I forgot to pass this on, as a visual aid

Update: The Final

Well, this is it: The final Update from Afghanistan. This is my last
in-country Sunday. It's been over 6 months and I've spent the last two
nights training my replacement. He seems like a good fellow. He's
aware and he understands the Excel work that is required for the job.
It's more than I could have hoped for, actually.

When I was little, my Father, my Papa, would frequently work late.
We'd often have dinner without him, or at least start dinner without
him. When we did, we would always pray, pre-prandial-ly, "... and
bring Papa home, safely and soon." It was our prayer and our sincere
hope that we could all be together. Homecoming was a part of our
nightly ritual. It is a part of everyone's ritual. We leave to home to
achieve things, and then we return to where we belong.

In every mess hall, galley and dining facility, on every military
base, camp, or outpost, there is a table. It is always set and it
waits for the return of our Prisoners of War and our Missing in
Action. It is set, it has a flower and a candle, it has silver-ware,
it is ready for the day that our people come home. This idea, this
concept of the home-coming, is an integral part of our military
heritage. It is recognizable, across all branches and creeds. We all
want to come home and we all want to see our brothers and sisters in
arms come home, too.

While I have been out here I have been a part of a team of people
whose goal is to get our Marines, Soldiers and Sailors back home. We
have been successful far more often than we have not, but there have
been men that have not made it home, on our watch. We all know that,
we have all seen these Heroes. And it has sweetened our own joy at our
homecoming, while also leaving the taste of sadness in our mouths. We
will make it home, but the collective, the entire WE will not.

Maybe I am thinking to much about how things end, today. I found out
that a good friend of mine died in a car accident this week. He was a
guy who taught me a lot about leadership and being in the Navy. He was
younger than me, but he had been around more in the Navy and had been
in leadership positions from the start of his career. He was our
Adjutant in Corps School and then I was deployed to Cuba with him. We
were both Squad Leaders in the same Platoon in Field Medical Training
Battalion. He was 26, I think. Something like that. Younger than me
and usually very sure that he was the coolest person in the world. But
his confidence in his own abilities was a real strength to him. Even
when we all knew he was wrong about something, he wouldn't back down
and eventually everyone would acquiesce. That sounds like it wouldn't
be a positive leadership attribute, but through force of personality,
he made it pretty good. It felt like the whole team was learning from
it.

Anyways, going home, getting home, no one left behind… these are
things that we believe in as a unit. We believe in it because we are
all, on occasion, away from home, away from those we love.

We believe that we will succeed in our mission. That we will bring
peace to the region. That we will bring all our men and women home,
safely and soon.

Below is the spoken part of the ceremony of remembrance:

Let us remember the men and women prisoners of war from all branches
of service that are too often forgotten. Let us remember them.

The table cloth is white, symbolizing the purity of their intentions
to respond to their country's call to arms -- so that their children
could remain free. Remember.

The lone candle symbolizes the frailty of a prisoner alone, trying to
stand up against his oppressors. Remember.

The black ribbon on the candle reminds us of those who will not be
coming home. Remember

The single rose reminds us of the loved ones and families of our
comrades in arms who keep the faith and await their return. Remember

A slice of lemon is on the bread plate to remind us of their bitter
fate -- if we do not bring them home. Remember

There is salt on the plate, symbolic of the family's tears as they
wait and remember.

The glasses are inverted. They cannot toast with us tonight -- maybe
tomorrow, if we remember.

The red, white and blue ribbon is tied to the flower vase by a yellow
ribbon that was worn by thousands who awaited their return. Remember

The faded picture on the table is a reminder that they are missed very
much and are remembered by their families. Remember.

As we look upon this empty table, do not remember ghosts from the
past, remember our comrades.

Remember those whom we depended on in battle. They depend on us to
bring them home.

Remember our friends. They are the ones we love -- who love life and
freedom as we do.

They will remember what we do. Please honor and remember them.

