I still remember the NCO I talked to at KIA (Kabul Intl Arpt) back in May when we were all desperately trying to get somewhere, anywhere. We roughed it sleeping outside since the guy handing out the code to the tents insisted on our CACs (the next shift happily took any ID) and I slept in a sandy luggage rack without a sleeping bag. We chatted for hours on end, there not being much to do besides, and saw pictures he took of his various diving excursions. Still think of the experience now and then, especially given the particulars of his work: part of a Stryker brigade, not designed for AFG, tin cans plus explosive equals shrapnel and so much more, down in Helmand, EOD experience and infantry. By now he should be home and safe.
I was on a roll that trip, on our arrival going right up and talking to some Swedes by their truck. More than likely special ops guys, because even in the Swedish military beards a la Claus are a bit much. Maybe a little unnerved at first but they’re Swedes and thus comfy. The Danes piling into and out of KIA on the way back were mostly medical personnel, and my mutual intelligibility faculties have withered, but they were a good representation of Denmark. They all wear their first names on their uniforms instead of their last (which might seem casual but if most of the population shares 25-50% of the same 4 last names your options are limited) and they looked perfectly in place.
I don’t miss it, not really, but the memories stay with me, they bubble up from time to time, and they are often the cause of my unsolicited chuckles or ponderous silences.
