The Thrashing

The harvest that you feared
is finally at hand;
twenty pathetic years
to draw to conclusion.

No desired bright report
you thought you could control,
but a dull, growing roar,
an avalanche building
momentum until it
is inexorable.

There's no pleasure felt in
vengeance finally wrought,
just melancholy thoughts:
what might, what should have been

The sins of the father
are borne not only by
the children, but by all.
You reap what you have sown,
but then I do as well.
For that, I resent you.

All the Little Children of the World

I'm posting this on a Sunday because a) I've been catching up on my cousin's blog and my favoritest posts are the ones she writes monthly to her (now) three-and-a-half-year-old fraternal twins (the quotes from those kids make me nearly cry from laughter) and b) I'm pretty sure I get most of my blog hits on the weekdays when people are trying to avoid the drudgery of their cubicles. 

Anyway, usually the people who would comment "Haha! Fag!" are a) too lazy to type comments and b) too hungover to be reading blogs on a Sunday.


"Jesus loves the little children,

all the little children of the world.

Red and yellow, black and white,

All are precious in His sight,

Jesus loves the little children of the world."

-C. Herbert Woolston

"Napalm sticks to little children,

all the little children of the world.

Red and yellow, black and white

glowing brightly in the night

napalm sticks to little children of the world..."

-banned US Army running cadence

I kinda LOATHE being serious publicly; though prefer it in private life.

"Laughter is the closest distance between people"-Victor Borge

When people read that quote, I don't think they really grasp the subtle significance of it. 
Even though humor brings together in many ways, it still sets a barrier, regardless.  There's often a defensiveness to humor, an unknown.  Indeed, it's the very hallmark of humor, that it's unexpected (even if the beauty of a great joke is that it seems inevitable once it's been cracked), that causes this divide. 

Paradoxically, it's the experience of shared irrationality that brings people together, even as it keeps them apart.  That's why I feel that humor's a great way to get to know people initially, but you have to bridge the remaining divide with sincerity.  You make people like you with humor (the unknown); you make them love you through trust (the known).

Anyway, I'm a funny son of a bitch.  Perhaps not so modest, but I call a spade a spade.  People like the "funny" persona I've shaped and I like playing it for them.  As I said, it's a great way to bring people together, to a point.  The trouble is bridging that final divide.  As I also said, sincerity and trust is how you do that, but it would be the height of utter foolishness to try to bond with everyone you share a giggle with.  Not everyone needs to be your confidante or closest friend.  There's nothing wrong with that.  There's absolutely nothing wrong with having buddies.  So much the better in fact. 

Still, it's a real pain in the ass when you want to bridge that divide and people just don't quite get it.  It's exhausting to be divided all the time.

"I stood

Among them, but not of them; in a shroud

Of thoughts which were not their thoughts"

-Lord Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto iii, Stanza 113

"What the hell are you talking about? You haven't made me laugh in 45 seconds.  I'm uncomfortable. MOAR JOKES!"

-Silly, Simple-Minded People I'm hoping are not reading this because they're too hungover or gave up when they didn't see drawings or pictures of boobs

Getting out of Afghanistan, bearing these last few days, has me in a contemplative mood.  I am exhausted. 

I tend to have two speeds, zero and "Holy Jesus! The Wheels Are About to Come Off!" (aka "I'm giving her all she's got, Captain!").  I can maintain that much longer than most, but once the wheels do come off, it's time to pull over and cool down.  For anyone close to my age, think "Excitebike" (NES).

Anyway, when I'm like this, it brings out that very divide between myself and some people, because they haven't even remotely considered that perhaps I'm more than the funny persona.  That kind of saddens me because what this really indicates is that most people aren't more than their shell so they don't consider others are either (which makes sad sense, I suppose).

I'm a whole host of things and capable of a wide spectrum of perspectives.  I typically wear the funny persona because I like to make people happy and entertain them, but, even then, mostly it's to entertain myself.  When you mix it up with the hoi-polloi, if you can't make yourself laugh, you'll go super-duper crazy/miserable. 

Anyway, for some people reading this, I'll be explicit: No, there's nothing wrong with me.  Yes, I'm exhausted.  It happens.  This is just a part of who I am that you don't usually see. If you insist on trying to force me into my funny mode when I don't feel like it or go on and on about something being off, you'll just further the divide.  Most of the time, I'm amenable, but sometimes, just sometimes, I won't dance for you.

