Lucky Update 13

Chapeau' means 'hat.' 'Oeuf' means 'egg.' It's like those French have
a different word for everything!" -- Steve Martin (1978)

Obviously I am not breaking ground when I tell you that different
cultures have different ways. I mean, what flies in New York isn't the
same as what flies in outer, peasant Afghanistan. That's not news to
anyone. (I hope it isn't. If I am blowing your mind right now, you're
likely to not make it through the rest of this Update.) So in the
light of the previous, less than revelatory statement, I have been
thinking about patriotism.

I have been thinking that a country's embrace of freedom has a lot to
do with a basic love of place. I mean that freedom is a part of a
national identity. I don't know if I am trying to say that I think
that freedom is part of a country's self-esteem, but I think that
there is something about the who of a place. (I am not sure this is
even something the English language can express, so if this is
muddled, bear with me.)

This is where I am coming from: We had a patient this week, a young,
local national girl. She had been assaulted, physically and sexually,
by her brother. Now, I am not super conservative, I believe in
generally living and letting live. I like my characters flawed. Show
me an hour long drama on television with a lead character that you're
not sure if you're totally on his side, whose charisma outshines your
basic human ability to judge his actions, and I am enthralled. I like
my shading gray. But I have to say, you attempt to beat up and rape
your sister and you're going to have to really bring it, on the
personality side, to still be considered merely flawed and not evil.
That's a bad guy move, 100%.

This girl came in and had to be guarded, had to be protected. She was
in more danger after the assault than before it. She was now eligible
for a death warrant, now she was considered damaged goods. And
contrary to all available evidence in their product-line economy, the
Afghan people do not allow damaged goods to live.

I think, though her final situation was not expressed to the
population at large, that she made it out of the local area and is
living a life that is as regular and safe as she can now. And that is
to the good. But it makes me wonder, how do you love a country where
this is the norm? And if you can't love your country, how can you
embrace its freedom? How can you pursue it whole-heartedly? Maybe you
can. I guess it isn't impossible. But I am not sure I could do it.

Now, I know that the US is not a bastion of righteousness all the way
to its center. I know that we have some dinge against our lily-white
character. George Washington held back from freeing the slaves due to
pragmatism. Our attitude towards the American Indian/Native American
population had some pretty dire consequences for their gene-pool.
We're not blameless in these areas. Paul Johnson, my favorite
historian, (How cool is it to have a favorite historian? Is it cool or
hopelessly lame? I am never sure.) wrote a whole book around the
question of whether America's virtues outweigh its sins. I think that
there is probably no way to judge it clearly, Justice is both blind
and pretty silent on most subjects, but I think that we are at least
trying.

For instance, when we as a nation find out that a fellow has assaulted
his sister, we generally don't take the fellow's side. We're usually
on the side of the victim rather than the victimizer. It's not a hard
and fast rule. We fail sometimes, but we strive. The Afghan people,
under their variation of Sharia Law, strive in another direction.

I have friends in the military who call the Afghans 'creatures.' They
do not consider them people. I think that might be a bridge too far.
But there are all of these things, all of these strikes against this
nation: This girl, the baby who drinks diesel fuel, the very strange
and very ingrained sexual practices of the men. All of these things
add up to an image of a place, a national character if you will. And
they make me wonder, how can you be patriotic about your country if
your national character makes Don Draper look like Galahad the Pure?

I know that when the US started, our freedoms were specific to white
men. And I know that that was wrong. I know that the situation in
Afghanistan is complicated. I know that the Soviet occupation was
terrible and that the excesses of an invading force led directly to
the excesses of Sharia Law as it is practiced today. (Incidentally,
how many death can we lay at the feet of the Soviet machine? There is
a very real way in which the Russian revolution led to the rise of
Nazi Germany, then there are the Gulags, then there is China and Cuba
and… eventually Afghanistan and the extreme justification of this view
of Islam. It makes me wonder what Karl Marx would think of it all. His
basic ideas went a long way in a direction I can't imagine he'd have
appreciated. It reminds me of Ricky Gervais bit about Hitler and
Neitzsche.) I am sympathetic to the idea that a host of evil led to
this world that the people of Afghanistan now inhabit. I appreciate
that there are complicated and long-term problems and that an economic
system of reforms could change a lot of the things that are accepted.
I am reluctant to view all of this as a spiritual problem, though that
is what my upbringing leads me to. But at some point I have to wonder,
how can we really free a people that live under this kind of bondage
to an ancient code? Even if we can give them the freedom to trade and
the infrastructure to build and the resources to exploit their natural
wealth, can we save the women, children and… the spirits, I suppose?
Is there hope?

