On a Military Base, Far, Far Away

It’s Wednesday night and I am on a military base far from home. (I can't post this until I get back to Kabul, so don't get confused in the dates--there is no tear in the Matrix). The bad news is that I am in a tent with 5 other guys, and at least 2 appear to be major league snorers. The good news is that the tent is air conditioned, courtesy of our Vice President and his Halliburton buddies war profiteers. The bad news is that I think it might be about 62 degrees in here, and I might get frost bite.

The base has a whole bunch of men and women who carry guns. This is Charlton Heston’s version of heaven. Of course it’s not surprising that soldiers carry guns, but it is just something that I haven’t really experienced before. As you know, I have never been a rabid military guy. But that may be changing. There is something very poignant in seeing young men and women—and a few old farts—saddle up and go out on a patrol at night. Or coming back to camp covered with dust, carrying packs that would make me cry to carry. A couple soldiers from the base we stayed a week ago were killed in the last few days, and in the days ahead others who I have seen, or ate with, or said hello to, will also die. They are incredibly brave, and it makes me really proud in a sad sort of way.

We are well over 5,000 feet high. I think I might be feeling the altitude, as my head feels light, my entire body aches, and I am really weak and tired. I feel like Don Knotts looked. And to commemorate my visit to the military base I also have developed a nice case of the GI trots. Lovely. I think I have altitude/food poisoning. Or malaria. Or the flu. Or Lou Gehrig’s disease. Or something. Who knows? I know only that I have had kind of a shitty day.

All of the latrines here have names. The one in my neighborhood, about 150 feet from my front door, is latrine ‘Indiana’. I shit you not (though often). Who names a latrine ‘Indiana?’ Some wise ass Kentucky lad with two buck teeth and a sister he calls mom? I mean, there isn’t any Texas latrine, or Wyoming latrine. I am not happy, and when I get home, I plan to write my congressman (sorry, for a minute there I assumed the stance of a full citizen of the US, when in fact I am not). Speaking of Wyoming, they have less than 500,000 in the militia state, and they have a congressman, two senators, and a vice president. I have squat for representation in the capital of the free world. Nothing. Nada. Not happy…..

It is 10 pm, and the base has no outdoor lights. Each of my many trips to the bathroom requires a flashlight. I also forgot my glasses, and with sight that borders on 20/2,000,000, this is not good. There ain't no way I can find my way around base at night with a tiny flashlight and no glasses. I will be Mr. Magoo-like. God forbid a mortar comes in and we have to head for the bunkers. I have no chance. Of course, I will probably be seated in Camp Indiana, and die in the same position as Elvis.

Other observations from a bored mind:

Our local staff got on to the base today. One of the guys—a really great, kind of shy guy who was dressed like the local folks—got separated from us, and then was questioned by some soldier about who he was. Long story short, we found him, he was a bit nervous (“why did you leave me’) and we all laughed at the suggestion that if he didn’t stay with the group his next project would be in Guantanamo.

We have an appointment on another base tomorrow. Only Americans are allowed. One of our guys is Canadian, and he can’t go. So much for the ‘coalition.’ I asked the military guy what the Canadians had done to piss us off, though I acknowledged that I have always been suspicious of them, eh? He doesn’t know. Pass the word—Canadians may be people-of-interest to the U.S. We aren’t sure what they have done, but I think they are guilty of something heinous. My bet is that you are going to find Osama in Calgary riding horses in the rodeo. Bastards.

Helicopters keep flying around the base, which should have been a part of that famous song of Neil Diamond’s:
‘Your so sweet, horseflies keep flying round your face,
And your so pretty, helicopters keep flying o’er the base”
(This was a gratuitous Neil Diamond reference to attract a lot of fatty women in their 50s/60s/early 100s to my blog).

Well, it is 10:20, only two of us are up, and the other guy is starting to yawn mightily. I think I will call it a night. I wish I had brought a helmet—this is going to be a long night doing my Ray Charles impression bumping into walls on the way to Camp Indiana. Deee lightful!!!!