I got like this with my friends Chris and Liz when we were in the Army.  We were buddies to that point, but it was pretty exhausting being "on" for them all the time.  We'd been to a dinner party the night before and it was a great group of people.  They were entertaining.  I was having a good time.  I didn't have to be on.  I could enjoy myself.  Chris and Liz, though, they thought something was wrong.  "What's wrong?...Tell that story!...Oh, Ajax, do the bagpipes!"  I frowned and demurred.  There hadn't been anything wrong but they were making it wrong.

The next day we were going somewhere in my car (God, I miss that Audi).  They brought it back up again. 

"What's wrong? You're grumpy! Something's definitely bothering you."

I sorta snapped.

"I'm not your goddam monkey! I have, you know, moods!  I like to be entertained sometimes! Jesus-@#$!ing-Christ!"

Chris raised his eyebrows and leaned back, surprised at my vehemence. 

Liz, unaware of how close she was to sheer and utter rage, said, "Dance, Monkey!"

Despite the maniacal urge to do so at that very moment, I didn't murder her and we are, and have been, friends.  Chris as well.  I probably should have handled it better, but once they figured out I was more and not MOAR! we've been on solid footing.

Anyway, what my friends know, but my buddies do not, is that I'm an intensely private person, truth be told.  I have my barriers that I reserve for "buddies" (humor), but they don't even realize the barriers are there.  That's how it should be. 

Just because I've put them there, I don't want the buddies thinking I don't like them.  I do.  As I said before, not everyone needs to be your confidante or closest friend.   I like my buddies.  There are some whom I'd like to connect more with and become friends.  Not all, but some.  If you're not one of those, again, I mean no ill will and there's no lack of affection, it's just that for myriad reasons, though primarily that you can't be a friend to any if you're a friend to all, it's not a good fit.  If I've made that determination, I know I can keep you from even considering this issue if I distract you with "shiny!"  We'll share laughs.  That's not a bad thing.  It's the closest distance between people, after all.

_____________________________________________________________

So, all of this has actually really been a long (VERY LONG, I know) preface to what I actually want to write about, but a) if you're the kind of person who wants to, you should know all of that about me and b) people who would have given this blog post up well before this nearly 1000 word mark are the ones who wouldn't get this anyway. Verbosity as an editing/winnowing device.  I'm &%$!ing brilliant.

So, even as I am perpetually sarcastic or a smart-ass or cracking jokes, there is more.  There are very sincere things I believe in and/or enjoy.  Actually, that's mostly who I am.  That's the depth.  The funny is the veneer.  The depth is dull.  The funny is shiny.  I feel like being a bit dull. 

I love kids. 

As I said, my cousin's blog posts about her little kids, I positively adore, even while I know banned, horrid running chants (and have sung them with glee) which are, sadly, ironical and also, even more sadly, deadly serious at the same time.  But, I love kids. Really.

Why do I love kids?

The unadulterated joy, mostly.

Yes, kids have all sorts of issues.  They can be whiny and annoying.  What? It's true.

But kids have a capability for joy that very few of us are able to retain.  Life just beats us down too much.  Too many things happen for us to keep our hearts wide open enough to really let loose with that sort of feeling.  We have to protect ourselves.  Shoot, that's one of the primary lessons that parents have to teach kids, how to protect themselves.  "Don't talk to strangers." "Don't touch that; it's hot."

Kids are raw.  They're exposed.  They feel, for good and for bad, and intensely.

They're helpless.  They're trusting. They're uncomplicated.  They're kinda wonderful.

There's just so much potential bursting out of them.

Though I've not gotten in the neighborhood of marriage (hell, I've not gotten in the universe of marriage, let alone the galaxy, solar system, planet, country, state, county or city), I always kinda thought I'd get married by twenty-five and have kids by thirty.  Having a family has always been what I've wanted most since I was capable of contemplating such things.  But, like I said, I've not gotten in the neighborhood of that.  I'm not going to dive into that sorta thing lightly or in an unthought-out manner simply because of desire or a timeline. 

If it will happen, it will happen when it should of its own accord, not on my deadlines.  In the meantime, I just sit here tapping my toes saying, "Hurry the hell up, already. I know, intensely, that I only have so much time here."

I guess people reading this will think, "Oh wow, he sounds kinda desperate about it."  I am and I'm not.  Do I want that?  Yes, absolutely.  But if I were desperate, I'd have gotten a lot closer to it than I have.  I'll jump at it and go full bore for it...in the right situation.  I'm not going full bore for a bad situation. 

Any woman reading this who might be the least bit interested in me romantically is probably going "I like guys who think and can express themselves, but this is a bit much. Jesus. Enough already.  Shut the hell up for your own sake."

She's probably also going, "Get a haircut, shave, stop wearing Hawaiian shirts, get a stable job, buy a house, get a car, be serious occasionally..." (though "she" typically freaks the hell out when I am serious-Ed.)