I am not in the most beautiful part of Afghanistan. But I've seen
pictures and videos of areas that are gorgeous. Even the area where I
am has vistas. The sky here lacks the impressive, oppressiveness of
Montana's Big Sky Country, but there is no denying that the horizon
goes all the way to the ground. There are purple mountains majesty if
I look to the North. I can see loving things about this country, and
everyone loves the place they were born, to some degree. And again,
freedom and patriotism aren't a national self-esteem and I am not a
defeatist. I believe that this country should be free and that liberty
is an absolute good. I believe in the Rights of Man and in Natural
Law. But I think that Hobbes, not the tiger, is right when he says
that there will rise up brutal men who will control the weak-willed,
general populace.

I guess that I think that Afghanistan needs a few more Washingtons, a
few more men of will with the desire to do good, or at least to strive
for good. (And I think that I mean men. I am not trying to be sexist
here, but I think that the country is.) And I worry that without those
men this country will be cursed to fall back into the ways of the
past. But I have hope for their future. The US started out with some
pretty significant moral flaws and has striven through the years to
overcome them. I think that Afghanistan can do the same.

Update XII

I have been watching the first season of the CBS show The Unit. This
is a show about a secret, underground Special Forces Unit that answers
directly to the President, and their wives and families. It is an ok
show, not terrific or ground-breaking, but it's a smart premise,
created by David Mamet, and it speaks to something that I have been
thinking about more and more. If you are not in the military,
personally or by marriage, then you don't really get the military
life.

No that that it totally a bad thing. I am not sure that I'd want to
get it. I was watching the wives on The Unit and their interactions.
And of course they are over-heated and soapy, but they are also not
that far off. For all of the moments that stretch the idea too far,
The Colonel screaming at the wives that they will get their husbands
killed if they are not more paranoid, there are moments that are
really accurate. Moments where groups of women who have as a bond only
that their husbands do something dangerous, and then have to be
together and live together and sort out who they are as a group.

Maybe that's what it is, there is a specific group dynamic that comes
from not being blood-family, but being family that is brought together
due to circumstances beyond control. I have a friend, a really close
friend that I met in Okinawa, Japan. He and I write e-mails 3 or 4
times a week, for hours, if work permits. We go back and forth,
discussing everything from marriage to calling each other gay for the
slightest kind word. It's silly and male and great. We talk to each
other about things that we're trying to figure out how to say to our
wives. When my son died, I was writing to this guy about it. He and I
had been e-mailing for the whole time in the hospital. He's that kind
of friend. Like a brother, really. And that's from the military.
That's not from anything else.

Of the friends I grew up with, only one of them joined the military,
too. He and I had been close in the few years before I joined and now
that we are both in, our talks are as effortless as ever, but now they
have an added bond. We're not just the guys we were when we were in
our early twenties, we're also military guys. We have shared
experiences that other people don't have, and that they can't have. We
talk about deployments and things that happen on them. We tell each
other things that we don't tell our families, because our families
don't have the base-line understanding of what it is to be in the
military.

I have a younger brother. He's a Marine. Since he joined up, when we
talk we both know exactly what the other means. We're on the same page
because we're both experiencing the same things. I know what it is for
him, when he wants to deploy and wants to feel that side of the
military life. I know it because I feel it to. I know what he means
when he says that he isn't sure how to make his wife feel what he
feels. Because I know that you can't.

