffed rabbit. Hearing no footsteps on the nearby stairwell, I looked also at shelves next to the door.
The plan formed. And it wasn’t enough to surprise him. I was going to announce my intentions.
“Hey, Farrell,” I called across the hall to my roommate. He grunted a response. “Hey,” I said, “Did you know Reid sleeps with a stuffed bunny?”
“What?” Reid kicking his way through the fire door drowned out the shuffling of Farrell coming to look. I looked to Reid and smiled.
“What the fuck are you doing, Davidson?”
“Sgt. Reid,” I said, still smiling as Farrell emerged from our room. “Do you really sleep with a stuffed bunny?”
He read my face, my smile for a second and said he did. It was a gift from his youngest sister and “Don’t you fuck with it, Davidson.” I’m not sure if I was smiling a full shit-eating grin, but I was definitely on the verge.
“Trust me, Sergeant,” I said. “I would never hurt dear, sweet Flopsy.” I smiled, both Reid and Farrell laughed, and I walked away secure in the knowledge that Karma was on my side. All I needed now was to remember a Jesus quotation or two….
“Good things come to those who wait.”
Or was it the Rolling Stones?
“Time, time, time is on my side. Yes it is.”
The following Sunday, I got my chance. I had prepared carefully, knowing still that the window of opportunity would be short. I heard the charge of quarters call to him. “Reid, your sister is on the phone.” I was certain this would be the sister in college out west, as he had been home the previous week and seen his younger sister. That meant a long phone call, and my plan being detail oriented, I would need time.
His door swung open and shut. I muted the televised football game—to complaints from Farrell. When I heard the stairway fire doors swing, I jumped up; throwing him the remote, I looked down the hall. No Reid in sight, his door, almost directly across the hall, was ajar. I burst quickly in, secured Flopsy and a spring loaded training knife.
Back across the hall, I pulled out my 100-mph tape and several plastic shopping bags. Farrell gawked as I stuffed the collection into my wall locker. His face asked a hundred questions that I answered by saying “Wait a minute.”
Calls on the barracks phone were limited to five minutes, most of which had passed while I ransacked his room. If this were a typical family call—and it turns out that it was—he would come back, get the calling card from his room and return her call from the payphone, end of the hall. As long as he didn’t notice Flopsy’s absence, he’d call back right away. He was in and out in seconds, and I set to work.
Flopsy was the soft, gentle kind of bunny given on one of three occasions: to a child (hypoallergenic and soft as brushed fleece directly from the dryer), from a child (same reasons, Reid’s 8-year-old sister loved it and figured he would), or to a woman one is trying to bed. That is, Flopsy was the softest, sweetest, cutest bunny on Fort Bragg.
Poor little bastard.
To start, I secured a shopping bag around each ear with the duct tape. It was big enough to cover Flopsy’s face as well (Flopsy was about 18 inches, foot to ear). Care to keep tape off its fur was paramount because Reid really would kill me if I damaged his baby sister’s bunny. So I kept about half an inch of plastic showing beneath the tape.
Next, I put the torso into a second bag with the arms through the carrying straps. Taping each leg at the crotch, I made sure they maintained their appearance. I also taped it at Flopsy’s beltline to keep it in place. A third bag with spaces for ear holes covered the face a second time and allowed ample room to isolate the arms, each taped at the armpit. I secured this one below the beltline, again to ensure that no tape would touch his fur.
I held it out for Farrell to inspect, a plastic bag shaped perfectly like a bunny. “Priceless,” he laughed. To finish Flopsy, I covered every inch—limbs, ears, head, and torso—with duct tape. He was still a perfect bunny shape, only now he was a dark green, duct taped bunny, not a plush, sweet, cute one.
I had other things in mind, but the detail and care taken thus far had consumed much time. I had to check that Reid was still occupied. Leaned into the corner, elbow atop the phone, his posture suggested plenty of conversation was left to be had.
The training knife from his room, a spring-loaded, plastic blade attached to a steel knife handle, allowed self-defense students like Reid to learn defense against, and disarming of, knife-wielding maniacs, without worry of getting stabbed or slashed.
I couldn’t think of a better knife-wielding maniac than Flopsy. I taped it to one of his hands.
Finally, from the corner of my room, I grabbed a decoration from home that had been a point of contention between my platoon sergeant and me since he had taken charge: a hangman’s noose (a point of contention because, visible through the neck loop, a hand-written sign read “emergency exit”). I tightened the noose around Flopsy’s neck, pocketed my Government Issue signal mirror, and walked to the door as though headed for the bathroom.
Actually, I checked Reid. He wasn’t looking. Across the hall in a flash, I took great care to not slam the door. Standing on his desk chair, I knotted the trailing end of the noose several times to keep it anchored over a ceiling tile. Placing Duct Tape Flopsy With Knife alternately on shelves by the door, I tested which gave the rope proper tautness before placing him.
Putting the chair back, I slid the door open just enough to get out. Nervous, coated in sweat, I used my signal mirror to look back down the hall. As soon as Reid looked away, I was back in my room.
“You’re gonna love this,” I told Farrell. But I wasn’t sticking around for it. Since Reid and I weren’t really friends, I couldn’t be too sure that he wasn’t going to flip out before realizing Flopsy was unharmed. I asked Farrell to let me know how it went.
The bar was a rewarding place that night as I relayed to friends the story of Reid and his stuffed bunny. When I returned, I found a note. “Reid is going to kill you,” it said.
At 6 am, I tried to get to formation without seeing Reid, but I didn’t get out of the room. He burst in and started ripping me going into his room. But he couldn’t hold it. He put me at parade rest, shouted a few words and then started laughing.
After his call, he’d unsuspectingly swung the door open to his room. It hit the rope, which pulled Duct Tape Flopsy With Knife from the shelf, sending him swinging toward Reid with knife in hand.
“All I could think was ‘I’ve been had,’” he said. “It’s a hell of a thing to come home to.”
There just needed be something to remind us all that life wouldn’t always be jump boots and camouflage, even if it was something as simple as a stuffed bunny gifted by a baby sister—Dave Reid’s secretly prized possession, a little piece of Maine-made memories that he loved enough to fight for. I know this because I thought he was going to kill me over it.
But the furry little bastard had it coming (Reid, not the bunny).
Coming home from a training mission, April 1990, and looking for nothing more than a cold beer, I had reached into the fridge and found that, not only did Reid drink my last beer, he left in its place a bowl of water, frozen, with my ninja turtles in it. I had two of them. I’d read the comic books before enlisting; when the movie came out a month prior, I had started collecting the action figures.