That those women don't quite "get it" is why I've not gotten anywhere near marriage.  That they're more than likely imaginary is another reason.  Whatever.  My act's not for everyone.

Back to it though.

Why do I love kids?

I'm thirty-two.  I'm not old.  I'm not young.  I'm past "boy" and "young man".  I'm a "man" now.  Life's crapped on me a fair bit.  That happens to all of us.  I'm not whining, just stating a fact.  Life's also been fairly mind-bogglingly fantastic.  Intentionally or not, I don't do things half-way.  Still, I miss that joy, that elation, I was capable of as a child.

It's a wistful thing, really. I miss that capacity to be open and exposed.  I want that more than anything.  I also said I wanted a family of my own more than anything, but those two things are interwoven, because I believe I'll be able to be open and exposed with them.  At least, I want to be.  I'm not sure that's possible, but that's what I strive for, what I yearn for.

I'm very big into ideas, into ideals.

I love being around kids when they're giddy and everything's new and exciting and wonderful.  Capturing even a hint of that feeling is why I adventure, because, really, new experiences and new worlds is what being a kid is all about.  Adulthood is mostly about routine from what I see.  That's fine.  It is what it is.  It's reality.

Fighting reality is a losing proposition every time.

Note I say that despite the fact that I'm very big into ideas and ideals.   It makes me think of the most brilliant, insightful thing my father's ever said: "A cynic is a romantic who knows the world will let him down."

I'm not saying I'm Peter Pan here; I've been doing the responsible thing and progressing as I should; and I'm not saying I want to be a kid again.  No, I firmly believe that the only real way to appreciate the phases of life is to know while you're going through each that it's finite and should be enjoyed while you're going through it.  But I can remember the joy of childhood and want to be a part of others experiencing that joy.   

So, yeah, I love kids.  I love being around them.

My cousins have been popping out babies left and right for some years now.  It's fascinating watching my new cousins develop.  I haven't been around for all of them because I've been off being me.  Even beyond that, I didn't really get to be around their parents that much.  On dad's side, I'm the baby of the family by quite a bit (except for one cousin, the rest of the first cousins are at least seven years older).  The kids have actually been a great way for me to bond with my first cousins.

When I got out of the army, I was three months removed from getting out of Iraq.  I was, as I am now, more than a bit exhausted.  I retreated, as often as I could, to my spiritual mecca of Saluda, NC, where my family's had a place, in one form or another, for around one hundred fifty years.  Saluda has a yearly festival that I adore, Coon Dog Day.  It's my favorite holiday.  Not Christmas. Not Halloween. Not even St. Patrick's Day (Mom's side is Irish, so that's saying something).  No, it's Coon Dog Day.

I get to go up to my favorite place and my cousins are up there; it's an informal family reunion.  Since the grandparents are dead and buried, we don't see each other as often as we did, and as I said, because I was comparatively so much younger back then, I couldn't really connect. 

In 2005, I ambled over to my uncle's place and there were my little cousins I'd never met, bouncing off trees and chasing each other all around and generally driving my curmudgeon of an uncle absolutely insane (though he actually only plays at being cranky; I watch him follow the kids room to room and start loudly complaining about all the noise just to exasperate his daughters; to the imaginary woman contemplating me, you have that to look forward to; we Carpenters go to strange, sometimes antagonistic lengths to amuse ourselves). 

Two of the first cousins, Augusta and Llewellyn, managed to have daughters the same year and then sons two years later. So each had a five year old daughter and a three year old son.  I went in the house and spoke to my cousins.  They told me about how they'd had the kids praying for their cousin, "Soldier Ajax."  Then we went outside and they hollered for the rugrats.  A whirlwind of blond hair and dirty, panting, beaming faces materialized. 

They'd not met me before.  I still carried myself somewhat like a soldier.

The former baby of the family was meeting the new babies of the family.

Within moments I was a jungle-gym for absolutely, maniacally ecstatic children. 

Yelps that didn't mean anything,

"Cousin Ajax, look here!",

tugs at my shirt,

fists tugging at my hair. 

Bear hugging all four at once, lifting them off the ground as they squealed. 

Chasing them around the yard.

Complete trust.

Complete acceptance.

Complete joy.

I love kids.

"²He called a little child and had him stand among them. ³Then he said to them, “I can guarantee this truth: Unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. ⁴Whoever becomes like this little child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. ⁵And whoever welcomes a child like this in my name welcomes me."

Acknowledging "Bad"

As I hardly ever say or write anything that is serious, I wish to state at the start that I'm being sincere and as serious as death about this.  If you want funny, wait for the next one.