My wife, Margaret, says that she hears the most, to us, bizarre
questions. "Will your husband get to come home from Afghanistan for
Christmas?" To which she never really knows what to say. There isn't a
shuttle, you know? It's not even like taking the Concorde from London.
It's a lot more involved. And I am on a short tour, missing Christmas
is a bummer, but it is incidental. That's not the important thing. She
says that when people ask where I am and she says, "He is deployed to
Afghanistan." They look at her with faces of horror. She says it's
like she told them that I am on death-row and about to be executed. I
am gone for 6 months to a safe-ish area. To a military family, it's
not that big a deal.

We know what it is to live in a tent with people who don't let you
sleep, but who you would take a bullet for. We know what it is to sit
next to someone who drives you absolutely up the wall, but who you
would lay your life down for. Everyone knows this feeling, it's called
Family. But what you don't know is how that feeling can overlay people
who you have trained with. How you come to adopt, almost instantly,
people you would never otherwise spend 10 minutes with. But we not
only accept and embrace that stranger, we learn how to fight a war
with them and then we go out and do it.

And that brings me to the next point that I keep thinking about: When
I called home from Christmas my Grandma asked me, "Are we winning over
there?" And all I could say was, "Well, we're not losing." And the
reason that's all I could say is that we already won. I know that it's
a big joke now to say that. The whole Mission Accomplished banner and
all is a short, sharp, liberal laugh. But the fact of the matter is,
the Taliban no longer rules in Afghanistan. There are pockets of
resistance and we are here fighting a peace-keeping battle. But this
is Operation Enduring Freedom. We are assisting in the endurance of a
Liberty Under Duress. These are the birth-pangs, the travails of a new
country that will actually have the ability to choose its future.
That's an amazing thing to get to tell people.

So here we are, these men and women in the military life. We're all
forced together, a family we never expected nor chose, fighting to
change the world. And the world sees us as a strange and foreign cult
of anti-social misfits who are struggling in a war, 10 years on. But
that's not how we see ourselves. We see ourselves as guardians of
liberty and freedom. We see ourselves as family, we see ourselves as…
well, I am not going to be able to say it better than Shakespeare, a
band of brothers. And for all the in-jokes and acronyms and the
general state of otherness that we project or seem to feel from the
American culture at large, we do this because we love that culture. We
do this because we love to see the American Flag flying on someone's
lawn, even if we know they don't take it down at sunset, like they are
supposed to. We love to see people gathered together and sharing time,
even if we only hear about it from our tent in Afghanistan. We do this
because, even though we aren't a part of America's normal life, we
love that life and are willing to die for it.

But not the members of CBS's The Unit, they have to be on again next week.

Update 11

A funny thing happened this morning. Just as I was about to fall asleep, at the moment when conscious thought had ceased but just before the tipping point into actual oblivion, a British fella burst into the tent and shouted, "IS ANYONE AWAKE?!" I made a sort of strangled, gargling, "Wha?" sound and he pulled the hanging blanket aside and said, "They've found a device by the construction, they think it's an explosive, everyone has to evacuate!"  I woke up the other three people in the tent and we went outside.

There were about twenty British wandering about and no one in charge. I asked where the bomb was and was told that it was by the new construction, I wandered to where I could see the area and saw British, non-bomb disposal sorts, just wandering all over the area. So I told everyone to just go back to bed. My reasoning being that if there was no crowd control, there was no bomb.  We all went back and after a period where I worried that I'd just made a choice that would kill us all, I fell asleep. 

