Suitcase Nuke

It was a beautiful day in Kandahar today. Beauty is of course relative, but just about everywhere a clear, blue sky with a light, brisk breeze and visibility that allows detailed examination of remote mountains is considered beautiful. This only works in Kandahar Airfield of course if you keep your neck bent and your head high. To look down at eye level would break the spell and remind you of where you are. If your nose didn't betray it first.

Over the mountains to the north, maybe 10 miles or maybe 30 - if the land is flat and the sky clear enough you never can tell - a bright white blimp has hovered all day, unflinching, watching the land below. From the right angle, you can see another twice again as far, keeping watch on the other side of the peak. Perhaps with their diligent eye fixed no rockets will come in tonight.

Rockets. Everyone always says they could hear the impact, but few probably ever do. Everyone is early enough in the tour that after the sirens sound and the obligatory time is spent on the floor, the atmosphere in the bunker is almost convivial: a mildly successful evening party where everyone from work shows up, but little is provided in the way of entertainment or food. By the second attack in an evening, however, the spirit has already waned as soldiers and civilians alike stand impatiently waiting for the British lass to sound,"All clear! All clear!" followed by a siren that still seems to portend danger. It's at this point everyone is considering the possibility of repeated events nightlong, and preparing for a sleepless night.

No, we don't worry about actually getting hit by the rockets. Of course it could happen. But you don't anticipate being in a car accident, either. So, like a commuter fretting over traffic jams and spilled coffee, we complain about the cold wind or having our conversation with family interrupted. It is not lost on us that 19-year-old infantrymen are walking through minefields sown with blind hatred just hours away. But, again, you never fret over the fireman the next county over while you watch TV in the evening. Knowingly or not, every man has chosen his course and its accompanying fate.

After a  dinner conversation about women and their faithfulness that film critics would deride as cliched, the sun has fallen, stars have edged into the blackness, and the faraway blimps are now blinking their marking lights. It was a beautiful day in Kandahar.

Labels: afghanistan, army, deployment