I felt violated, but I let it go, mostly because he’d done it just before going home for his grandfather’s funeral. Reid was a family-values kind of guy. He’d take a death in the family pretty hard. So, I thawed and dried them. They returned to action poses in places of prominence around the room, and the deed was forgotten…until he got them again. Boredom leads to inventive means of entertainment, another thing life in the billets of Bragg begets: mischief.
This second time, not two weeks later, he wrapped them into a ball of hundred-mile-an-hour tape—dark green duct tape—and left them atop the TV. Getting them out of the ball was like surgery. As I operated, I plotted revenge. These abuses were pretty common among Joes. They didn’t happen because of like or dislike; they happened through a combination of opportunity, vulnerability, and lack of concern for repercussions. Sometimes they ended in conflict, other times, with a good laugh.
I was Reid’s easy target since I was out training on both occasions (we called that a “target of opportunity”), and he and Traveling Matt Farrell, my roommate, were good friends. And while I wasn’t vulnerable, a pair of four-inch plastic turtles weren’t any challenge for Ranger Reid, a martial-arts expert with almost four years of infantry experience. Repercussions didn’t concern him either, as he outranked me.
The second violation told me that I couldn’t let it slide again. If I did, I’d find something every time I came back to my room, so long as Farrell was there. I started planning blindly, immediately, knowing that opportunity would provide me with a victim, and I knew I’d best be ready when time came.
To defeat an enemy, one must know him. Reid didn’t have a girlfriend, didn’t drink much; he really only left the barracks for physical fitness types of things and for food—which he always took at the nearest dining facility. He didn’t qualify as a barracks rat because he socialized within the company, and he would inevitably be found at any room party.
The first keys to opportunity would be finding a weakness, and then finding the victim. Once these found me, I’d be able to set my slowly developing plan into motion.
Now as then, the Army has a stringent policy on physical security, something I always called the “my-shit principal.” To me, the idea was that everybody wanted my shit, my stuff. If I left it out or unsecured, they would take it. Looking through the open door of Reid’s room one afternoon, I discovered his first, most exploitable weakness: he didn’t lock up the way he was supposed to; he’d gone to the first-floor vending machine and left his room wide open.
I scanned the room quickly. Knowing which bed was his (he didn’t have a roommate at the time), I found my target. In the corner of the bed, where walls intersected, sat a bunny. A soft, brown and so very cute stuffed rabbit. Hearing no footsteps on the nearby stairwell, I looked also at shelves next to the door.
The plan formed. And it wasn’t enough to surprise him. I was going to announce my intentions.
“Hey, Farrell,” I called across the hall to my roommate. He grunted a response. “Hey,” I said, “Did you know Reid sleeps with a stuffed bunny?”
“What?” Reid kicking his way through the fire door drowned out the shuffling of Farrell coming to look. I looked to Reid and smiled.
“What the fuck are you doing, Davidson?”
“Sgt. Reid,” I said, still smiling as Farrell emerged from our room. “Do you really sleep with a stuffed bunny?”
He read my face, my smile for a second and said he did. It was a gift from his youngest sister and “Don’t you fuck with it, Davidson.” I’m not sure if I was smiling a full shit-eating grin, but I was definitely on the verge.
“Trust me, Sergeant,” I said. “I would never hurt dear, sweet Flopsy.” I smiled, both Reid and Farrell laughed, and I walked away secure in the knowledge that Karma was on my side. All I needed now was to remember a Jesus quotation or two….
“Good things come to those who wait.”
Or was it the Rolling Stones?
“Time, time, time is on my side. Yes it is.”
The following Sunday, I got my chance. I had prepared carefully, knowing still that the window of opportunity would be short. I heard the charge of quarters call to him. “Reid, your sister is on the phone.” I was certain this would be the sister in college out west, as he had been home the previous week and seen his younger sister. That meant a long phone call, and my plan being detail oriented, I would need time.
His door swung open and shut. I muted the televised football game—to complaints from Farrell. When I heard the stairway fire doors swing, I jumped up; throwing him the remote, I looked down the hall. No Reid in sight, his door, almost directly across the hall, was ajar. I burst quickly in, secured Flopsy and a spring loaded training knife.
Back across the hall, I pulled out my 100-mph tape and several plastic shopping bags. Farrell gawked as I stuffed the collection into my wall locker. His face asked a hundred questions that I answered by saying “Wait a minute.”
Calls on the barracks phone were limited to five minutes, most of which had passed while I ransacked his room. If this were a typical family call—and it turns out that it was—he would come back, get the calling card from his room and return her call from the payphone, end of the hall. As long as he didn’t notice Flopsy’s absence, he’d call back right away. He was in and out in seconds, and I set to work.
Flopsy was the soft, gentle kind of bunny given on one of three occasions: to a child (hypoallergenic and soft as brushed fleece directly from the dryer), from a child (same reasons, Reid’s 8-year-old sister loved it and figured he would), or to a woman one is trying to bed. That is, Flopsy was the softest, sweetest, cutest bunny on Fort Bragg.
Poor little bastard.
To start, I secured a shopping bag around each ear with the duct tape. It was big enough to cover Flopsy’s face as well (Flopsy was about 18 inches, foot to ear). Care to keep tape off its fur was paramount because Reid really would kill me if I damaged his baby sister’s bunny. So I kept about half an inch of plastic showing beneath the tape.
Next, I put the torso into a second bag with the arms through the carrying straps. Taping each leg at the crotch, I made sure they maintained their appearance. I also taped it at Flopsy’s beltline to keep it in place. A third bag with spaces for ear holes covered the face a second time and allowed ample room to isolate the arms, each taped at the armpit. I secured this one below the beltline, again to ensure that no tape would touch his fur.
I held it out for Farrell to inspect, a plastic bag shaped perfectly like a bunny. “Priceless,” he laughed. To finish Flopsy, I covered every inch—limbs, ears, head, and torso—with duct tape. He was still a perfect bunny shape, only now he was a dark green, duct taped bunny, not a plush, sweet, cute one.
I had other things in mind, but the detail and care taken thus far had consumed much time. I had to check that Reid was still occupied. Leaned into the corner, elbow atop the phone, his posture suggested plenty of conversation was left to be had.
The training knife from his room, a spring-loaded, plastic blade attached to a steel knife handle, allowed self-defense students like Reid to learn defense against, and disarming of, knife-wielding maniacs, without worry of getting stabbed or slashed.
I couldn’t think of a better knife-wielding maniac than Flopsy. I taped it to one of his hands.