Not quite two hours later, the fellows in my tent, their numbers now swelled to a daytime maximum, developed a game where one of them would pretend to sneeze and the others would shout out hearty, "BLESS YOU"s. They were also dropping a concrete basketball from the top of a tall ladder, or perhaps it was a boulder from the top of a specially built staircase. At any rate it was painfully loud against the hard plastic flooring and I eventually gave in and shouted, "I have accepted that, for my sins, I will not be allowed to sleep a straight 8 hours. That is inevitable and fair. I have accepted that your collective insistence on weight lifting means you live on an all-protein, all-flatulence diet and I will sleep inside the olfactory equivalent of a packet of freeze dried peanuts, a smelling, gaseous haze. But do you have to be so predictable? Is this all a response to the tuba lessons I take at night, while you all sleep? Is it the strings of firecrackers I light off in the wee hours of the morning? No, it isn't, because I don't do these things! If it were an option, I would encase my head in a sound-proof, asbestos box every morning and breathe through the gills that I developed on my chest, but in spite of all the testimony of my senses, the generations required for massive evolutionary changes to have taken place have not actually passed. I am still forced to listen while you all make as much noise as is humanly possible and I am starting to think that you are actually enlisting supernatural aid. Or is this cacophony some sort of rite you engage in, in order to ward off the more timid demonic entities? Because I have to tell you, at this point you would be better off purchasing tripwires and claymores, because lying here in the throes of enforced insomnia I am no longer able to think of anything besides ways of slowly and tortuously murdering each and every one of you. It is only a matter of time before lack of sleep drives me from mere murder into actual corpse mutilation. So, if you are hoping to, A: live long and fruitful lives and/or B: have remains that can be reassembled come the rapture, I suggest you find a way to return the favor of silence during the day and allow me some sleep!" I dropped back into the cocoon of pillows that swaddle my head.

Not eight seconds later one of them said to the others, "He just woke me up, two hours ago, and there wasn't even a bomb."

In other news, it is the New Year here in Afghanistan. We got it about 11 hours before you all did, so as an old hand in this 2011, I have to tell you, I think it will be a good one. I have a good feeling about this year. I get to go home, not too far into it, and I think that things that seemed difficult last year will seem merely things that happen.

Update X

In the very, very cold night of an Afghanistan Boxing Day, we are waiting for another wounded Marine whose helicopter is not arriving in the time limits imposed by safety. Merry Christmas from Camp Bastion Hospital, it's time for another Update!

This week has been a roller-coaster of emotion here in the Hospital. One of the Cinder Babies from last week's update passed away, to great sorrow. Another healed up and got to go home, to great joy. The mails stopped for a couple of days, due to overwhelming volume of Christmas cheer, which was both a welcome bit of news, (people love us so much!) and frustrating (how is the volume of packages going to decrease if you are not delivering mail?) But that is the way when on deployments.

Christmas Eve was not my best day. I broke, well completely burned out, my computer in the morning. I was pretty annoyed by that. While I was trying to take it apart and fix it I sliced open one of my fingers, pretty cleanly, but very deep. Then, due to holiday cheer and the possibility of good food at the Chow Hall, the fellows in my tent staged a several hours long wrestling match outside my cubicle. With only a couple of hours sleep I therefore went into work very, very early. My shift starts at quarter to eleven; I got to work at quarter to 8. I got here and told the guy who is on before me that he could leave and then sat down to stew in the general misery of being here, not being home, (two different things, really) and what a rotten day it'd been.

My Boss, who is also my Boss in Bethesda and a hell of a guy, came over and we talked for a while. He could tell that I was down and told some stories from his life and it was ok. I started to feel better. Then my friend Cahill came back to the Ops Room and we all sat around talking. And then, after relating the story of my electrical mishap with my computer, I started to tell stories of stupid things I have done with electricity, which then evolved in generally stupid things I have done. (I have a surprising wealth of these stories.)

I told them about the time when, in Okinawa, I was trying to fix a label making machine. I had tried it with batteries and it didn't work. There were two separate AC adapters in the drawer with it and I tried both, but neither gave it juice. The indication at this point is that there was an electrical problem inside that machine, but before I just assumed that, (NEVER ASSUME!) I absent-mindedly licked one of the plugged in AC adapters. I think I wanted to be sure that there was current moving through it. Well, there was. I jumped about a foot in the air and my face went pale. My hands shook and my hair, usually gelled to a crisp concrete, stood on end. But there were other people in the room and I didn't want them to know I'd just done something that stupid, so I tried shaking the label maker and acted like nothing had happened. My buddy Kitchen, after about 15 seconds, turned to me and said, "Did you just lick that?" I got the grin that I get after I have done something truly stupid and said, "Yep, I think I need to sit down."

