Hillah, Iraq.

The weekend is here, so we were off on a roadtrip. Actually, it is the Warrant Officer’s 18th year in the Marine Corps this weekend, and there was a bit of paperwork to submit for that, as well as the Purple Heart paperwork. Honestly, we were just looking for a reason to get out of town, and the Diwaniyah detachment of Anglico Marines had some steak and lobster tails that they were willing to share with us, a perfectly happy arrangement for all.

So the first order of business was to go buy ten cases of nonalcoholic beer at the embassy. While we were there, I stuck a Kendall County Yacht and Gun Club sticker on the fridge in the bar.

This is a better look at the stickers on the fridge. I didn’t put any of them there besides the KCYGC, but the previous Anglico det put the Anglico sticker on there.

Here is also a view of the bar:

We had to wait a bit because the nonalcoholic beer selling person was in a meeting, which was just fine because the embassy has an exceptional coffee bar. We also ate chow there, which was really nice. Not only do they have real plates and silverware, but they have a much nicer facility. I had a Reuben sandwich, and it was awesome.

Finally, we bought our beer: five cases of Corona, three Heineken, and two Amstel.

We returned to Camp Charlie. Recently, the Poles have announced that each person on camp can get two kilograms of ice per day. This didn’t mean much to us because we have two large chest type deep freezers that we keep filled with water bottles. Each one holds a couple hundred water bottles each. We don’t need ice generally, but in this case we drew our maximum allotment to chill down all the beer. The rest of the afternoon was a flurry of packing and arming, and we left in the later afternoon when the heat started breaking. The trip down was uneventful, and we arrived in Diwaniyah right around sunset.It was surreal. The Diwo Marines mobbed us as we pulled into the parking lot.

They have not done much of anything since they have been here. To date, they have done four missions, and they are pretty bored. The social excitement got them going, and they treated us in fine fashion. But the strangeness went much deeper for me than just being greeted enthusiastically by some bored Marines. For the last two months, my war has been limited to twelve Green Berets and nine Marines. I say hello to the chow hall manager every day. I see El Salvadoran soldiers, but they are more like the extras in the movie. I spend my time in either my hooch or the team room with the same people.The days will flow from one to another so that the only demarcation is the missions, which are unique enough that we can reference time by them.”Oh, that happened right after the mission where we…”

The days themselves have neither feature nor identity. This phenomenon is nothing new to me as an airline pilot. I long ago gave up trying to remember what day of the week it is. But what is relevant is that my world has shrunk down to less than twenty five people and practically less than two thousand square feet of space. Suddenly being mobbed by another dozen Marines in a strange parking lot in a different compound unexpectedly threw my life out of balance. I hadn’t seen these Marines much before coming over here, and now I hadn’t seen them in two months. The SF guys I know pretty well, but here were strangers calling me brother.

The party was winding up when we got there. The colonel promptly confiscated all our beer, and rendered it unfit for consumption and ready for disposal by the handiest method available: the Marines drank it. There was plenty of steak, lobster, and chicken. I had remembered to bring the case of cigars that my particular friend Steve generously sent me, which were a big hit.The Diwo guys have a radio station, and the word went out that some combat Marines were visiting, and soon our guys were regaling their newfound friends with tales of adventure. The Purple Heart winners were the heat with everybody. All the Latinos got crazy playing dominoes. Until recently, I was not aware that dominoes is a contact sport.

Young Marines are a study. They are possessed of a well of energy that I only vaguely recall, drawing on it as reflexively as breathing. All of these guys are in peak physical shape, and they are happy to show anyone (particularly if that anyone is a girl) their physique. Tank tops are popular, but not as popular as not wearing a shirt. One DiwoMarine has “Semper” tattooed on his right biceps, and “Fidelis” on his left, and he spends a good deal of time walking around with arms raised, flexing his tattoos. The SF guys egged him on, and even suggested that he get Velcro flaps sewn into his cammies so he could show off even when in uniform, which, of course, he is going to look into.

It might be considered regrettable that with peak physical performance comes a manic energy, particularly when there is not much to do with all that energy except get in yet better shape. These Marines met their brothers warmly, and soon the patio was a pit of young men doing what young men do in each other’s company: wrestling, yelling, spitting, laughing, smoking, running, shouting, jumping, fighting. But only in the time they are not trying to charm the ladies that were brave enough to visit, despite the standing order by all units in Diwo that no women were allowed in the Marine compound after dark.

At 10 PM, we bid all our guests goodnight, and settled down to sleep. And that is the truth. Anything you hear about crazy Marines running around on the roof is untrue. And we certainly didn’t smoke a whole box of cigars. And that rumor about the Marine running around without his pants is a bald faced lie. And nothing got broken. And that was mouthwash in those mouthwash bottles. And they certainly didn’t start a fire.