Finally, from the corner of my room, I grabbed a decoration from home that had been a point of contention between my platoon sergeant and me since he had taken charge: a hangman’s noose (a point of contention because, visible through the neck loop, a hand-written sign read “emergency exit”). I tightened the noose around Flopsy’s neck, pocketed my Government Issue signal mirror, and walked to the door as though headed for the bathroom.
Actually, I checked Reid. He wasn’t looking. Across the hall in a flash, I took great care to not slam the door. Standing on his desk chair, I knotted the trailing end of the noose several times to keep it anchored over a ceiling tile. Placing Duct Tape Flopsy With Knife alternately on shelves by the door, I tested which gave the rope proper tautness before placing him.
Putting the chair back, I slid the door open just enough to get out. Nervous, coated in sweat, I used my signal mirror to look back down the hall. As soon as Reid looked away, I was back in my room.
“You’re gonna love this,” I told Farrell. But I wasn’t sticking around for it. Since Reid and I weren’t really friends, I couldn’t be too sure that he wasn’t going to flip out before realizing Flopsy was unharmed. I asked Farrell to let me know how it went.
The bar was a rewarding place that night as I relayed to friends the story of Reid and his stuffed bunny. When I returned, I found a note. “Reid is going to kill you,” it said.
At 6 am, I tried to get to formation without seeing Reid, but I didn’t get out of the room. He burst in and started ripping me going into his room. But he couldn’t hold it. He put me at parade rest, shouted a few words and then started laughing.
After his call, he’d unsuspectingly swung the door open to his room. It hit the rope, which pulled Duct Tape Flopsy With Knife from the shelf, sending him swinging toward Reid with knife in hand.
“All I could think was ‘I’ve been had,’” he said. “It’s a hell of a thing to come home to.”
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Uninvited guests: part 1
Everybody had a pattern to deal with stress.
Ralph Roman clipped his nails, then the cuticles, and finally, he trimmed away the calloused flesh of his fingertips with the nail clipper tied to his combat harness. Mike Stone slept, a puddle of drool gathering in the corner of his mouth and waiting for gravity to give it means of escape. Sgt. Hilgenhurst composed a letter to his wife in the subdued, tactical red glow of the cargo hold. Normally, I would have dissected lyrics I hadn't heard in awhile, picked apart the phrasing and painstakingly assured that I had every word, line and verse correct.
Had I not been painfully aware that I was flying nap-of-the-earth, 500 feet above Panamanian jungles where, soon, I would meet people who wanted to kill me, I might have thought of a song to work with. I couldn’t. I pushed bad thoughts away and tried to focus on anything, even the 150 pounds of equipment hanging from my shoulders and the 30 or so hanging as the parachute from my back.
When the jump doors opened, 80-degree air filled the cabin—quite a shock after the 30s in North Carolina and the chill of 30,000 feet. As the heat intensified, faces turned pale and canteens came out. Half the chalk looked like it would suffer heat exhaustion before leaving the bird.
The engines' drone stuttered and dropped to a fluctuating hum. When the light turned green, I had tunnel vision on the door.
Feeling the tug of jet engines and the roar of the wind, I counted four seconds, checked that I had a canopy—the plane had almost disappeared from view in the night sky. Heat and humidity brought stillness to the night. Other than people being killed just below, it felt almost tranquil.
Beneath me, green tracer rounds flew outward. Red ones returned, some streaming toward the planes overhead. Explosions rocked the airport terminal; the heaviest fighting.
As treetops passed, I pulled the straps to drop my rucksack; two of them would send it sprawling to the end of a 15 foot line, where it would hang until I landed. Unfortunately, the line didn't extend before it hit the ground. I wasn't high enough. I came barreling in on top of it, bounced, and landed with the gun I carried firmly embedded in my ribs.
I like trees.
Hence, I spent the ensuing 30 or 40 seconds staring at a majestic acacia. It took most of the time to focus and to ascertain that it was an acacia, but that's what I looked at while I tried to figure out if any bones or equipment were broken beyond repair.
Merry Christmas, Pfc. Davidson, welcome to Panama.
****
Sunday, Dec. 17, 1989 had been a good day. That is, it had been a good day until someone woke me from drunken slumber to tell me I had 24-hour duty. I had slept about four hours. I reported as runner to the Charge of Quarters, CQ. My job entailed anything the sergeant on duty required. I did receive the bonus of Monday off, but not until 9 am.
Nothing about that day stands out in memory with the exception of a 24-hour bug known as hung-over-bag-of-ass syndrome. "Rough shape” didn't do my physical ills justice. I had planned on sleeping most of the day.
Monday's relief arrived right on time—about 23 hours later than I wanted—and I went to bed. For waking me around noon, Traveling Matt Farrel received a laundry list of expletives as he told me we had been put on alert. Sgt. Hilgenhurst wanted me in the command post, immediately. Farrel had a habit of playing jokes when people were most vulnerable. I went back to sleep.
I should have listened. A little later, Hilgenhurst burst through the door and unceremoniously dragged me from bed. He let me shower and shave. I got the short form on what had happened the previous three hours and what the next 18 held in store.
That afternoon, we headed to green ramp, the section of Pope Air Force Base reserved specifically for paratroopers. The grounds provided all the space and equipment for training and preparation. Long, wide benches had room to don parachutes and sit comfortably while awaiting inspection. Randomly arranged tables bolted in place stood ready for loading magazines, rearranging gear, packing, repairing, even eating. Vacant lots had storage space for equipment or—on a drizzling day in December—for paratroopers who were not flying out on schedule.
After drawing ammunition and ordinance, we learned that parachutes wouldn't arrive until morning–not enough covered cargo trucks. Paratroopers operate efficiently when drenched. Parachutes, not so much. We took the rest of the day getting ready, going over plans, doing whatever needed to prepare ourselves. At night, some played cards; some wrote letters. I made my gear ready for quick morning departure, and sacked out in my cot before the tent lights went out.
Tuesday defined Army life and the 1000 clichés it’s spawned. Hurry up and wait; multi-denominational services every hour, Catholic on the 15s, Episcopalian on the 30s, etc; repetition breeds remembrance; if it ain’t raining, we ain’t training. We had a hot breakfast and lunch and were back to green ramp proper for 3 pm. The brain trust scheduled takeoff for 6 with a six-hour flight to a coordinated airborne assault at about half passed midnight. During a fresh sleeting, we feasted on MREs while technicians de-iced wings on a fleet of C141 Starlifters, their sleek, black backs shimmering in sub-freezing evening sky.