I told the story about when I was 9 or 10 and I was reading a book while absent-mindedly twisting the switch on an old lamp. The bulb had burned out and been thrown away, but I hadn't put a new one into the socket. After twisting the knob for a while I wondered,  "Is it off or on now?" Then I kept reading and twisting till I thought, "How could I test which it is?" (And this, I think, is telling. I was a scientist, or Encyclopedia Brown, on a case. The Case of The Bulbless Lamp!) As I thought about it I got a wire hanger down out of the closet and unwound it, taking it in both hands, Sword in The Stone-style, I jammed it into the light socket. There was shower of sparks and I flew backwards and hit my head on the bunk beds. "I guess it's on." I thought. The thing about that story that most appeals to me is that I thought I was being really clever, while I was doing one of the stupidest things I have ever done. And even though it hurt, after I did it and realized how stupid it was, I couldn't tell anyone about it.

We just found out that the Marine didn't make it. They found part of him, but not even all. He is coming back, another Hero.

There is a story about Peter O'Toole, the British actor. Back in his day, he was quite a hell-raiser and a drunk. He was on a several day bender with a friend and at the end of it found himself in the audience of a popular play. He turned to his friend and said, "This next part is brilliant. In this next part I come out on stage and say… Uh oh."

That's kind of how the guys and I who work here feel. There is a play that is happening. It is one that we are supposed to be a part of, but we're somehow in the audience. In a lot of ways, that's good. The fellows who have been in combat are glad that, as they put it, there are not rounds coming down range at them. But even they would admit to a feeling that we are in a place of action, but are merely transcribing the action taking place. Tonight I am just glad that someone else told the Hero's unit commander that he had passed. I am not sure I could have done it.

At any rate, Christmas Day was swell. We everyone was in a cheerful mood, patrols were cancelled so that no one was in a lot of danger. Everyone got a present from the command, though it was mostly just nonsense that no one would want. (So much hard candy. I cannot fathom who is eating all of these boiled sweets.) But everyone was grateful. The Brits all wore Santa hats all day. There was a genuine air of festivity and joy. And that's the thing, out here, even in the midst of the strangeness and the sorrow, there is still a feeling of togetherness, there are still stories to make us laugh and even when the Heroes are coming in, the feeling that they are not just Heroes, but OUR Heroes.



Attached, please find the photograph of those deployed in my crew. Cahill is the fellow with the black hair, standing on the far left. I am invisible, behind my Boss, LCDR Santiesteban.

Update IX

There is a sound that wounded children make, it is not a cry and it is not a moan. It's a sort of trilling coo of pain. It is not less heartbreaking for all of that. And with the trilling of that sound echoing in my ears, it is time for another Update.

This week has been eventful in ways minor and major. I completed my semester of school, so that is pleasant. The slightly less than a month break that I now have stretching in front of me looks like fun. Margaret and I, over the phone, managed to take apart two computers, consolidate their innards and come out the other side with a working single computer. She is to be congratulated on her deftness and quick wits. If you get the chance, you see.

And I had the unfortunate duty of telling a Commanding Officer that his man had died. That was a bigger one. I'll tell you the story. I came into work, as usual at about 2200, (10PM). There was a flight on the board, by which I mean a flight had been called for to help someone, an American Marine who it said was a double amputee. The call came in just moments before I did and was being written on the board as I entered. The poor fellow had been an Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) Marine. He was in the middle of a minefield, or something like a minefield, disposing of something hazardous, when he was blown up. They called for helicopter assistance to get him to the hospital, but due to the area, the helicopter could not land. After about 50 minutes they finally got him to a location where the bird could land, but by then it was too late. He had already passed.

I was working on other things for most of the time, but when his Commanding Officer came in, about ½ an hour into the wait, I spoke to him, got the patient's information and discussed the situation. We did not yet know, as it had not yet happened, what was holding up the flight. After we found out, in the Operations section where I work, I had about 10 minutes more work to do on other things. When I went to go into the Emergency Department (ED) I crossed through the little overhead covered area between the two buildings and the Commanding Officer and Senior Enlisted Member from the deceased's command were standing outside. As I came out they asked me, "What's going on? Is he on his way? What's the hold up?" I realized no one had told them yet and I said, "Sir, I am very sorry to have to tell you, but your Marine did not make it. The helicopter could not land in time." They had all known the fellow well and were all shocked and pretty devastated. I felt terrible for having to be the one to tell them.

