Writing Wrongs

September 03, 2006

We have a skylight above the bed that, when it rains, amplifies the sound. It makes me think of camping, of bivouac, of sleeping in the rain.

Because I did a lot of that, in Girl Scouts, in the Army. And it�s funny, but people always laughed at me when I mentioned I learned how to sleep and stay dry in the rain as a Girl Scout. Most of them stopped laughing when I was dry in the morning and they weren�t.

I had it down to a science, too, because a lot of times on field exercises, we didn�t bother with tents. Sometimes we didn�t bother with cots, but they were easy--well, sort of--to set up and they kept you off the ground.

When we moved forward to that murky border between Saudi Arabia and Iraq, we stripped the unit down--left behind equipment, left behind people (that�s another story). If it wasn�t indispensable, it didn�t go forward.

I slept next to the 577 mobile command post. It had tracks like a tank but without any of the armor. With all the antennae sprouting from the top of it, it was a natural target for an RPG (rocket propelled grenade). During the day, I worked inside, and at night, I listened to the radios, the sand, and the rain.

I�d take my rain poncho and a couple of bungee cords and secure the poncho to my cot, working from the bottom up. I�d lash myself in, hooking the bungee to the grommets in the liner and the cot�s crossbars.

The last corner was the hardest because I�d have to do that from the inside, working my fingers through the small gaps to tie a final slipknot. Sometimes I�d prop a flashlight on my shoulder and read. Sometimes I�d just listen. Sometimes I couldn�t tell the difference between the sand and the rain unless I stuck a finger between one of those gaps. And sometimes the sting was nearly identical.

In the morning, Master Sergeant D. always brought me a cup of coffee. I think he liked to laugh at my hair. It was a fair trade. (And I won�t go into what several weeks of not showering does to one�s hair, except to quote Kyra: �Ew. That is so yuck.�) He also liked to laugh at the lieutenant whose cot was across from mine, who somehow ended up in a puddle of water--or sand--every morning.

But then, that lieutenant had never been a Girl Scout.

When I drink an especially robust dark roast, I think of Master Sergeant D. (His �special brew� was on our list of indispensable items.) And when the rain beats on our skylight, it reminds me of the sound of sand against canvas.

Charity Tahmaseb wrote at 10:53 a.m.

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