In a brief respite from the daily grind of Iraq I found myself standing under the air conditioning of an All Ranks club in Qatar at the Air Base located there. I could almost taste the cold beer that awaited me as I stood in line waiting to step up to the bar. It had been quite a while since I had drank a cold beer. The desert heat and my parched thirst only exacerbated the anticipated joy of a “cold one.” It was strange standing there. I felt somehow naked. It had been a long time since I had walked about an area without body armor on. It had been even longer since I walked around without a loaded weapon. At the very least this whole experience was somewhat unnerving. I was somehow a long way from war, but somehow still attuned to the ebb and flow of life in the combat zone. I was standing in line wearing civvies (civilian clothes). I had packed away a pair of civilian shorts, a Metallica t-shirt and a pair of running shoes. I had brought them with me from stateside for just such an occasion. Life was different here. Airmen and soldiers were allowed to wear real civilian clothing. This was unheard of in the areas of operations north of here. Inside the “Zone” we could only wear authorized military clothing with the exception of when you were in your quarters. Somehow the very nature of being here did not seem right. Being in the rear was different. As I stood in line I watched the young airmen in front of me banter back and forth and engage in general horseplay. As the line moved and we came closer to the bar and the bar tender and the much anticipated cold beer. The young man in front of me turned and asked, “Sir, what’s it like up north?” It became deathly quiet and his buddies all stopped to look at me. Taken aback I looked around. Before answering his question I laughed and asked him, “what makes you think I have been north?’ Sir, he replied, you have the thousand mile stare, when you guys come down here it is easy to pick you out. Wearing civvies I felt inclined to ask him the young airman why he would address me as Sir? And what rank he thought I was? Lightheartedly he laughed, Sir you are a field grade officer. So as I stood there with the thousand mile stare and engaged the young airmen in conversation as the line moved forward. Finally, it was his turn to place his order. He placed his order and handed the bar tender his 2 Beer coupon. While at the airbase there was a rationing of beer and everyone was limited to 2 a day. I’m buying the Colonel his first beer tonight, he said. I began to protest but he would have none of it. I shook his hand and thanked him. Sir, Good luck and bring em back safe, he said as he turned and walked away. That was probably the best damned beer I drank that year.
Posted on: Sun, 23 Nov 2014 00:50:23 +0000
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