Another Great Article About Our War

http://www.wired.com/dangerroom/2011/04/ambushed-afghanistan/all/1

Update 25

People keep saying that I ought to put these together into a book, and
while I like the idea, I am pretty sure that desire alone is not what
it takes to get published. I appreciate the confidence, but I don't
really look forward to the day when I am told that if I had just
applied myself I'd have had a book deal. What's that self-pitying
tone? It must be time for an Update!

I think it is time, or at least that we have come far enough through
this together, that I can start talking about coming home. Everyone
here has been talking about that return journey for weeks now and the
topics that are cropping up again and again: What will I eat? How many
times will I have sex with my spouse? What movies will I see? How many
strangers will I attempt to have sex with? (That's more the single
guys, but you can see where it would be pertinent after 6 months of
not.) It's not all hedonism. Lots of people see the end of their debts
and the start of new lives. People are leaving here and going to new
duty-stations. Some of them are going to new schools, new professional
jobs within the Navy. There's a lot of hope on the backside of this
trip.

Closing it out, we're all tired. Everyone is tired of having spent 7
months away from home, six months doing the same job every day,
without breaks. I've worked every night for 6+ months. That's a long
time to do that. Getting home will be happiness, but we still have
about 2 weeks of being here, being close together actually. We're all
moving into open-bay tents, all the men, all the women, two tents.
It's good, in that it is closer to home, but it's rotten in all the
regular ways that these things are rotten.

We're not going to get to go back to the tents after work tomorrow
morning. They are fumigating the tents where we all sleep at about
0730. Everyone has to be up and out for a couple of hours after they
do it, till the tents are habitable again. It's a good thing for the
folks who'll be here in the summer, and it's not bad for the rest of
us either. The fellows and I will all be going to breakfast together.
It's the first time we've done that since the day we got here. At that
point we were starving for American food. 2 weeks on a British Army
base, eating the sorry excuse for food that the Brits eat, some real
bacon was heaven. It's less of a treat now, but it'll be nice to get
to hang out together.

I watched Serpico this week, which I'd never watched before. I
actually watched it, coincidentally, on the day that Sidney Lumet
died. It's a good movie. It's about the idea that institutions that
have authority need to be also brought under scrutiny. And I think
that that's true. I think that there is value in that idea. I think
that the institution that is the US military is inadequately
scrutinized. This last week there was nearly a governmental shutdown,
and the military, those stalwart exemplars of volunteerism and duty,
whined and cried at the idea of postponing a paycheck. Now, I will be
the first to admit that missing a paycheck stings. But I've also
worked a lot of places, worked a lot of jobs. You might say that I am
well-rounded or you might say that I am bad at a lot of jobs, but
either way, that experience has offered me the opportunity to know
that a postponed paycheck just means a little lean time. And a little
lean time is not the end of the world.

I appreciated the sense of humor on display, lots of Soldiers and
Marines making "Will Work For Food" signs, offering to sell MRAPs,
etc. That's all in good fun. But we're all men and women, with the
emphasis on maturity. We're individuals who volunteered to put our
lives on the line, and while I can appreciate being frustrated by not
getting paid for it when that's the deal, you're telling me you're
willing to die for your country, but only if the paycheck shows up on
time? We're not a mercenary force, or we shouldn't be. It's
unfortunate that it appears that we cannot retain a professional
demeanor in our nation's time of difficulty.

And that brings me back around to Serpico. It isn't that there isn't
enough money in the DOD budget to pay troops, even with a pay-period
skipped. The money that the DOD receives is fantastic. But so is the
waste. The same show of enlisted and junior unprofessional-ism that
was on display last week, on Facebook and MySpace and Tumblr and
Flickr, is evident in the spending practices of the official levels of
the DOD.

We have an excess of money for this year? Let's spend it on
wide-screen TVs. We have a budgeting officer who saved the Department
$10,000? Fire him and find a way to spend that money before anyone
finds out that we didn't need it, or we won't get it next year. It is
fraud, waste and abuse. But it is consistent with the way business is
done in the military. And that means that we need a Serpico. Or, maybe
we need more than that. Serpico was one guy and what his testimony did
was help expand the Internal Affairs divisions in police forces
everywhere.  That's the benefit. That's what needs to happen.