 The following is what I shared with a friend who is going through a "bad" phase (Unemployed, romance problems, living at home, etc.). I took issue with him for trying to make light of what he was going through, of beating himself up that he was being weak and that it really wasn't a big deal and he didn't know what was wrong with him for being so upset:

Did I ever tell you about my near breakdown or actual breakdown (I'm not sure which) I had in Iraq?

No?

Childhood/growing up was BAD. Dad's a [redacted since people who read this know him; I will simply say "not good"]; mom was an alcoholic [since recovering, with which I am well impressed -Ed]; step dad was an alcoholic who hated me.

So...college was great...but the army...

I loved aspects of the army, but the army was hard; particularly my last two years.  I had two of the worst bosses you can imagine, and a bad boss in the military is indescribably bad. 

There's no escape.  There's no quitting.  You just suffer.

Because I was good at what I did, I had to cover for the bad bosses, which they resented, but their boss wanted me to stay where I was to keep things functioning.

Anyway, Iraq.

So I'm 24, and about to go to freaking war.  I mean, I went in 2004; it wasn't the invasion
but it wasn't a walk in the park. And while I am not "scared", thoughts of being mangled and dying, well, they get in your head.  How you can not be scared but have it still weigh on you, it's hard to explain.  It's like worrying about death in general...

Anyway, the setup was:

very bad bosses

unrelenting stress
constant deadlines
out in the field for months and months before we even went to Iraq

In fact, the prep was more stressful than being in Iraq.

Then, to add to it, I met a woman a month before I left and she and I had MASSIVE chemistry.

But...

She sorta had a boyfriend.  And I didn't want to let myself get into something like that right as I was leaving.  Her name was Irene (is still, I suppose).

So, emotionally, I was pretty much wide open/exposed.  Then we get to Iraq, and I'm pining for Irene.  My idiot boss is still an idiot, but now it's in a war zone where his dumb shit could get me or people I am responsible for killed. 

Oh, and I was a firebase commander, so I was responsible for 60 guys' lives.

It was not good and whenever I used to go through anything bad, I'd remember the horrible shit I went through with my parents and say

"I've been through worse."

Well, after two months, things came to a head with the idiot boss.  I was a lieutenant; he was a captain.  In the military, rank is rank.  The bigger boss, a lieutenant colonel, fired me.  I mean, he tried to call it something else ("You're about to get promoted and you've been the platoon leader for sixteen months already...") but I got fired. 

Because too damn bad that the captain was a moron; it's the army.

It was humiliating and frustrating at the time. Angering...

Meanwhile, during those two months, Irene and I were emailing; I was writing her letters all the time.

But we weren't dating.  She was still with her boyfriend.  It was a dumb situation but I couldn't help it.  My life was miserable and I was focusing on the one thing that made me happy, and I sorta deluded myself/did mental gymnastics somehow that it made sense, seemed right. 

Anyway, my friend Chris, who was in Iraq with me, rightly pulled my head out of my ass about that whole thing with her.  Something for which I'm eternally grateful to him.

Well, I was in a war zone; I'd been working for a monumentally bad boss;  I'd been stressed about all the people and operations I was responsible for; and I'd fallen in love with a woman I didn't really know,  and I kept trying to tell myself:

"I've been through worse. This is bad, but I've been through worse"

And it just kept getting worse and worse emotionally.

Now, the reason I said it might NOT have been a breakdown was because medication was involved.  They also had us on anti-malarial pills, Lariam, which have psychotic side effects on a small percentage of people.

Anyway, all that shit came to a head.  I started having panic attacks and crying spells for no reason.  I'm not sure if you can quite understand that I don't cry.  I mean, not for that sorta thing.  Like, I was crying.  A senior lieutenant in the army.  Crying and not being able to control it or know why and things felt like they were spiraling down and down and down.

Finally, I had a suicidal thought...which, you don't know this about me, but that's completely NOT me. At all.  Like, if the police tell you I committed suicide, you hire detectives. I was murdered.  No suicide. 

Anyway, the thought popped in "Why am I even...wait? What the fuck?"

Seriously, the second that popped in my head, was when I finally had my epiphany.
Because there was no "This is bad but..."

I took a deep breath

I said to myself,

"I may have been through worse, but this is bad and bad is bad"

and instead of trying to fight it or think I was weak for feeling that way, even the small token action of acknowledgment helped more than I can say. 

Now, I also immediately stopped taking those pills and within two weeks I was back to normal.  Not happy, mind you, but functional.  So it was a confluence of a number of things.

but

it was "bad."

In the time since, I've been through "bad" again, and, when I have, I don't try to compare it to anything else. First and foremost, I acknowledge it; recognize it; stop trying to fight it or pretend it's not a big deal; and that helps me bear it and eventually rise through it.