Around 6, we packed in like school girls on the free bus to a New Kids on the Block concert. I’m sure a few would rather have gone to a show rife with teenage girls than hang out in a freezing plane waiting to wage war.
I had to piss as usual, had since before we loaded. I tried to sleep. It lasted about 20 minutes before one of the crew shouted down the line. I woke, spent the rest of the flight meditating in silent dread the concept of actually going to war. Sure it’s what I’d signed up for, but I never expected to have to do it.
Our mission was a classic airborne operation: an airfield takedown. Intelligence pinpointed Noriega's Dignity Battalion's strongholds, though there were few. We, in concert with the 1st Battalion/75th Rangers, intended to reduce resistance at Tucomen Torrios Airfield, establish a base of operations and then take a sunrise helicopter ride to the south coast of Panama City, a village called Panamá Viejo.
But at our target time, we were still over the Gulf of Mexico. At altitude, ice formed on our wings, so we flew lower and slower than planned. We were going to be late. Already on station in Panama instead of flying in from Georgia, the Rangers would be on time and, potentially, notice our absence. By 1:15, everyone was awake, internal clocks suggesting that something was wrong.
At 1:30, the jumpmaster gave the 20-minute warning. In those last minutes between the door opening and steps out of the plane, it sank in that this wasn't another training mission. Locals waiting below wanted to kill me.
I searched my mind for something to concentrate on. Nothing came. The jumpmaster held up thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. Thirty seconds. Counting down mentally, I held my cool until the jumpmaster motioned to the door jumper, "Stand by."
The tension was palpable; it wasn't a feeling in the plane. It carried the plane. It was a creature in space breathing down every neck. It was every hair, every hackle, every fluttering eyelid and labored breath. I leaned into my assistant gunner's ear and with all the strength I had—which amounted to quite little at the moment—I screamed "fuck yeah."
I wasn't motivated. I was scared shitless, but I had to make it seem as though I was motivated. Stewart responded with a sort of open-mouthed growl, "aargh," and the whole plane lit up. It culminated in cries of "get some," as the light turned green.
I charged the door fast on Stewart’s flank, handed off my static line and passed through roar and shake, into calm. I could see Rangers were in the thick of the fight.
Something else had changed. The original plan had thousands of paratroopers dropping unannounced in the middle of a runway before any fighting began. Call it a misdrop; call it quick thinking on the part of the pilot. He had veered right of his intended target. Perhaps he was afraid of having his ship and cargo shot up during the approach; maybe, he knew we would be landing in the middle of a firefight. Either way, we landed about a kilometer away from where we needed to be. And being the first plane, all other pilots had followed him.
As I surveyed all this, I forgot to do my math problem: If Pvt. Joe Snuffy exits a C141 aircraft traveling 200 miles per hour at approximately 500 feet above ground level, descends four seconds at 75 feet per second, how long does he have before he hits the ground descending under canopy at approximately 20 feet a second. Answer, not long (8-12 seconds, depending on atmospheric conditions—humidity and heat help keep parachutes aloft).
I was close to the ground. Dropping my rucksack, I watched it impact from about 12 feet up. I didn't have time to prepare for landing. Feet and knees together, I angled my legs and tried to miss the ruck but couldn't. It happened too quickly.
Pulling my gun from what seemed to be permanent residence in my ribcage, I got ready to move, which, believe it or not, included what’s known as the sixth point of performance. I took a piss.
I left my chute where it came down, donned my rucksack and unsheathed my mortar tube. Trees obscured the landscape, but my compass knew the way. I spied the elephant grass that I had to pass through, alone, in the dark. The scraping and ticking of blades brushing together in the breeze sounded like footsteps and whispers.
And a song finally came crashing into my thoughts, a Grateful Dead tune that, as of 0150 hours, Dec. 20, 1989, I knew exactly three lines to: "Dire Wolf." I knew the chorus, and as I waded, pistol drawn, among eight-foot stalks of elephant grass, I sang them in my head.
"Don't murder me.
I beg of you, don't murder me.
Please, don't murder me."
Ralph Roman clipped his nails, then the cuticles, and finally, he trimmed away the calloused flesh of his fingertips with the nail clipper tied to his combat harness. Mike Stone slept, a puddle of drool gathering in the corner of his mouth and waiting for gravity to give it means of escape. Sgt. Hilgenhurst composed a letter to his wife in the subdued, tactical red glow of the cargo hold. Normally, I would have dissected lyrics I hadn't heard in awhile, picked apart the phrasing and painstakingly assured that I had every word, line and verse correct.
Had I not been painfully aware that I was flying nap-of-the-earth, 500 feet above Panamanian jungles where, soon, I would meet people who wanted to kill me, I might have thought of a song to work with. I couldn’t. I pushed bad thoughts away and tried to focus on anything, even the 150 pounds of equipment hanging from my shoulders and the 30 or so hanging as the parachute from my back.
When the jump doors opened, 80-degree air filled the cabin—quite a shock after the 30s in North Carolina and the chill of 30,000 feet. As the heat intensified, faces turned pale and canteens came out. Half the chalk looked like it would suffer heat exhaustion before leaving the bird.
The engines' drone stuttered and dropped to a fluctuating hum. When the light turned green, I had tunnel vision on the door.
Feeling the tug of jet engines and the roar of the wind, I counted four seconds, checked that I had a canopy—the plane had almost disappeared from view in the night sky. Heat and humidity brought stillness to the night. Other than people being killed just below, it felt almost tranquil.
Beneath me, green tracer rounds flew outward. Red ones returned, some streaming toward the planes overhead. Explosions rocked the airport terminal; the heaviest fighting.
As treetops passed, I pulled the straps to drop my rucksack; two of them would send it sprawling to the end of a 15 foot line, where it would hang until I landed. Unfortunately, the line didn't extend before it hit the ground. I wasn't high enough. I came barreling in on top of it, bounced, and landed with the gun I carried firmly embedded in my ribs.
I like trees.
Hence, I spent the ensuing 30 or 40 seconds staring at a majestic acacia. It took most of the time to focus and to ascertain that it was an acacia, but that's what I looked at while I tried to figure out if any bones or equipment were broken beyond repair.
Merry Christmas, Pfc. Davidson, welcome to Panama.
****
Sunday, Dec. 17, 1989 had been a good day. That is, it had been a good day until someone woke me from drunken slumber to tell me I had 24-hour duty. I had slept about four hours. I reported as runner to the Charge of Quarters, CQ. My job entailed anything the sergeant on duty required. I did receive the bonus of Monday off, but not until 9 am.