Leaving here just helps to see what it looks like. There are flaws.
I'm sure that that's not a shock to anyone. Huge organizations are
notoriously inefficient. The military is just another one of those.

For more of the Afghan Updates, or any I failed to send you, please visit:
http://dustintheeverything.blogspot.com/?zx=ee6fac97810abcfc

Update 24

Lately, more and more, people confuse the terms sympathy and empathy.
It's become a common mistake, an accepted usage, to say that you
empathize with whomever. In fact, more likely than not, you actually
just sympathize. When you sympathize you are imagining what they might
be feeling, and that imaginary feeling is used to gain an
understanding of the mental and spiritual space the other person
occupies. Sympathy is one of the best things we can express for each
other. It is the intentional  effort to share something that cannot be
shared. It is an effort towards familial feeling.

Empathy, on the other hand, is actually feeling what the other person
feels. It is almost impossible. If you could do it, you would be A.)
miserable and B.) some sort of super-powered being. In order for me to
feel what you feel, I have to be the same as you. I have to be
literally able to experience what you experience. Sure, there might be
similarities occasionally, but not often. Everyone feels differently
because they are from different places and have different frames of
reference. It's hard to even sympathize, if you really think about it.

A one day old Afghan baby died in our hospital yesterday. When I came
on shift I saw that the baby was in the Emergency Department and I
tried, I willed myself not to know much more. The Sergeant that I
relieved told me that it was likely that the baby would not make it. I
willed myself not to know that. I tried really, really hard. I knew,
somehow, somewhere inside, that if I acknowledged it, if I let myself
know that there was a one day old boy in the hospital that I would
then HAVE to go and see him. And if I saw him I would be tortured and
I would torture myself and it would ache and I would be useless for a
couple of days.

After a couple of hours, they came and told us that the baby had died.
I did my job and marked down the time of death and the recording
physician and then I stopped my brain up. I wouldn't think or feel it.
I insisted in my mind. And I was successful. I have done a few things
in my life that required, for ease of living, comfort and even for
completion, not to think about them. I have a process, a mental
process wherein I put the things into a tupperware container on the
inside of my mind, I seal the idea and I put it in a stack. Then I
don't open it. It works. I know it sounds crazy, but it mostly works.
(I credit the idea to James Ellroy. In his book American Tabloid he
talks a lot about compartmentalization. That's how I think of that
process.)

I made it through the whole night. When I was doing my turnover with
the on-coming watch I told her that the baby had died. She nodded,
also sad. The guy who works nights with me said, "One less fucking
terrorist."

I thought of several responses. "You mean, '...one fewer.'"
"Why don't you shut the hell up?!"
"Wow, you're a heartless son of a bitch."
I didn't say any of those. I just shut it out.

Then, an hour or so later I was sitting in my rack and I could feel
the tupperware box opening up. I struggled with it for a while, but I
just had to let it go. I sat on my rack and felt really, really sad.
Not crying, not weepy, just sad. And I realized, I could find sympathy
for the family of the little boy, but even with an 18 hour difference
in life-span between my son and theirs I couldn't feel what they felt.
I can't imagine what they feel. I want to talk to them, sort of, to
tell them that I am so sympathetic. That I have a similar
circumstance. That I know what it is like to believe so strongly that
your son is coming, to feel him in your heart, and then to lose him. I
know that feeling, but I only know how I felt. I am sympathetic,
because I can strive to imagine their feelings, and I can use my own
feelings to help me imagine, but I can't empathize. Their grief is
their own.

And I don't want you to feel like I am harping on my son's passing, or
continually returning to it, as a source of public immolation and,
indeed, sympathy seeking behavior. I bring it up because I can't help
but feel like he is part of this experience. He is part of how I made
the decision to come out here. He is part of who I am and part of how
I see things. And I bring him up today because I feel his passing
strongly, in the wake of another boy who didn't get to be a man. In
the wake of another boy who didn't get to grow up, who didn't get to
see the world and have observations about it. And I know that it is
wildly unlikely that my boy and this boy, whom I stalwartly would not
see today, will ever meet up, wherever they are. But I'd like to think
that if they did, they'd be able to find something in common. They'd
feel a level of camaraderie, something beyond seeing each other as
terrorists or oppressors. Maybe they'd just see each other as fellows,
and maybe they could find a way to imagine life from the point of view
of the other. A little sympathy goes a long way.