You actually saw me like that once; when the Ellie thing went very "bad", I nearly lost it again.  She pulled some insane, fucked-up stunt and you ran into me as I was leaving school right after it happened.  I was trying to explain it to you and babbling and not making much sense.

Another time things were "bad" was after the bar exam in November or December.  No job, no prospects.  The place I was crashing, I had to leave; had to go stay with mom for a while.  It was "bad" and I started spiraling again, until I admitted it to myself.

Because my instinct was to compare it.

"I've been to war; I've had my heart broken; this is bullshit"

But, no.

It was "bad".

And it needed to be acknowledged.  Once I did, I was able to figure out that it wasn't something that I could bear, that I needed change.  That's when I came up with the going back to school idea.  Fortunately, I got this job.

But I've had two "bad" times during this job.  The first one, I transferred to the contracts department and that helped and now that it's gotten "bad" again, I'm getting the hell out. I'd thought vacation in April would fix things.

It didn't.

Things can't stay like this though, so I'm leaving. 

Anyway, I tell you all of that to reiterate that you absolutely must not beat yourself up for asking for help because that's acknowledging you're in a bad place.  Asking for help is going for change.  And you're in a bad place. 

There's no bullshit "I feel weak..."

I was where you are for six months after I graduated.  It was "bad".  You've been there longer. You haven't done anything wrong; it's not your fault.  Sometimes "bad" is just "bad".  Just accept it.

You and I are very different of course, but perhaps this will help.   I'm a very independent person, as I've said, and I do my best not to bother people when I'm having problems.

My m.o. is to say to myself "I can handle it."

Part of acknowledging "This is bad"  is that I reach out to my friends and say

"Look, I'm going through 'bad', and I'm not sure if you can help, per se, but I need support."

And damn if their support isn't the best thing in the world for me.

I LOVE my friends; they've been the family I didn't have.

I tell you this: friends help me when I'm down; I help them.

If you need help, I am here for you.

No judgment.

No thinking "He's weak."

You got that?

Damn you, Facebook Chat!

When deployed 7,000 miles (at least) from friends and family, Facebook is monumentally wonderful.  Being able to interact with those I care about makes being out here somewhat bearable.  Even though I'm 8.5 hours ahead of East Coast time, I typically have 10-40 people online at any given moment whom I can catch up with.  All that is absolutely fantastic.

Facebook Chat is not perfect.  I know that.  Even under perfect conditions, it is well behind Gchat.  Gchat is sensitive to the internet fluctuations out here. It's annoying, but bearable.  Facebook Chat screws me repeatedly

For instance, say there's a Hawt Chick™, I've met some place or other during my various travels:

Now, I barely know Hawt Chick.  From what I gather, she's Hawt.  I'll occasionally comment on her status if something amusing comes to mind, and vice versa.  Otherwise, it's mostly "Happy Birthday!" when FB reminds me or her it's that time.

Now, suppose that I see Hawt Chick on FB chat.  I've seen something she's posted so I start a conversation.  I like to think I'm good with the written word. I'm in my element.  This should be fine.

Except Facebook Chat screws me

It starts out easy enough:

(My Screen)

I'm a verbose S.O.B.  I get that.  However, when I chat, so I don't wear out the person I'm talking to, I type in clauses.  It's short, convenient and easy to follow.  Unfortunately, it gives FB the power to wreak havoc. 

Below is what she got because my internet connection sucks and FB isn't nice enough to just say "Hawt Chick did not receive your chat" like Gchat does, so I keep typing away, clueless.

(Her Screen)

She tries to brush it off, even though that's really weird coming from anyone, let alone a guy she barely knows who's a little "unusual" in that he willingly lives in a war zone and looks like a maniac.  She changes the subject. I sense I've somehow bombed already but have no idea that I've been edited into perversion.

(My Screen)

 (Her Screen)

Now I'm thinking.  "Huh? She seemed pretty cool that time I met her.  More than just a pretty girl.  She does Tai Chi and bungee jumps off bridges.  Maybe she's distracted. It happens."

 I try to change the subject. 

Multiple subject changes on a brief conversation are not a good sign, by the way.

(My Screen)

Fortunately, she gets that chat.  Admittedly, not my best material, but she's game.  Hopefully it's just a matter of her thinking that I'm a little odd from having lived over here for 16 months and not that I'm just weird.  She throws it out there.

(Her Screen)

I thought I was bombing a simple conversation, but woohoo!  I respond.  Sense my over enthusiasm.  Subtlety with excitement is not my forte.

