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Happy
Thanksgiving. I hope you're not on the computer
today, and that you're enjoying the company of
people you love, eating too much, and thanking God
for His providence. I, for one, am doing as many of
those things as possible.
Thanksgiving
for us began yesterday. The weather turned cold and
there was a band at dinner. It was 35 degrees the
night before last. My 4th floor aerie was quite
chilly, which was a nice change from being
sweltering. I like sleeping in the cold, especially
when I can scrounge an extra blanket. I burrow down
into my rack and arrange the blankets just so -
head covered for warmth, but my face exposed to
fresh air.
With
the nights so chilly, the sun is welcome in the
morning. It rose today just as it's been rising all
the days in recent memory, when it got hot outside,
but now the heat is a thin, fragile thing. In
direct sunlight the temperature is almost perfect;
step in the shade and you shiver. You know somehow,
even though it's still morning, that the afternoon
will not find you on the rooftop, reading in a
T-shirt. Trash piles at the edge of the city almost
smell like burning leaves (if you want badly enough
for them to.) This is fall in Iraq.
Last
night, for the first time, it was so cold that we
wore our winter jackets on the way to dinner. I've
been calling the place where we eat the "chow
hall," but I've learned that this phrase has fallen
out of favor. We now refer to these places as
"dining facilities" or "DFacs."
Whatever
you call the place, it was a shock last night when
I walked into it and heard, not the normal muted
roar of conversations and television, but the
playing of a brass band. The band of the First
Cavalry Division was seated at the front of the
hall (next to the ice cream freezer) and they were
playing away. From the ceiling hung brown and
orange streamers, and cutouts of pilgrims and
turkeys festooned the walls.
My
wife will tell you I'm not big on decorations. In
fact, the only reason I string colored lights or do
anything else for the holidays is because she and
the kids enjoy it. (Which, I should say, is reason
enough for me.) But I must say that I appreciated
the fact that so many people had taken the trouble
to make things special for Thanksgiving. I enjoyed
the band too, and the good-natured battle to see
who could cheer the loudest when they played the
songs of the different services. Who won? The
Marines, hands down.
I
ate last night with the group of people whose
office is in this palace where I'm staying. They've
been very kind to me, not only giving me a place to
stay, but also allowing me to sit in their office
at all hours and use their computers. In exchange I
try to sweep down the stairs, take out the trash
and do whatever else I can around here. I'm not
just trying to be helpful, truth be told. I'm
really trying to stay as busy as possible to keep
time moving. As we ate last night they included me
in their plans for today's Thanksgiving Day meal. I
don't like imposing myself on people, and I'm
usually content to be alone, but I can't tell you
how glad I was that my new friends asked me to eat
with them. I wasn't anticipating the meal the way I
would have looked forward to one at home, but at
least now I wasn't dreading it.
This
morning, just for something to do, I went along to
Baghdad International Airport (formerly known as
Saddam International Airport) with a fellow captain
who was picking someone up after a trip. We stood
in the dusty slanting sunlight of midmorning
waiting for the C-130 to land. Next to us was a
group of British soldiers, sunning themselves on
the roof of their yellow Landrover, telling jokes,
and singing "Ring of Fire" in their best Johnny
Cash voices.
The
flight was delayed, and we sat on the tail gate of
the humvee, talking about our kids. I found a
smooth, flat stone and sharpened my knife. After a
while we learned the flight was going to be a
couple hours late, so we headed back to Camp
Victory. On the way we passed an immense,
unfinished palace. Saddam had been building it to
commemorate his "victory" over Iran, but after the
Gulf War, he dedicated it to his "victory" over the
U.S. Two large precision-guided bombs ended
construction for good. It's still a monument, but
not to what Saddam had intended. Getting back into
Camp Victory, we presented our ID cards to the
guard at the gate. "Happy Thanksgiving," he said.
Up until that point I'd managed to pretend it was
just another day.
When
we got back it was time for lunch. My new friends
and I walked to the chow hall (I mean DFac) and got
in line. Instead of the usual contractors behind
the counters, it was the brass who piled the
turkey, roast beef, cornbread stuffing, and pumpkin
pie on our plates. It's a fine tradition in our
services, this tangible demonstration of leadership
through service. It may not sound like much, but it
means something to us to see people with eagles or
stars on their collars taking the time to put on a
paper hat and ladle out our food. It tells us
they're here with us, and they appreciate what
we're doing.
When
we'd gone through the line and found ourselves a
table, I asked a blessing, and we took turns around
the table, telling what we are thankful for. I was
thankful for having found a group of friends to
keep me from feeling lonely. I am thankful for all
of you who take the time to read these letters and
send back notes of your own. I'm thankful for your
prayers. I am thankful most of all for my family.
Without them, and without the hope of returning to
them, none of this would make much
sense.
Happy
Thanksgiving everyone.
Steven
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Steven
relaxes with some reading.
(click for a larger image)
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