|
Loss - Latest News from the War on Terror
Steven is
in the fight in the War on Terror, his letters to us "in the
world" are a blessing. This time the troops got news of the
death of someone special - an unexpected loss. Here's the
latest:
Last night
we got word that our buddy Dilbert's wife had died in a car
crash.
They'd
been married little more than a year, and their marriage
marked him in very positive, very visible ways. Dilbert,
like all of us, became a better man when he became a
husband.
I mention
this for two reasons. One, so you will keep this young man
and his in-laws in your prayers, and two, because of what I
noticed when we got the word. A few of us - husbands and
fathers all - were talking to the commander when he told us
they were putting Dilbert on the first jet back to the
world. Then he told us why, and the news passed like a shock
wave through the room. One moment I was standing with half a
dozen strong men, fresh from planning our role in an
upcoming battle. The next moment every one of us had tears
in his eyes.
Self-sacrifice,
at least in the hypothetical way in which we usually face
it, holds no fear for us, but we ache at the thought of our
families being harmed. And lest anyone think this makes us
weak I should point this out - that desire to protect our
loved ones is exactly why we're here.
God bless,
Dilbert. We're praying for you.
***
The other
night I was in the midnight chow line joking with the little
Bangladeshi man I call the Omelet Master. The Omelet Master
takes great pride in his creations. They're really not
omelets I suppose - more like scrambled eggs with cheese and
mushrooms and things folded into them - but that does not
diminish the obvious pleasure he takes in making them to the
best of his ability. Each one is a precise rectangle of
exactly the right dimensions to fit upon a plate. Each is
the same shade of golden brown, and each is cooked
completely through - just enough that the cheese is melted
and the egg is cooked, but not so much that anything is
dried out or overdone. He is proof positive that pleasure
can be found in any job providing it's done well
enough.
So I was
joking with the OM and his colleagues when their shift
supervisor, a staff sergeant walked by. I stopped her and
asked her for a feedback form. Feedback forms are vestiges
of the "Quality" movement that washed over the Air Force a
few years back. They were intended as a way of helping us in
our quest for "Continuous Improvement" but are seldom used,
and even more rarely used for positive comments. The staff
sergeant was a little concerned about my request but she
complied quickly, and then I asked her to write her name and
the names of her staff on the form. This took a good deal
longer, owing to the complexities of Bangladeshi
nomenclature, but before my meal was over she was handing it
to me.
"Sir, did
you have any questions for me?" she asked.
"No, but I
do need to tell you something," I said, and I pushed out a
chair for her and asked her to sit. She sat as if on an
electric chair.
"I've been
through your chow line dozens of times," I said, "and I
noticed something that needs to be reported." She didn't say
a word, but the look on her face spoke volumes. "I've
noticed that your salad bar is always cleaner, fresher, and
better-stocked than probably 80% of the ones I've seen in
restaurants stateside. I've noticed that your troops are
friendly and professional and your civilian workers are
cheerful and pleasant and take great pride in their work."
She was smiling broadly at this point. "What needs to be
reported," I continued, "is that you are doing a great job,
and that's why your people are doing a great job."
I wrote
all that down on the form as I was saying it, and when I
looked up from the page I thought she was going to burst or
try to hug me, or something. She contained herself though,
and took the form back to the kitchen to show her staff.
Last night
I picked up a couple cans of coke on my way out of the chow
hall. I took them to the kids who guard the gate to our
compound. They do a boring, thankless job, and they carry
heavy weapons around all day in terrible heat without ever
getting to shoot anyone. A couple cokes is a small token,
but they acted like I'd given them a day pass.
How is it
that being nice to people is so easy, and so appreciated,
but so difficult for me to do? It's my nature to find fault,
but I've never enjoyed the results of being critical nearly
as much as I enjoyed filling out that form and passing out
those cokes.
Steven
Steven's
earlier columns are here:
Rain
in the Desert
|
