Round 3: December the Twelfth

We are nearing the end of the Round 3 series. I could write for years and never cover the complete day-to-day of my third deployment, but that would get boring. In the interest of your attention span as a reader and mine as a writer, these articles will soon come to an end. In the meantime, enjoy these last couple articles.

“It is Sunday, December Twelfth, Twenty Twenty-One, and I am over this shit.”

These were the first words that percolated in my consciousness that morning. The thought came bouncing off the back of my skull and rebounded off my eyelid to plant itself firmly in the front of my brain. Before I opened my eyes to take in the dust-tinted morning light of my metal sleeping box, the words were a bright, flashing neon sign in my mind. Outside, the low rumble of a heavy diesel truck helped hasten my wakefulness, and with a groan I stretched and rubbed my eyes.

I do not know why Sunday, December Twelfth was the day that I woke up “over it.” Perusing my journal from the days and weeks preceding this date revealed only the regular bullshit that comes with a deployment. Perhaps that’s all it was. I was just over this third deployment. Over the separation from Jenny. Over the bullshit politicking for bread and circuses. Completely fed up with the dearth of real Chiefs and the plethora of E-9s dorking about the base. Over the Host Nation flying their jets at full power over the Life Support Area and rattling me awake every night. Most of all over the fall of Afghanistan that led me to the 332d ECONS on short notice but not fast enough to actually help.

Maybe it was the pain in my ankle that had been growing ever worse during my deployment, enough to keep me awake some nights. Perhaps it was the anxiety that would strike random nights and keep me up along with the throbbing ankle. Or maybe it was the nagging suspicion that the pain in my hips was something more than just tight muscles and the masculine urge to never stretch. More than likely it was all these things that made me wake up in such a dour mood.

It was my “day off,” such that it was. For almost everyone in the ECONS, a day off simply meant coming into the office later, in civilian clothes rather than a uniform, and doing just a little less work than on a normal day, sometimes more work if a contractor violated flight line driving protocol and ended up in a trench or the water delivery got hung up due to Host Nation partner… reasons.

That day I woke up and wanted nothing to do with anything or anyone on that base. I shuffled over to the shower trailer, took a longer than normal shower, skipped shaving, and shuffled back to my RLB, scowling against the sun and dust in spite of my sunglasses. My roommate had just began to stir for his normal Sunday routine of not moving from his bed, watching movies, and talking to his wife. I got dressed in the dim room while my roommate popped in his earbuds to watch his show. It was cold during December at the 332d, so I pulled a flannel over my t-shirt before grabbing my hat and heading out the door.

There was only Dan in the office when I arrived at the ECONS. He had been in the office for hours already, putting the finishing touches on an event he put together for the whole base scheduled for that night. As was his daily custom, Dan had consumed an entire pot of coffee himself already that morning. We talked briefly while I brewed another pot, forgoing Dan’s boutique coffee with a mixture of three different coffees from nearly empty bags. Someone had broken this coffee maker slightly, so I had to wait until the whole pot brewed. Otherwise, fresh coffee would pour directly onto the burner when the carafe was removed, filling the office with the smell of burnt coffee and shame. I filled my mug when the brewing cycle finished, grabbed my book and my pipe, and headed out to the smoke pit.

While I sat in the smoke pit, I puffed my pipe and did my best to empty my brain. It was chilly that morning, but sitting with my back to the sun in the Hesco-lined park kept me warm enough. Whatever the reason I felt particularly angsty that morning, I had only a few hours to shake the feeling and return to my normally sunny disposition. A bad attitude from anyone can really mess up the vibe in a small squadron, and if that attitude comes from a position of leadership, it can ruin the unit completely. As hard as it was to believe sometimes, “leadership” included me.

I didn’t even bother to crack open my book, choosing to just sit and soak up the sun on my back and cup my hand around my pipe to soak up the warmth from the tobacco. A cup of coffee and two bowls of L.J. Peretti’s Thanksgiving tobacco blend later, I still hadn’t shaken my bad attitude completely, but the sun did help and I couldn’t just sit in the smoke pit all day. I trudged back to the squadron and took a deep breath (four seconds in, hold for four seconds, four seconds out) as I punched in the door code.

The squadron was busier than when I left for the smoke pit. Our resident ginger, Sergeant Carroll was back in her corner (where gingers belong) busily working on the latest steaming pile of crap requirement someone had laid on her desk since her day off yesterday. Justin, the prior-enlisted captain turned Program Manager worked next to Sergeant Carroll. I was never completely sure what he did back there, but we liked him well enough to keep him around. The three of us exchanged sarcastic remarks, as was our tradition, and I went back to my office where Major Dapper Dan was putting the finishing touches on his event.

I set my pipe and my book down and pulled my desk up to the standing position to check my email. It was all the same old crap it always was, nothing pressing that couldn’t wait, very little of it truly requiring any action at all. Mostly emails from people who wanted to make sure that other people knew they were working just so, so hard by sending these emails. Another deep breath, four seconds in, hold for four seconds, then four seconds out.

My mood had not improved much. The shower, the sunshine, the coffee, the pipe, the exchange of witty sarcasm, or the deep breathing exercises all helped bring my mood up just a little. But I was still over it.

Except that it didn’t matter. Over it or not, the only way out of the situation was through. My average daily disposition was less than sunny, sometimes kindly described as “stoic,” and I was convinced if I let my bad mood get the better of me it would bring the rest of the squadron down. I still had two months left, and nobody wants to be in a squadron in the midst of a downward spiral.

Regardless of my attitude we still had a job to do until we handed the reins to the next rotation. So after a few more breathing exercises and some conversation with the impossibly chipper Dapper Dan, I walked back out to the common area where more of the squadron had gathered. It was lunch time and if there was an upside to Sunday, December Twelfth, Twenty Twenty-One, it was that Sunday was Chicken Tender Day at the dining facility.

It would turn out that the chicken tenders this particular Sunday were sub-par, to put it mildly. But sitting around the squadron conference table, commiserating with each other over our shared dining misery helped boost my mood just ever so slightly. Good enough. I would muscle through for these folks, whether I was over it or not.

The only way out was through. Through shared misery, three beers a night, some good pipe tobacco, good company, and a dash of grit and determination.