Nothing about that day stands out in memory with the exception of a 24-hour bug known as hung-over-bag-of-ass syndrome. "Rough shape” didn't do my physical ills justice. I had planned on sleeping most of the day.
Monday's relief arrived right on time—about 23 hours later than I wanted—and I went to bed. For waking me around noon, Traveling Matt Farrel received a laundry list of expletives as he told me we had been put on alert. Sgt. Hilgenhurst wanted me in the command post, immediately. Farrel had a habit of playing jokes when people were most vulnerable. I went back to sleep.
I should have listened. A little later, Hilgenhurst burst through the door and unceremoniously dragged me from bed. He let me shower and shave. I got the short form on what had happened the previous three hours and what the next 18 held in store.
That afternoon, we headed to green ramp, the section of Pope Air Force Base reserved specifically for paratroopers. The grounds provided all the space and equipment for training and preparation. Long, wide benches had room to don parachutes and sit comfortably while awaiting inspection. Randomly arranged tables bolted in place stood ready for loading magazines, rearranging gear, packing, repairing, even eating. Vacant lots had storage space for equipment or—on a drizzling day in December—for paratroopers who were not flying out on schedule.
After drawing ammunition and ordinance, we learned that parachutes wouldn't arrive until morning–not enough covered cargo trucks. Paratroopers operate efficiently when drenched. Parachutes, not so much. We took the rest of the day getting ready, going over plans, doing whatever needed to prepare ourselves. At night, some played cards; some wrote letters. I made my gear ready for quick morning departure, and sacked out in my cot before the tent lights went out.
Tuesday defined Army life and the 1000 clichés it’s spawned. Hurry up and wait; multi-denominational services every hour, Catholic on the 15s, Episcopalian on the 30s, etc; repetition breeds remembrance; if it ain’t raining, we ain’t training. We had a hot breakfast and lunch and were back to green ramp proper for 3 pm. The brain trust scheduled takeoff for 6 with a six-hour flight to a coordinated airborne assault at about half passed midnight. During a fresh sleeting, we feasted on MREs while technicians de-iced wings on a fleet of C141 Starlifters, their sleek, black backs shimmering in sub-freezing evening sky.
Around 6, we packed in like school girls on the free bus to a New Kids on the Block concert. I’m sure a few would rather have gone to a show rife with teenage girls than hang out in a freezing plane waiting to wage war.
I had to piss as usual, had since before we loaded. I tried to sleep. It lasted about 20 minutes before one of the crew shouted down the line. I woke, spent the rest of the flight meditating in silent dread the concept of actually going to war. Sure it’s what I’d signed up for, but I never expected to have to do it.
Our mission was a classic airborne operation: an airfield takedown. Intelligence pinpointed Noriega's Dignity Battalion's strongholds, though there were few. We, in concert with the 1st Battalion/75th Rangers, intended to reduce resistance at Tucomen Torrios Airfield, establish a base of operations and then take a sunrise helicopter ride to the south coast of Panama City, a village called Panamá Viejo.
But at our target time, we were still over the Gulf of Mexico. At altitude, ice formed on our wings, so we flew lower and slower than planned. We were going to be late. Already on station in Panama instead of flying in from Georgia, the Rangers would be on time and, potentially, notice our absence. By 1:15, everyone was awake, internal clocks suggesting that something was wrong.
At 1:30, the jumpmaster gave the 20-minute warning. In those last minutes between the door opening and steps out of the plane, it sank in that this wasn't another training mission. Locals waiting below wanted to kill me.
I searched my mind for something to concentrate on. Nothing came. The jumpmaster held up thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. Thirty seconds. Counting down mentally, I held my cool until the jumpmaster motioned to the door jumper, "Stand by."
The tension was palpable; it wasn't a feeling in the plane. It carried the plane. It was a creature in space breathing down every neck. It was every hair, every hackle, every fluttering eyelid and labored breath. I leaned into my assistant gunner's ear and with all the strength I had—which amounted to quite little at the moment—I screamed "fuck yeah."
I wasn't motivated. I was scared shitless, but I had to make it seem as though I was motivated. Stewart responded with a sort of open-mouthed growl, "aargh," and the whole plane lit up. It culminated in cries of "get some," as the light turned green.
I charged the door fast on Stewart’s flank, handed off my static line and passed through roar and shake, into calm. I could see Rangers were in the thick of the fight.
Something else had changed. The original plan had thousands of paratroopers dropping unannounced in the middle of a runway before any fighting began. Call it a misdrop; call it quick thinking on the part of the pilot. He had veered right of his intended target. Perhaps he was afraid of having his ship and cargo shot up during the approach; maybe, he knew we would be landing in the middle of a firefight. Either way, we landed about a kilometer away from where we needed to be. And being the first plane, all other pilots had followed him.
As I surveyed all this, I forgot to do my math problem: If Pvt. Joe Snuffy exits a C141 aircraft traveling 200 miles per hour at approximately 500 feet above ground level, descends four seconds at 75 feet per second, how long does he have before he hits the ground descending under canopy at approximately 20 feet a second. Answer, not long (8-12 seconds, depending on atmospheric conditions—humidity and heat help keep parachutes aloft).
I was close to the ground. Dropping my rucksack, I watched it impact from about 12 feet up. I didn't have time to prepare for landing. Feet and knees together, I angled my legs and tried to miss the ruck but couldn't. It happened too quickly.
Pulling my gun from what seemed to be permanent residence in my ribcage, I got ready to move, which, believe it or not, included what’s known as the sixth point of performance. I took a piss.
I left my chute where it came down, donned my rucksack and unsheathed my mortar tube. Trees obscured the landscape, but my compass knew the way. I spied the elephant grass that I had to pass through, alone, in the dark. The scraping and ticking of blades brushing together in the breeze sounded like footsteps and whispers.
And a song finally came crashing into my thoughts, a Grateful Dead tune that, as of 0150 hours, Dec. 20, 1989, I knew exactly three lines to: "Dire Wolf." I knew the chorus, and as I waded, pistol drawn, among eight-foot stalks of elephant grass, I sang them in my head.
"Don't murder me.
I beg of you, don't murder me.
Please, don't murder me."
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Bean Soup
Plump black bodies soaked in brine
ruptured or whole, purpled and bloated
steam steals the moisture from their hearts
ruptured or whole, purpled and bloated
steam steals the moisture from their hearts
The Gladiator
It wasn’t that it was cold at night. It was that the temperature dropped from mid nineties to high fifties. In the morning, we would freeze as we stirred, some going so far as to keep an empty water bottle with them so they didn’t have to get up to piss.