For more of the Afghan Updates, or any I failed to send you, please visit:
http://dustintheeverything.blogspot.com/?zx=ee6fac97810abcfc

Update 23

As much respect as I have for the Roman Legions, I have to say that I
am pretty glad not to have to wear a helmet with a brush on it. I
think that'd look pretty dumb. And, you know, the Update. For more of
the Afghan Updates, or any I failed to send you, please visit:
http://dustintheeverything.blogspot.com/?zx=ee6fac97810abcfc

This week has been more or less uneventful. Everyone knows that their
time here is short and everyone is more and more irritated with being
here and each other. There have been innumerable minor disputes and
the level of hurt feeling and animosity grows steadily. When I talked
to Margaret about it she said that it is all down to the attitude of
taking all the irritants you can without complaint, only to explode
later. She's right, of course. But there is also the whole aspect of
trying to maintain a familial cheerfulness. As the oldest child in a
family of 6 kids I can attest, attempting to remain in a familial mood
when actually irritated is the best way to foster a mutual feeling of
resentment. This feeling is now widespread among our detachment.

I'd love to say that I am exempt and that I am feeling only the milk
of human kindness running through my veins. Instead I am as annoyed as
everyone else. I am only spared in that I work nights and don't really
see anyone. It keeps me seeming pleasant. I woke up tonight to a
frequent irritant, there is a group who smokes cigars behind our tent
in the evenings. It makes the interior smell like a humidor. I wake up
some nights feeling like I smoked pack of Lucky Strikes and smelling
like a 90's trendy party. Since I usually just shower, dress and go to
work, I am not that annoyed by it. But the fellows who have to hang
out in the tent and try to go to sleep in the thickness and the
stench, they are not as cheerful about it. When I woke up tonight my
little sleeping area became an impromptu meeting of the angry about
smoke party. I sat and said little. (I know, it's hard to imagine such
an occurrence, but I did it.) There is a chance that there will be a
good amount of shouting at some point.

At work I received an e-mail from the girl who takes over from me in
the mornings complaining that she doesn't like the things that I don't
do. (I know, it's like proving a negative.) I wrote her back and told
her that any work she chooses to do extra is on her, she can't
complain that other people don't share her desire to do extra work.
She did not take it well.

I haven't been present for any of the many, many other minor disputes
that have popped up all over the hospital, but I hear about them all
the time. Lots of little negative feeling, all over the place.
And we still have to go to Kuwait, for our Warrior Transition
training, and then to our various Navy Mobilization Processing Site
(NMPS) locations. There are weeks left. (Not many, but weeks all the
same.) It's sure to be angry times in there. And we won't have the guy
who, on the way here, kept order. He's staying in Bastion, his orders
are for a full year.

Attached to this e-mail is a pdf from the local Public Affairs
Officers. They encouraged us to send it to everyone. I thought that
included you all. It's the local stories that they want to have
wide-release. They are approved stories, so they are positive to a
fault.

Hey everyone, go here and vote for Facial Hair as a Work of Art:
http://www.boingboing.net/submit/  Just hit the Plus. It's one of my
favorite things that my brothers have done. It's a project by Frank
and Drew, but I think that Rob put it together and posted it.

I can't think of anything else this week. I apologize. I'll try to hit
my word count close next week.

Update 22

There are a couple of new photos up on the blog site:
http://dustintheeverything.blogspot.com/?zx=80d40fa7d949fef8, if
you’re interested in that sort of thing. They are from a really
interesting thing I did this week.

The fellow standing next to me in the photo is a Chief of mine. He is
a really, really good guy. He was in Bethesda on limited duty orders
when I was there and they gave him the job of being the boss of the
Fleet Liaison Office, which is where I worked. I met him for the first
time on the day that my son died. I came downstairs from the Labor and
Delivery floor and he was sitting in the office, trying to figure out
how it all worked in the midst of the crisis that was my life. The
first thing I ever said to him was, “You’re an Explosive Ordnance
Disposal guy? Do you guys hate it when people say you’re the bomb?”