(My Screen)

I wait and she doesn't respond.  Apparently my idea sucked.  I throw out alternatives.

(My Screen) 

Still nothing.  I guess she stepped away from her computer.  She responds after a few minutes.

(My Screen)

Then it dawns on me. I hit refresh on my entire facebook page and this is what comes up on our chat window.

(Her Screen)

I immediately freak out.  I go to her wall and post: "I swear to God I'm here! It's not posting my responses!"

I reply to her chat repeatedly. Damn you, Facebook chat!!!!

(My Screen)

 

It started working fairly well again after that, but the damage was done. We finished up the conversation. I think she figures I'm a crazy guy who blew her off so I sent her a message later asking her something trivial just as a "I was serious about my internet sucking. I wasn't blowing you off or playing some weirdo mind game." No response.
 

Then a couple of days later, she was on chat again so I popped on and said something silly again and, again, no response.

The craptastic thing about Facebook out here is that a) she might not have gotten any of those messages from me so I'm tempted to keep trying but b) if she did and I keep pestering her, then I really am going to look (be?) psychotic.

Damn you, Facebook Chat!

Iliad Schmiliad

At my new(ish) FOB, we get incoming rockets and mortars often.  This camp's nickname is "Rocket City."  Some Talib or some such will lob in a round and our radar will pick it up.  What's supposed to happen is that the radar detects it in flight and triggers the warning system to give people some time to get in bunkers or seek other cover.  What's supposed to happen has only happened once that I can recall.  The three short bursts of the siren went off and the "Giant Voice" reported "INCOMING! INCOMING! INCOMING!" in its monotone/slightly robotic manner and four seconds later there was a BOOM!  That was just enough time to start making a move for cover, but not enough to get there.

That's what's supposed to happen.  What usually does happen though is that the radar doesn't detect the projectile or it doesn't trigger the warning system.  Thus our notification is all backwards.  We'll hear a BOOM! or THWUMP! and then five minutes later, the siren and Giant Voice go off.  Even though the danger has passed, we have to go to the bunkers and wait the 5-30 minutes it takes to hear the Giant Voice tell us "ALL CLEAR! EMERGENCY TERMINATED! RESUME OPERATION ACTIVITIES OR RECOVERY AT THIS TIME! ALL CLEAR!"

Since, a) even if you hear the siren before the impact there's not enough time to get to the bunker, and b), the vast majority of the time, the round landed some time before, there's not a huge sense of urgency to get to the bunker.  Especially when it's the middle of the day and you must leave your air-conditioned office to swelter in the 120+ degree heat.

"INCOMING! INCOMING! INCOMING!" wailed away the other day.  I got up from my desk and headed for the door, but paused, turned back around, and grabbed a book off the desk so I'd have something to do other than stare at the gravel floor of the bunker.  I'm not much for the jabbering of the tradesmen who filter into the bunker.

To most, if not all, the fact that my favorite book is The Iliad is slightly to completely pretentious.  I know this.  Doesn't change the fact it's my favorite book.  I've several editions to include the Lattimore paperback I first read in college to my prized hardback Everyman's Library Fitzgerald.  I bought the Fitzgerald at a bookstore outside of San Francisco when my brother and I were doing a roadtrip after I'd completed my 19 week Field Artillery Officer Basic Course in November of 2001.  I knew I was heading off to Germany and thence to war, be it in Afghanistan or Iraq (indeed, the first question I asked my commander when I arrived in Bamberg was when we were going to Iraq; invasion was fairly obvious from the moment of 9/11).

I've carried my worn, salmon-colored, cloth-bound Fitzgerald all over the world.  Alexander the Great not only took a copy of The Iliad with him as he conquered the known world, but slept with it under his pillow.  I don't sleep with it under my pillow, but I have carried it to five continents.  It'll be with me when I get to the other two.  Every year or two I'll read it afresh.  This past year in Afghanistan, I've not put a complete reading in, but have gone in fits and starts.  My bookmark is halfway through.  

Thus it was that I sat on the bench in the bunker and opened up my tome of grisly killings.  I'd barely made it a few lines (for those who do not know, The Iliad is a poem) when an hispanic tradesman (plumber/carpenter/electrician or some such) said, "Wow. You read all that so far?"

"Oh yes," I said, offhandedly, "though not all at once.  I've been picking my way through it."

"You must read a lot. What book is it?"

"The Iliad," I said to unmistakable incomprehension.

"Oh," he said, clearly not interested but wanting to carry on the conversation, "what's it about?"

I'm always struck when people have absolutely no idea about such things, even if I understand that I'm rather peculiar in my love of classics.  I tried to frame it in a way that would get across, in a facile way, my interest.