Something called "stand-to" required us to remain immobile in the chill from half an hour before sunrise until half past. Theory held it as the most likely time for an attack. But we were so far from the Iraqi and Kuwaiti borders that we’d know a day in advance if anyone was attacking on any given morning.
It was September, and we were just practicing. But we sat and shivered as told.
Once the sun rose and security was placed, we started preparing for the day. But the preparations started well before that. In pre-dawn darkness, we shook out our boots and helmets. Scorpions spent the night hunting, and as dawn approached, they’d hunt something else, solitude, more darkness.
So after boot shaking and breakfast, we’d flip rocks and sandbags to see what the night had provided. It’s easy to get bored half a world away from everything you know. Reality was all we could cling to, and reality was war, casualties, and possible death. We found hobbies, some our own, some shared.
Scorpions liked to gather beneath sandbags, and we liked scorpions. They came in three varieties. Black, white, and green. None of us had ever seen the white ones. Legend told of a white scorpion named Moby Dick.
We had modified a box to suit our needs. Cutting the corners off and layering sand across the bottom, someone had scrawled "Madison Square Garden" on the side. It was our Coliseum. We held battles daily with scorpions culled from under rock and sandbag.
The battles were all perfunctory, nothing to write home about. Usually, the bigger scorpion wandered around the arena while we used bayonets to push the smaller ones back toward him. Eventually, fear would lead the smaller ones to strike preemptively, or annoyance would make the big one kill them off.
The reigning champ was a green scorpion about three inches long, not counting pinchers and tail, about five inches total, almost an inch wide, luminous, translucent. He was the arachnid equivalent of the soft-shell crab. His veins weren’t quite visible, but they were easily imagined. He looked soft, squishy, like a bug should be.
We never pitted him against anything except smaller green ones because we had never seen anything bigger or different.
***
No one was sure who found it because it was already in the Coliseum when we gathered that day. Black, like see-in-the-dark black. About three inches, Black sent a chill down the spine, the kind of thing one is loathe to have crawling across his chest in the middle of the night. His lobster claws looked solid, like he could use them to smash stones. His textured tail, equally armored, looked incapable of extension—the way the green ones spent most of their time. Where the green tail rose only when agitated, the black tail looked like it rarely came down.
We gathered. Out of his box, Green landed on the battlefield. He knew instantly something was different. Where previously his stinger had taken time to show, it swung up immediately. He moved quickly around the rocks and across the hills and valleys of the sand floor. He covered the two feet in seconds, searching out his adversary.
And their eyes met.
Stingers wet with venom showed immediately as they felt each other out. The dance took them each a step left in concert, two steps right, and back. They circled, neither an aggressor.
Green advanced and withdrew. Then, Black advanced. They mimicked each other two minutes or more in attempts to get the advantage.
Green had size, weight, and reach in his advantage. Black mirrored him, his perpetually curled tail twitching. His presence alone had put green on edge.
It happened instantly. Green took the offensive. His tail like the trail of a whip swung forward. He aimed for the only soft spot Black offered, the spot that would have been a mammal’s neck.
Before it could find purchase in flesh, Green’s stinger slammed harmlessly into Black’s right claw, captured. At the same time, Black snatched Green’s right claw in his left, pulling him close.
Black’s stinger pierced above and just right of Green’s left eye, where it unloaded lethal doses. Black withdrew then, prancing around the arena, the victor, as Green’s body convulsed with neurotoxins flowing through his brain.
We stood, impressed with images of the impenetrable beast exercising its wrath on all who opposed.
The Coliseum went unused a few days.
The crash site
Eastern central New Mexico is about as flat and geographically unspectacular as anyone would expect from an area called the High Plains. Geometrically sound towns are formulaic from start to finish. Avenues and streets run north to south; drives and boulevards run east to west. There are no cities; it's just miles and miles of nondescript, perfectly gridded suburban sprawl.
Clovis, New Mexico, my home town, was one of these. It boasted a 10 storey hotel and a 7 storey city hall, kind of pathetic, really, but a pleasant place, none the less.
My family lived in a standard-sized suburban lot with some vines and fences at 600 Sandia drive. From the front, it pretended to be adobe up to the roof, where it became something else. It would be called a ranch in New England, except that it wasn't made of wood. It was stucco, chicken wire covered in plaster.
Streets had alleyways between them wide enough for dump trucks to get to the dumpsters. As a child, these were my favorite routes from A to B and points beyond. I could see into backyards sometimes, each one a little insight into the owner's mind.
Two alleyways intersected behind our house, forming a T. We would go out, my brother and I –sometimes with our sister – and we would ride our motorcycles down the alley to a field near Barry Elementary school.
Our dad would escort us most of the time, to make sure we didn't do anything stupid. We were a little family-sized fleet of motorcycles, my brother on his Suzuki 125 cc, my sister or me on my Honda 100 and my dad on his Honda 450.
My brother was the more adventurous. He fearlessly raced around the trails, trying to perfect jumps and speed into turns. He loved to spray dirt on anyone standing near the track. He handled the motorcycle same as I handled my bicycle. What we called an "enduro," it was made for off-road, with lights and signals making it street legal.
And it was light. On the few occasions he dropped it, he picked it right up. Mine was proportionately heavier, especially in relation to me. Being older, my brother was probably 40 pounds heavier, but the bikes weighed almost the same.
I had never really had a lesson other than stop and go. Decked out for a street-riding midget, the Honda fit me better than my brother's fit him, but the suspension wasn't meant for potholes and jumps. All I did was find flatter tracks and will the thing to do what I wanted. Basically, I learned to use my weight to maneuver it as I drove in dirt circles around the field.
It didn't always work out well, but the worst that ever happened was running through Yucca plants or brambles—until one day when my brother had to mow the lawn. I must've been about 9 years old.
Dad brought out the mower so my brother could cut the grass. We kept the motorcycles parked beneath a fiberglass awning at the right side of the yard and dad threw me the keys, telling to move the bike.
I kicked it started and eased into the saddle. Pulling the clutch with my left hand, the transmission clicked lightly as I stomped it into gear.
New Mexico is hot during the summer. On the average August day—like this day—it routinely breaks 100 degrees. People sweat just for standing, and I had been out playing in the yard. After all, I was 9.
Starting to let the clutch out, I gave it a little gas.
I remember having wiped the sweat off my face with my bare hands then wiping them on my jeans. Well, it turns out denim isn't all that absorbent.
