Hitchin’ a ride

I rode in an up-armoured HUMVEE today, to go shopping at another base. Earlier in the day we’d suffered a fusillade of mortars, but they gladly missed their marks. I was fast asleep, roused by pounding on the door. “GET UP, GET YOUR GEAR ON, MORTAR ATTACK, THIS IS NOT AN EXERCISE”. Quick! Put on your trousers. Body armour, grab it, put it on, just the Velcro, don’t worry about the snaps, you can fix that in the shelter. There isn’t a warning siren, why isn’t there a warning siren? There’s supposed to be a siren. Glasses…nevermind. You don’t need them. Where’s your helmet?Where’syourhelmetwhere’syourhelmetwhere’syourhelmet!? Ok. Boots. We ever discussed this, what do you do? Just follow everyone else, don’t forget your gun. Loaded magazines,30 rounds each. Run to the shelter. Zigzag pattern. Sit in the corner. You’rs in a puddle, but that’s ok. Head count. Mike’s here, Fred, him too. Jack and Ben, check. Roommates all accounted for. Go tell the Captain, your in charge of them. It’s fine. Everything is fine. You have to piss. “ALL CLEAR!” You can piss now.
So, shopping. I needed my helmet, rifle, and vest. The vest is heavy and uncompromisingly rigid; it causes middle-back pain, right where humans can’t touch themselves.
On the road,. The HUMMER is filthy, and the gun rack is broken, so I lap it like an experienced combatant. “Hey, Fred, take a picture of me’, but my batteries die. Signs along the way say ominous things like “NO STOPPING OR STANDING,DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED,THIS AREA PATROLLED BY MILITARY WORKING DOGS, DO NOT APPROACH TOWER, DO NOT APPROACH WALL”. Mp3 player plays
Botch and Trial, feeling Seattleish.
We’re here. It’s really muddy in the parking lot. I wander through racks and aisles of crap in a dusty, large tent. I don’t need or want any of this stuff. Stupid action movies, crappy CDs, Maxim magazine and it’s clones, “Who’s your Baghdaddy” shirts with a drawing of some white meathead on it. Playing cards, assault gloves, knives, chewing tobacco, beef jerky, unlubricated condoms, bobby pins, romance novels, all of this, and I buy nothing. I refuse too. I’ll not allow social and geographic isolation or boredom or lack of familiarity or catharsis or cartoons or catnaps or coffee shoppes or canoodling force me to use what little money I have as an opiate.
Rolling back, there is a roundabout that was once painted azure, with a broken fountain in the center and a sideways rusted out wrought-iron light post in it. I’m certain that at one time it was beautiful.
We arrive home in a dense grey haze. “What’s up, Bill?” “Hey Dave, we got hit again. 500 ft that way.” “How long ago?” “2 minutes. Let’s go to chow.” “Ok. Any word if the power will be out in the barracks will be out again tonight?” “It will. Oh, and the water is unpotable, don’t drink it or brush your teeth with it. Oh, and don’t eat the fruit or veggies in the chow hall.” “What am I supposed to eat?” “Got any clif bars left?” “Yeah, 1.” “There ya go. Bon a petit.”
They caught them, our long distance assailants. There’s an article in the paper about it. That night Mike and I were going to the gym. It was leg night. We saw a bunch of Special Forces guys gearing up, they were some rough looking fellows. They killed the insurgents under cover of night. I’d buy them each a beer; if it weren’t illegal for American service members to consume or possess alcohol in most Arab countries. But it’s not illegal for Danes, Finns, Portuguese, Spanish, British, Italians, Romanians, Fijians, Aussies, or Japanese folks.