In the Hospital we call these guys, the ones who do not make it home, Heroes. (As in, "Did you get the Social on the Hero that came in last night?") They used to be called Angels, but that term has been phased out. I like Hero better. I think that, if there is a definition of the word it would include a person who dies carrying out their duty. I know that, as I was raised, dying in the cause of Freedom is a great honor. It makes me wish that Valhalla was real, a place for Heroes; a hall of drinks and food and revelry for all these Heroes to go to. The Vikings knew what they were about.  

The children whose coos of pain I mentioned at the outset are here because of a fire. They have burns all over their little bodies. I don't know the circumstances of the fire, I can't imagine, really. But I know that they look like… does anyone know the Disney cartoon The Water Babies? They look like the opposite, The Cinder Babies. Adorable, but they make your insides churn, not with disgust, but with the painful knowledge that hurt children bring to us all: The world allows this.

In other, brighter thoughts: I noticed this week that next month is the half-way point. On the 12th I will have been here 3 months, on the fllowing 12th I will have been here 2/3rds of the time, then it is just to make it through March and I am nearly home. It will go quickly after the holidays and I hope to see you all before long.

Update 8

And now, an open letter to everyone who works in the daytime, here at Camp Bastion in Afghanistan.

Dear Everyone Else,

I know that this is asking an awful lot, but I was wondering if you could manage to spend an entire day not yelling or making exploding noises, or having helicopters come in directly over my tent. While we are talking, there are a couple of other things I'd really appreciate, too: Could you stop teaching yourself to play guitar in the bathroom that is a slim bit of canvas away from my formerly sleeping head? Why are you trying to learn guitar in the bathroom, anyway? That can't be the best place to learn guitar.

Can you not smoke cigarettes directly outside the tent with the tent door open? Sometimes when you do this I wake up thinking that the whole tent is on fire and the terror and burst of adrenaline make it very difficult to fall back asleep.

Can you not masturbate noisily in the little cube of tent across from me? (This part doesn't need to be open, I know who you are, but we would both be embarrassed if I brought it up specifically.) While I can appreciate the difficulty and loneliness that comes with being in the desert, you are not helping anything or anyone and the silence that envelops the tent while you do that is not a magical interlude, it is everyone else trying not to retch.

Can you stop throwing, or perhaps kicking, whatever that gross, squashy sounding thing is that you throw, or perhaps kick, in the hallways? It does not sound healthy, nor fun. It sounds like you are playing a game that includes tackling while using a haggis for a ball.

In spite of the fact that the internet goes out frequently and the 20MB of daily internet dose are frequently used up all too quickly, can you not shout curses about it? I know that it is frustrating, but shouting those curses daily makes you horse and makes me awake, which is what I do not want to be.

Finally, can you stop exploding things? I know that they sounds and shakings that accompany these explosions are usually training related and are probably teaching someone how to better aim mortars, at least, that is my guess. I don't actually think we're using that many mortars, but I am at a loss to guess why you are exploding things for other reasons. I know I am not hearing combat sounds, so if the explosions are anything, they much be training. But if you could stop doing them while I sleep, I would really appreciate it. For one thing, in my sleep I don't know that they are for training and I frequently think that we are all about to die. I worry that Milo Minderbender has hired a squadron to bomb and strafe our Camp. (I worry about this because I have read Catch-22 about a million times and it creeps into my dreams occasionally. Mostly when there are explosions.) I worry that we are all going to die when I am jolted out of sleep by the sounds and physical shaking of an explosion and if you thought that it was hard to get back to sleep after the cigarette smoke, you have not seen anything yet.

If, Entire Staff of Camps Bastion and Leatherneck, we could come to some sort of agreement on these points, I would feel a lot better and sharper and less exhausted most of the time. I thank you for your time.

