Sense

Back in Bagram and well on our way to wasting the $400 Million they gave us to blow. Sorry, taxpayers, but we can’t all be Contractors. However, I can, so there’s the benefit (follow the money), and there’s the rub. Does the world really need another strategic airlift apron?

Of course, and a few more helicopter and mixed use aprons, and more dining facilities and headquarters, and hospitals for both humes and canines. And guard towers. Lots and lots of guard towers. And another 15 miles of concertina topped security fencing with intercepting vehicle ditches. I’m just not feeling the love here. Not even in the grilled cheeses which, in Baghdad, were chock full of the stuff.
One project we’re planning that’s not too secret is a $30 Million AAFES complex, building 20,000 square feet of sales floor to replace the overcrowded 5,000 square feet they use today. The most cost effective solution would be to declare victory, drag everyone home, and have them go to WalMart. Barring that, we (“you, me, us, them”) will build a big box store in the ‘Stans, where our fighting men and women (and complaining consultants) can stock up on shoelaces, commemorative T-shirts, junk food, towels, 550 cord, cameras, and digital camouflage notebook covers. At least, that’s what I bought. They’ve got all sorts of stuff that folks need, but didn’t bring or got used up while in theatre.

Mostly, the shopping serves a social need, just through the experience of browsing through aisles and racks of commercial goods. It’s a momentary disconnect from this place, and a rare state of mind.

I often have another one when I leave our B-hut midday. There’s a brief period when I’m approaching the door from the inside of the hooch where I can’t see the other bunks and piles of luggage, gear, and other kit, when it’s cool and the lights are dim. For just an instant, it’s just me and a door and a knob. Me, door, and knob could be anyplace, anyplace large enough for a knob, a door, and me. It’s still and calm, and I hesitate reaching for the knob.

And then I’m outside, and there are streaming, steaming masses moving down the sidewalk, ten feet off of the hooch stoop. Five feet beyond that, Disney Road is full of vehicles small and large, from Gators to MRAP’s, HMMWV’s to Jingle Trucks, cargo vans to busses. The landscape is full of expeditionary buildings and CONEX boxes. What isn’t paved is rock and dirt. It’s bright, and dusty as hell, and you can’t hear a thing when the pairs of fighters run down the airstrip.

Then I remember pretty quick where I’m at.