The clutch lever slipped from my sweaty palm and engaged the transmission, causing the bike to lurch forward, throwing me off balance and forcing me to hold on. The only solid grip I had was on the throttle; as I jerked backward under the strain of momentum, my right hand twisted the throttle higher.
I rode the length of the fence, screaming. Bare wood shredded the end of the grip just inches from my right hand, and I managed to avoid the first three support beams of the stockade fence, some by only millimeters. When I finally returned my left hand to the handlebar where it belonged, I realized I was headed straight for the house. This distracted me from the support beams, one of which was approaching rapidly.
The beauty of hydraulics is that the brake lever doesn't pull all the way in unless there's no brake fluid. So when the brake lever hit the beam, my fingers weren't crushed. The brakes did what brakes do, stopped the bike. The bike did what physics dictated: it jammed the front wheel into the fence.
I flew up and over the handlebar, flipping and landing on my back in the overgrown grass.
I remember hearing my sister scream and my brother yell to our dad. He was kneeling over me before I even realized that the ride was over, saying my name and asking if I was okay.
I was fine. I said something prophetic like "ouch," or "oops." I remember how glad I was that mom wasn't home.
When the motorcycle and I were both standing again, dad gave me a look of assessment. I was fine, and it was fine. "I told you to move your bike," he said, holding out the keys once more.
I hadn't even had time to replay the scene in my head or to be scared. "Okay," I said. I got back on and moved it to the front yard, avoiding fences and all other structures.
That was 30 years ago.
Since then, I've upgraded from 100 cc to 1450. I've fallen down a few more times, and I still try to avoid running into things.
Call it what you will.
We get the names we're given in life, rejecting some, embracing few. And the Army gives new ones each day as readily as it's currently passing out disabilities. And in a similar though far less dramatic way, a name changes a person's view of the world, sometimes for good, sometimes for not so good.
Like my parents did when I was born, the Army gave me a name. I had no choice but to accept it until I had the rank or anonymity to change it. Fortunately, it didn't suck.
Soldiers ("Joe's") like shortcuts above all else, excepting beer, women, and time off. Each day revived mantras celebrated like hymns: "if you're not cheating, you're not trying," "if you get caught, you're not trying hard enough," and "if you look busy, you are busy." The goal was to accomplish more while doing less. If less was accomplished, well, that was ok too.
It applied equally to names; a name disappeared quickly in favor of something shorter or more appropriate. It was part convenience: fewer syllables required less effort, resulting in verbal economy. But it sometimes left a mark like Hawthorne's scarlet "A" marked Hester Prynne.
Most often, the nickname was derivative of the surname. Two weeks into Fort Bragg, my name officially and forevermore became Dave—far less cumbersome than Davidson. Even as a sergeant, I was Sgt. Dave.
Some got off easy like that, names not morphing much or at all. Todd Gravely was always Gravely (although occasionally mispronounced like the adverb); Casey and Stone were never anything but. Bernholtz became Bernie, Burgmeyer – Burgie, Williams–Will, etc.
Mickey Paolucci became whatever that combination of vowels and consonants allowed–Pappy Loochie, Pappy, Pooch, etc (though it seems like a significant change, remember that many infantrymen had a tough time pronouncing words like pasghetti or Massatoosis.). He might even have been the original Papa Roach.
Derek Battle and Sgt. Slaughter had names built for an airborne infantry unit. One Sergeant's last name eludes me because his first made him Stormin' Norman long before the media passed it off to a general. John Friezen became the Freeze. Matt Farrell became Traveling Matt of "Fraggle Rock" fame.
With a high percentage of southerners, some people became an abomination of themselves. Anthony Powell became Powl (rhymes with fowl); Bradley B. Binkley (I am not making that up) got Binky or Blinky depending on mispronouncer preference. We kept those.
Others kept their names, but with new meaning. James Keck was neither reliable nor competent. When people addressed him, it sounded like something was caught in their throats. Steve Gurly, "girly," had to deal with the name his parents passed down.
Nicknames also came from traits. Ralph Roman loved comics and video games. When the movie and game based on the comic "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" came out, Roman's resemblance to the venerable rat Splinter won that as nickname until someone dubbed him Ratman. The latter stuck like a high school reputation.
Sean Stewart resembled a shrew. His mannerisms, dwarf-like appearance, and facial expressions earned him Shrewert. And Sgt. Foster, the company's chemical expert spoke with such a lisp that behind his back he was Tharenfothter—you have to say both aloud to appreciate them.
Because the Army is above all a hierarchal order, names we used varied with situations. My friend John Friezen was a Sgt., so I called him by rank and name on duty and whenever there were sergeants or officers present. Among the enlisted men, references were usually along the lines of "The Freeze is looking for you."
As enlisted men, we also had endless fun with officers. My first company commander was more motivated to kill than anyone I met before or since. Among the enlisted and lower ranking sergeants, he was known as Captain Combat.
His replacement, Capt. Ramsdale, seemed more concerned with appearance during combat drills than with Joe's proper execution of the drills. Because of this, he became Captain Kevlar, named for the helmet we wore.
Next to lead us was Capt. Martin P. Schweitzer, Marty P. (also occasionally Herr Scvitzer), and since the senior Sgt. in our company was Martin B. Matney, they became collectively "Marty B and Marty P."
Second in command was the XO (executive officer), Lieutenant Stephen Donaldson. Donaldson's name was the first step in him becoming Lt. Sam. The second was the way he talked to people; sometimes you believed that he thought he was addressing an entire nation on the five o'clock news. His best friend and roommate was first platoon's leader, Lt. Dan Cotell. Cotell somehow avoided a nickname. Collectively, they were Sam-and-Dan, pronounced samandan.
Third platoon's Lt. Guthrie didn't like me, mostly because I created his nickname. He was transferred to our unit late one night while we were training in the woods. Because he hadn't eaten since the previous day or slept in over 24 hours, Marty B moved him to the front of the chow line, right in front of me.
"Good morning, sir," I said. He responded in kind.
And then I saw his name. "Sir, I don't suppose you're related to Arlo, are you?"
"It's a distant relation," he said. I didn't note the distaste in his voice, took it for exhaustion.
"Sir," I said, oblivious to the fact that I was digging my own grave, "will you sing a verse of 'Alice's Restaurant' for me?"
Oops.
We had about a week left in the woods; the only shitty job I didn't do during that time was sleep. His opinion of me never recovered. But from that moment forward, he was Arlo.