"It's the foundation of Western Literature," I said.  His eyes glazed at the word "literature."  (I don't consider Gilgamesh western lit; I don't have a particular reason why other than I refuse to cede the title to someone other than Homer).

I regrouped.

"It's about the Trojan war."  Surely that would spark some comprehension.  Nope.  I got the cow gaze.

"Um. It's about ancient warfare between the Greeks and Trojans.  It has fighting and heroes.  Helen of Troy.  Achilles..."

If I were a comedian, this would be called "bombing."

"Um, you've heard of The Odyssey?" I offered.  

"Nope."

"Sure you have.  You know...Odysseus.  The cyclops..."  I was struggling.  It was not working.

"Oh, yeah. Maybe," he offered out of pity.

"Anyway," I said, "it's my favorite book.  It's got gods and heroes and fighting."

"Yeah. That sounds good, I guess.  But I wouldn't pick it up.  Not with a name like The Iliad, you know?"

I tried to be amenable.  "Oh sure. I can understand that."  I couldn't really.

His attitude subtly went from trying to be agreeable to being condescending to the egghead.  Maybe I'd somehow unconsciously put out the vibe first.  I've no idea.

"How'd you even hear of that?"

"Well, like I said it's the foundation...my dad's a college English professor and when I was little he'd tell me stories from Greek mythology and Beowulf and..."

I didn't tell him that I met Robert Fitzgerald when I was a small child.  THAT clearly would have been lost on him.  His eyes glazed again and he looked away and semi-smiled to himself.

"Oh. A dork" was the conclusion that I read unmistakeably on his face.

About that time, we got "ALL CLEAR! EMERGENCY TERMINATED! RESUME OPERATION ACTIVITIES OR RECOVERY AT THIS TIME! ALL CLEAR!"

He gave me an awkward nod of his head and got up.  I awkwardly nodded and went back to my office.

http://www.amazon.com/Iliad-Everymans-Library-Classics-Contemporary/dp/0679410759

NICOLE'S POST

My friend Nicole has been super-duper helpful in getting the word out about my blog.  She said all she wants in repayment is "a prominent post and title that entails no actual work would be nice as well."  Thus she gets this.  We're even.

Blast from the Past

The new base I'm on actually has my old unit, the 1st battalion of the 6th Field Artillery Regiment on it.  I'd been told that upon the 1st Infantry Division (1ID) moving from Germany (where I served in 1/6FA) back to the US, 1/6 had been deactivated and its colors cased.  Turns out they'd waited a year or so and reactivated it.  Instead of being based out of Bamberg, Germany, it's now out of Fort Knox, Kentucky.  Now they're doing a tour out here in Afghanistan.

The army is not like other jobs in that people don't stay put usually.  It's more like high school.  You can go back and visit, but you're not going to run into too many people you knew if you don't come back for years.  You get sentimental for memories and the buildings might stir those up, but you're going to go down memory lane by yourself, usually.  Even if you do run into a teacher who refused to retire, they usually only have a fleeting recollection of who you were because they've been dealing with a rolling parade of kids, each of whom thinks he or she is the most important person ever and surely worthy of remembrance.  They smile and nod, perhaps mention the name of a class member of yours, and then politely extricate themselves to leave you on your journey with nostalgia.

So, the Army's like that. Certainly there have been changes in the six (SIX!) years since I got off of active duty, but an awful lot is very familiar.  I was tempted to stop by the battalion headquarters to see what was what, to hear the familiar jargon and fussing, to see the soldiers running around, to look at the various drawings of centaurs that are sure to be emblazoned there (military units have mascots they associate themselves with, obviously 1/6FA are the Centaurs.  The sub-units of the battalion; Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Service and HHC were the Gators, Bulldogs, Cobras, Scorpions and Hawks, respectively).  I've even considered swinging by the gun line to take in my great killer beasts.  

I didn't do any of that though because my time is past.  Time marches on and it's a trifle sad and a touch desperate to cling.  You never, ever, ever want to be the 48yo fraternity alum who drops into the old frathouse and starts telling stories about "back in my day" and  plays beer pong with 20yos.  Leave the past in the past, at least insofar as subjecting yourself to people who are currently in their present.

All of that is a Ajax-patented, long-winded way of simply saying that "you can't go home again."  If you're going to be able to get anything out of it, it's not by going to a place you know and subjecting yourself to strangers, it's by reminiscing with someone who was there with you when you were going through it. 

As six years is an awfully long time in the army (people get out, people get promoted, people go to other units), I have kept an eye out for anyone I used to know, and run across a couple of people I vaguely remembered but none I shared much of a past with.  Then, at dinner one night, I looked up and sitting at the table across from me was none other than SGT Burge, now Staff Sergeant Burge.