HM2 Owen Pitrone

Update 7

I helped roll over a 7 year old patient today. I realized while doing it that I haven't touched another person in a month. I might be losing touch, very literally, with other people.

And with that disturbing revelation, it is time for another Update.

We are nearing the 1/3 mark on this deployment and it has reached the point where everyone seems bit resentful. It happens in all deployments, usually around this point. There is still more to go than you can comfortably imagine and you are no longer in the first blush. I remember a manager at a coffee shop telling me that the 3^rd year of a relationship changed everything. That the way you weather year 3 is the barometer for how relationships work. I took it very much to heart, though I have no idea why. I think it was that she reminded me of my friend Julie Navatsyk, who always seems wise. Anyway, the point is, this is the deployment equivalent of that manager's 3 year hypothesis.

We have Freeze Warnings every night and the rains haven't happened yet. I have heard that the good thing about the cold and the wet is that in the mornings there are beautiful frost patterns all over the ground. Think the ice fairies in Fantasia. They say that that will happen, but I haven't seen it yet.

Everyone is becoming bored, searching for things to do to fill their time. Little coffee groups have sprung up. "Let's go to the lounge and play cards and drink coffee." It's like the whole military is turning into an amateur production of Friends. It makes me wish I was awake during the day. I always fancied myself as Chandler-esque.

The hospital is full of Afghan patients and fewer and fewer US. That's a good thing, in a way. It means that things are going better than it seems like. But the Afghans that we have are younger and younger. It makes me think about the Russians and the way they used to intentionally target the children. It seems like Al Quaeda has learned all the wrong lessons from their years and years of war. I read an article in a British paper the other day in which the British Forces lead in Afghanistan said they are successfully proving to the populace that we are peace-loving and care about the Afghan peoples; that the Taliban does not and that they are the bad guys. I like that idea. I hope he is right.

I have been thinking a lot about this idea of Good Guys and Bad Guys. I think that, while it is not something original to America, it is an inherently American idea. The Beach Boys song Get Around has the lyric: "The bad guys know us and they leave us alone." I was thinking that that's something that Americans believe. We believe that we are the good guys. No matter what the situation. (In the case of the song, it seems like the Beach Boys are singing about being a gang of youths who drive over the speed limit. I doubt that people at the time, who encountered such youths, thought of them as the good guys.) But the attitude persists, and I like it. We do think about whether we're doing the right or wrong thing, which is something that I am not sure that everyone always does. As a nation, I mean, we do.

Take the Iraq War. The big issue there is, were we justified in going in and making war? We were, we think, during Gulf War I. I think that that's true. We were definitely justified there. When we went back, we first spent months and months deliberating over whether or not there was justification to go back. And publically, we argued this in the halls of government publically. That's a powerful thing to be able to say. There may well have been, and probably was, a lot of back-room dealing that happened, but we argued the matter in public. That means that we were open about our reasons and our reasoning. That's something that makes me feel like a good guy.

We are here now, voluntarily with the British, running a hospital that has more Afghani patients then US or UK. That's another thing that makes me feel like we're good guys. And, and I know that this is a difficult point to make, when we harm innocents it is not intentional. That's huge, to me. There are going to be innocents harmed. And sometimes is will be done by madmen who want only to ruin lives. And SOMETIMES those madmen will be American. We are a big nation and we have our share of nutballs. (See the latest Vanity Fair article about Randy Quaid if you want further proof. It's a compelling read and also batshit insane.) But they are not the majority, they are not the thrust of our military and they are not thinking and publically arguing about whether or not what they are doing is justified. All the Platoon-style, over-acted melodrama of a dramatized Mai Lai massacre is absent from the crazy cases of ACTUAL abuse of power. To put it another way, there was no murdered-Christ-like-Dafoe manqué in Abu Ghraib.

That's something that makes me think that we ARE The Good Guys, and I like being on that team. It's something that keeps me warm on the cold nights and something that keeps the resentments and slights of day-to-day communal living tamped down. The guys might be stepping on my toes, but at least we're all Good Guys together.