Names were mutable. A Joe could spend years with the best nomenclature in the Army, and do one stupid thing Sunday Morning in the chow line in front of two people and be changed forever.
There was one kid who couldn't help fucking up. It didn't take long before everybody but the officers in the company called him Soup, from the phrase "more fucked up than a soup sandwich."
I wonder what would've happened if he had gotten to keep his real name. Would it have made a difference in his assimilation into military life? As it was, the obvious lack of support that "Soup" suggests played into his rapid departure.
Would an IPod be the apple of my eye?
The song was from an album called "War."
I hadn't heard it in about 16 years, but suddenly it was playing again. It takes a second to say goodbye. Say goodbye, oh, oh, oh.
The kid behind the counter called it "classic rock" and mused on then-and-now differences in the world as he tried to get me to buy an iPod to accompany my new laptop computer.
"It's got room for every song you'll ever want to hear," he said, "like this one, 'Seconds.'"
It takes a second to say goodbye.
I declined as gracefully as possible over his much-rehearsed, enthusiastic up-sale pitch.
"Why?" he asked.
They make me nervous.
Eleven days after I landed in Saudi Arabia in August, 1990, I turned 22. I didn't yet know that the half-way point in my Army career was destined to make me part of history. I was with the second U.S. military unit to arrive in the Persian Gulf. Operation Desert Shield had started.
They packed us into a windowless garage at an unused military base near a town called Safjwa. Miniscule villages dotted the countryside, but Safjwa was the only city of stature within about 50 miles. Desert stretched out around us, the curvature of the world showing plainly wherever heat waves and blowing sand permitted.
We spent the first weeks anticipating a fight. Saddam Hussein's Republican Guard sat at the Kuwaiti-Saudi boarder, waiting to cross. Even if they didn't, we still had to deal with the ever-present threat of chemical warfare.
We clung to any news that suggested more troops had arrived, especially ones with tanks. In early September, the worst-case scenario had a company of about 150 airborne light infantrymen facing 55 tanks, should Hussein have decided to move.
Push the button and pull the plug.
Say goodbye, oh, oh, oh.
We had heard that media coverage brought the build-up right into America's living rooms, people watching every minute of it. President Bush's campaign for support resulted in mail by the truckload. Soldiers traded books and played cards. This was all the entertainment we had for a while. A girl from Ohio sent me a Sony Walkman and some tapes.
By mid-October, Saudi Arabia's American population had grown by hundreds of thousands. Crum's parents sent his guitar; our first sergeant had a harmonica. Some nights, we sat outside and sang horribly off-key songs to relax.
Inside, our cots were lined up in rows with just enough room for someone to pass between, about six inches of personal space. We kept everything we owned beneath them. We weren't allowed to have more than a few items out at any time because, if we had to leave, it would be in a hurry.
We piled our chemical protective suits in corners. We kept our weapons at the edge of our cots or slept with them. Most of our personal stuff, pens and paper, tape players and the like, stayed in the pockets of our uniforms. It saved the hassle of trying to find space.
By December, we had as much comfort as we could ask for, given the situation. We exercised two or three times a day, rolled dice, read books aloud to each other. Someone figured out a way to play VHS movies on a projector, so we had movie screenings some nights.
The locals were permitted to open a shop in a storage space near our building, where we could buy snacks, cigarettes, tape players, and eventually, Nintendo Gameboys. Donations came pouring in so we had all the shampoo, writing paper, cheap disposable razors and shaving cream we'd ever use.
Five times a day, a loudspeaker just down the hill from our section would broadcast a Muslim praying. To my juvenile sense of humor, it sounded like he was saying "Alah, that's all I want, a Walkman." I heckled it, and others joined. It wasn't long before everyday at prayer time, we'd face the locals' shop and pray for a Walkman.
Then, Capt. Schweitzer caught us. Marty P. had a good sense of humor. The problem was that he wasn't at all tolerant of racial insensitivity.
That got us weeks of extra duty hanging out in front of Battalion headquarters at the position of attention, checking IDs on anyone who looked like they didn't belong and saluting or otherwise greeting everyone who looked like they did.
On one of those nights, I returned to my cot, lay down and put on my walkman. I was listening to a pirate combination of U2's "War" and "October" that I'd found in the trash. I had it loud enough to drown out minor noise, but not loud enough to disturb anyone around me. I was lying there with my eyes closed, letting my mind wander. The drums thumped away, when one thumped out of rhythm.
Lightning flashes across the sky
East to west, do or die
Like a thief in the night
See the world by candlelight
I heard it, but it didn't register until the lights came on. Everyone sat up at once to a siren in the distance. One of the platoon sergeants jumped up and swung his chemical protective mask up to his face. Stunned, it took most of us about a second to realize what was up. Before he was finished, everyone in the building had done the same. Troops jumped to their feet, running to the corners to start passing out the charcoal-lined chemical suits.
The owner's name on the bag, we waited frantically to hear the names on our shirts. In the meantime, we shuttled them down the rows of cots to their proper owners.We dressed, waiting to rip the suits from their bags. Chemical alarms spread hundreds of meters out into the desert were wired to control panels in the nearest billet. One sat 20 feet away. If one of the detectors connected to it sensed a chemical weapon, the panel would light up like a Christmas display.
We sat for 45 minutes, staring fish-eyed at the speaker and waiting for the alarm that never sounded. We dared not go outside because if their were any chemicals present, it could quickly permeate the room. Experts from our regiment's chemical units were out there, they told us, checking the area. Brigade would also have people on site. So I sat, sweating beneath the curtain of the mask, sticky in the humidity of my own breath.
No one spoke much during that hour or more. Every so often, someone would come from the offices, other end of the building, and talk to the platoon sergeants. They'd then talk to the squad leaders, and eventually, word would come down to us. Mostly, we just wanted to know how the litmus tests outside were going.No one had any idea what had happened. Finally, someone decided that the sulfur-rich Saudi air was breathable and they told us it was all clear. A few of us sat outside for a while, too wound up to sleep and telling our individual stories about how tight our asses had become when the air-raid siren went off.
When I went back to bed, I put my walkman on, but the ghost explosions wouldn't stop.
Next morning, I gave it away.
Say goodbye.
It took a while for word to get around about what happened: Hussein had been sending scud missiles toward Israel, trying to get them involved; this would serve him by turning Muslim countries against the U.N. The U.S. had Patriot missiles that shot down other missiles. This time, one had impacted on the ground, dragging us into a tense hour of waiting for the end.
"Why don't you want the iPod?" the kid behind the counter asked again.
"Because a dollar a song is way too expensive," I said.
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