Auld Lang Syne

From Michael:

June 13, 2008

I was “all kitted up” as we say. I had on my body armor, helmet, weapon, and my large pack. I was literally walking out to the flight line, where a military transport helicopter was waiting to take me back to Kandahar , back to civilization. Kandahar , while only a one-hour helicopter ride away, is a world away. They have air conditioning, running water, electricity, showers around the clock, and most importantly, real food. I was that close, and it all faded in an instant. A young Marine came running out shouting my name, telling me that my boss needed to talk to me for a moment. I should have known better. My boss, the Battalion Executive Officer, gave me the bad news that I would not be returning to Kandahar on that night. Instead, I was to go back outside the wire, to evaluate the needs of locals in the village near our FOB. Duty called. I smiled wryly and told the XO that I was happy to sacrifice my flight back to civilization for the betterment of the locals. But, in the Marine Corps, you learn to get over things quickly. I began un-packing and then re-packing my pack, this time for a different purpose. The next morning I found myself bouncing along in the back of a Humvee, on my way to a nearby but different FOB. This new FOB was actually a British FOB, manned primarily with Scottish soldiers in the Royal Army. A smile came across my face as I saw a giant St Andrew’s cross, the national flag of Scotland . Everywhere I turned I saw memories of my onetime home. I saw empty bottles of Irn-Bru, the soda that the Scottish (and probably no one else) love some much. Trying to describe the taste of Irn-Bru is like trying to describe the taste of Dr. Pepper. I love the stuff. The Brits, as I have frequently observed, know how to rough it much better than us Americans. They have a full staff of cooks. And for breakfast, we had eggs, sausage, beans, and…black pudding. For dinner, it is usually curried rice, chicken, pasta, and for dessert…Angel Delight, a jello-like pudding that I love. In the evening, one of the Scottish soldiers will break out his bagpipes and play some traditional pipes for us. If you’ve never heard the bagpipes in a military setting, it sends goosebmps down your arms. Again, I felt like I was a young boy back in Scotland. And then there are the Scottish soldiers themselves. Don’t dare call them “Brits”, for they will correct you in an instant that they are indeed Scottish. The walls of their living spaces are adorned with various half (or frequently completely) naked women, flags displaying their fierce national pride, or banners declaring which football (soccer) team they support. Obviously, I got along with them very well, and they took a keen interest in me as soon as they found out I had once lived in Scotland . I became a sort of translator, for some of the American Marines had difficulty understanding the harsh, choppy dialect of the English language spoken by the Scottish. All in all, I was glad that I had missed that flight back to Kandahar . I will get my chance soon enough.