Anyway, he is out here now. He lives way over on the other side of the
base that is next-door to us. He took The Boss and I out to the range
with him this past week. He works for  the Counter-IED taskforce. They
are a group that trains ISAF (International Security Assistance Force:
Us, the British, Danish, etc. Basically, coalition forces and the
Afghans.) personnel to identify and destroy Improvised Explosive
Devices. It’s a strange task, in a strange place.

His day-to-day job is to train Afghan Security Forces to identify and
destroy IEDs. The issue here is that the Afghans don’t speak English.
Their counting system can be described as “One, two, many…” It is not
an exact science with them. In fact, if you look in an Afghan
dictionary for the term, ‘exact science’ you will find that you have
to first write an Afghan dictionary.

But explosive require a certain tact. They require at least a minimum
level of careful planning, mathematics and understanding to keep the
user from being transformed, from a latter-day Merchant of Death, into
a latter day cloud of moist, former-body parts. Now, given the
prevalence of explosive devices, some of a very high-caliber, that
litter the country-side here, we know that the people can be taught.
There is an audience for this kind of infotainment.

The actual audience that my Chief had for his student body was a bit
less impressive than the image you probably have when I say:
Afghanistan Explosive Team. What he actually trains is a rag-tag bunch
of 20-40 somethings with the attention spans of children. (Actually,
they were very like children in many ways. At one point they were
given a break, to smoke or use the bathroom. They spent it throwing
rocks at each other and running around a pile of plastic pipes. At one
point, due to a rock hitting harder than it was intended to, one of
them took off his Kevlar helmet and threw it at another’s head. It was
meant to decapitate. I think it only succeeded in bruising though.)
During the initial lecture, which is full of rules of thumb, since the
math is not going to be understood, most of the men were looking at a
dog that was walking around behind the translator.

The translator, that’s another great part of this, all of the
instruction is in English, which is then translated with a variety of
success, to the Afghan men. (Let’s make another note here, uniforms.
These guys are all wearing different military-style uniforms. They are
mostly green camouflage, though some of them are in digital patterns
and other in traditional. They are all wearing boots, whatever they
can find. One fellow who was about 4’ tall was wearing size 20 boots.
He looked like a clown and kept stumbling while holding his
explosives. It was unnerving. One fellow was wearing the nylon, rain
gear as his uniform. It can’t have been comfortable. Imagine wearing a
plastic suit on a 90 degree day, now imagine doing that while working
with explosives. He had little rivulets of sweat pouring out of his
plastic cuffs, into his boots. It was gross, but also kind of funny.)
The translators are not experts in explosives, they are just guys who
can understand basic, idiomatic English. The poor fellows who are
trying to learn are trying to learn second hand.

The training is very clever, though. Obviously this is a field where
rules of thumb are encouraged. Rather than learning specific and
technically correct lengths and times, they are taught to count tick
marks and yellow dots. When they plant their explosives they are
taught to yell “FIRE IN THE HOLE!” three times, at different angles
from the explosive. They can yell it in English or Pashtu. But at some
point, the whole exercise comes down to speed of movement. You must
pull the pin and get away in a speedy fashion. If you’re going to yell
your warning, it shouldn’t be done slowly, after the fellow right next
to you has already pulled his pin. Obviously the instructors are not
insane and they give enough time, but this is not a crack unit of
ordnance experts they are dealing with and there are a few moments
when, as the medical person on the scene, I had some rivulets of sweat
going myself.

But it was a good day, no one got hurt. I got to hang out in the sun
and see some explosions. I got to hang out with my pal, my Chief. It
was a good thing.

We’re days away from April now, which means that we’re days away from
the beginning of the end of our tour. I should be home by May and that
is really, really good news. It’s all downhill from here. I’ll be
seeing you all soon. In the meantime, as we say to the Afghans, keep
your powder dry.