I went over and politely reintroduced myself.  I look NOTHING like the man he once knew as Lieutenant, then Captain, Carpenter.   He recognized me nonetheless.  We chatted briefly before I left him to his meal.  I've since run across him once or twice and we've chatted about "back then", but mostly just one story that he told me when we were in Iraq that I'll never forget.

I kept a daily journal of the first 100 days or so of that deployment.  So, without further ado:

Deployment Journal: Day 33; Tuesday 16 March 2004

This morning SGT Burge, the Survey NCO, came knocking on my door at around 0600.  I got up, dressed and met him out at the gun, where he was putting down a stake to mark the position and then I led him to the other firing points.  It takes about five minutes for his equipment to come up with the right grid for each of the positions so he and I shot the bull about all sorts of things. 

I asked him about morale down at FOB (Forward Operating Base) Gabe, where the rest of 1/6FA is located and he said it was getting better.  I asked him how his was doing since during the MRE (Mission Readiness Exercise) at Hohenfels (a training center in Germany) he had told me that he was going to quit and he’d go to jail if he had to because he was tired of all the stupidity.  I have found that it is best not to crush guys when they talk like that because I have a good position as one of the only officers that the guys will talk to about anything and I have to let some things slide to keep that confidence (officers really can't tolerate insubordination).  I also was pretty sure he was venting because he was frustrated, but with SGT Burge it gets hard to tell.

            

 He said that he hated working for his new boss, a Staff Sergeant (SSG) because the guy didn’t know what he was doing.  As is the case in the Army, many times people go long stretches where they don’t do their primary jobs and this was the case with the boss.  First SGT Burge told me how the guy had mis-surveyed in the guns down at Gabe because he didn’t know what he was doing and SGT Burge had to go behind him and fix it.  The SSG had put extra numbers, two zeroes, at the end of the grid’s easting and northing when he realized that he hadn’t had enough numbers, an altogether huge error and unforgivable in this line of work; had it not been corrected, artillery rounds would have landed miles from their intended target, most likely with catastrophically deadly effects.

            

 As for the boss’ general competence, SGT Burge told me a story about killing a puppy.  

 The dogs at Gabe are a problem as well (they attract flies which carry the flesh-eating bacteria leishmaniasis) and there was a little puppy that was near the guard shack that was coughing blood.  They talked about it and decided they had to shoot it.  SGT Burge said he’d take care of it, but the boss was very insistent he be the one to do it.   

They took the puppy just outside the perimeter (it followed them) and the SSG went to shoot the dog but it stayed at his heels.  He tried to step back but still the dog stayed by him.  SGT Burge told him to kick the dog and the SSG said he wasn’t kicking a puppy.  SGT Burge asked him what difference it made since he was going to shoot it anyway.  The boss continued to try and jump away from the dog with no success when SGT Burge, frustrated, and wanting to be done with the whole thing, booted the dog.  The puppy went flailing and lay still when it came to rest.  SGT Burge said, “We might not have to shoot it after all.”   

 The puppy started though and the boss quickly aimed his weapon and fired.  The idiot fired down the sight though and at that short distance fired just below the dog and missed it.  He did it once more before SGT Burge yelled at him to fire down the barrel not the sights.  He shot again and hit the dog in the hind quarters making it yelp.  He shot once more, again in the hindquarters, and, of course did not kill the dog.   

SGT Burge yelled at him, telling him that if he wanted to kill it he had to hit the torso or the head, in other words something vital, and not the ass.  The SSG hollered back saying he didn’t know and that he hadn’t done that before.  The boss re-aimed and this time hit it in the chest.  The puppy slumped, obviously dead.   

When it began to twitch a moment later though the SSG jumped back waving the rifle around before firing once more and “spider webbing” its head, as SGT Burge put it.  SGT Burge grabbed the SSG’s rifle and told him that if he ever waved around a loaded weapon like that SGT Burge would shoot him.  The SSG apologized and said that he had never killed anything before and had gotten excited but was glad he had done it because now he knew he had that “killer instinct.”   

He kept on, blabbering about how he needed to know if he could do it because it was much harder for him to shoot a dog than someone who could defend himself, if it ever came to that.

            

Now, SGT Burge is a good ole boy from West Virginia who looks like a biker what with his bushy moustache and shaved head.  He plays football (american) on a team with the Germans and is altogether a tough country boy.  I could see how having to work for someone like that (altogether incompetent and a sissy to boot) would drive him nuts since I do work for someone like that.

I bet you don't fondly reminisce over stories like that with your High School buddies.