I’m standing in line at the chow hall, trying to choose between several different evils. Nothing looks good.
I settle for a cheeseburger, shifting over to the short-order line where a young soldier is standing with his take-out tray. Waiting. The burgers aren’t ready yet. The cook has enough time to walk away from the grill entirely, and I make a comment about showing up at the wrong time.
The soldier nods and smiles, and looks at my uniform. Soldiers are always looking at the tape on my left chest, the one that reads RDECOM. I’m fairly certain I’m the only person in Afghanistan with that on my uniform.
"So what do you do here, sir?” he asks. They always make me feel old, calling me sir.
I give him my typical spiel and he asks me a pointed question about some vehicles, and I give him an educated answer to show I’m not an idiot.
I ask him what he does, and he sighs. He turns to show me the arm badge that identifies him as an MP. I note that he probably doesn’t get off the FOB much, and he sighs again: “I don’t get to go anywhere”.
“I signed up to be a soldier,” he continues, “And I’m a cop.”
I ask him if his recruiter lied to him, as I’d heard other soldiers complain in the past, and he affirms that they did, adding that many people along the way lied to him about what he’d be doing. He’s visibly frustrated talking about it.
I ask him if the stories I hear about alcohol abuse on base are true, and he says they are. People will always find a way to get alcohol, he explains, though we all know it’s a violation of General Order #1.
We finally get our burgers (he gets a double), and exchange pleasantries as he leaves the DFAC.
I find an empty seat at a table with a contractor and ask if he minds if I join him. It’s a perfunctory question, and I’m already placing my plate down when he bids me welcome. I set off for a drink (having fallen in love with the chocolate iced coffee that is only at this DFAC, and not always available), returning a minute later to find him eating a bowl of ice cream.
“I wouldn’t have sat here if I’d known you were going to do that,” I say.
“Hm?”
“Eat ice cream, I mean,” I explain, “It’s tempting.”
“Ha! Well, it’s about the only thing that looks good today.”
He’s right about that. I mention that the DFAC seems to be going downhill, the quality of the food sliding noticeably over my 5 months here. He tells me he’s been here for 25 months (“But who’s counting?” he says) and that it’s been on a slide for the last 6.
It makes me wonder what the food was like before I got here. What did I miss?
In the past two weeks, the quality of the cutlery has diminished again. Friday I spent as much time picking the broken tines out of my steak as I did eating it. The trays we used have been replaced by smaller paper plates, and my usual DFAC hasn’t had Jell-O in over a month. Milk has been out of stock for the last two weeks.
I skip the ice cream, though it is a constant lure in the DFAC.
A few hours later, Izzy and I are at the APOD trying to get him on a flight to Kuwait for a meeting with his boss. We’ve been trying the past three days, but the weather has conspired against us. Torrential downpours and low-lying fog have canceled many flights, and put the whole flight-line on a weather hold for more than a day.
This afternoon is promising, though, as there’s a C-17 heading out and Izzy is #18 on the stand-by list. The C-17 is a big bird, and it looks like everyone wanting to get out to Kuwait is going to have a seat. He manifests without incident and we stand around waiting for the announcement to build the baggage pallet, when everyone brings their bags out to get strapped down on a platform that will then be loaded onto the plane.
As we’re waiting, a contractor wanders nearby – he’s wearing a Red Sox cap and a Red Sox shirt under his jacket, so I feel like we’re already friends. I ask him where he’s from – “Freetown” – and we talk about the Sox, the Patriots, and briefly about the Celtics and Bruins. As with almost every other conversation I’ve ever had about the Red Sox, we also talk about the Yankees. We talk a little about work – he repairs commo systems – and he tells me he’s being relocated to Iraq.
He has a thick Massachusetts accent (almost as thick as his beard and both much thicker than mine) that reminds me of home, despite the fact that none of my family and few of my friends speak that way.
He's a nice guy, and it's a great diversion for me. I eventually tell him to be safe, a common way to say good-bye over here, and step out into the rain to get Izzy’s bags.
RDECOM = Research Development & Engineering Command
MP = Military Police
FOB = Forward Operating Base
DFAC = Dining Facility
APOD = Arial Port of Debarkation
