August 1998

She lay on her back, wrapped tightly in my poncho liner, to my left, asleep. The book I was reading made a tent on my lap. I wasn't reading it. I was pretending. No information was being taken in, I was  simply scanning the same line over and over. Checking my watch I saw that I'd have to wake her soon for another pain killer. I gently got off the bed, setting my book down. The sunlight coming through the blinds was warm.

In the small kitchen I crushed the pill into a grainy white power with the back of a spoon. Because of her religious beliefs she was opposed to taking anything. No aspirin, no doctors, no perception pain killers. I didn't care. She was going to take this, mixed in a light tea. I tried not to think, just listen to the rush of traffic outside and the chalky crunch under the spoon. The microwave hummed behind me.

"They call her name at 7:30
I pace around the parking lot
Then I walk down to buy her flowers
And sell some gifts that I got
Can't you see
It's not me you're dying for
Now she's feeling more alone
Than she ever has before"

This song comes out of fold space, exploding into my head with a blinding flash of light.

... And I'm on the floor...
... And I'm sobbing...
"I'm sorry. So, so, so sorry... "

Iraqi Gold Mine

"Will you look at that shit." It was a 3rd ID Soldier sharing the same side of the table with me. He wasn't talking to me but I was close enough to hear. The two Specialists with him twisted in their chairs, following his intent stare. I looked as well. The target was a shaply female Soldier, DCU fabric nicely contoured to her ass, the seam disappearing at the joining of her thighs.

The four of us watched her move down the serving line, over to the salad bar, set her tray down, and go back for something to drink. Even though it was after midnight and the chow hall was nearly empty she didn't seem to notice us watching her every move. She had an enduring habit of pushing a stray strand of her brown hair back over her left ear.

None of us said a word until the female sat down. I glanced out of the corner of my eye at the Soldier who had spoken. He was still watching her as he shoved some fries in his mouth and began chewing with neither relish or pleasure, "Bitch is sitting on a gold mine and doesn’t even know it."

Area 51, East

It's a little known fact that the U.S Army has it's own Area 51. F.T Bragg NC is the home of Special Operations Command. Soldiers with reputations that would even make great Achilles think twice are forged in under the pines, born from the red clay and sand, tempered by the humidity. Like The Immortals of Greek legend they inhabit their own Mount Olympos, Smoke Bomb Hill. But even they are not the pinnacle. Above and beyond them are The Titans of the Warriors Pantheon. The D-Boys. Delta Force. They live amongst the mortals, hidden in plain sight, their compound locked away behind fences and access gates, guarded day and night by unmarked SUVs that ride low on their suspension. 

Away from this mysterious domain is the world of the mortals. Those poor creatures that exist, scratching away, to make a mark in this life. They toil, they triumph, they fail. Those poor fools are the 18th Airborne Corps. But it doesn't stop there. Bragg has a Hades as well. It's called Division Area. Division Area is where the 82nd Airborne Division resides. In the 90s it was the ghetto of Bragg. Fifty plus year old barracks where the hot water frequently failed. The unfortunate Leg that found himself unaccompanied along Ardennes soon learned to keep his eyes straight forward and ignore the cat calls of the young toughs who's territory this was. Like the youth of bad neighborhoods the lower enlisted of the 82nd had a reputation and even more to prove. 

Just across Gruber Rd and West of Division headquarters on The Hill is the 82nd's backyard, Area J. Acres of scrub, Carolina pines, red clay and sand that have been used as training grounds for generations. Area J is a kind of no man's land, units don't have to reserve it like a range, they can just go there, anytime, and conduct what training needs to be done, be that squad, platoon, or company level. 

One overcast day late 1995 my platoon was police calling a grid square as our daily mission on Support Cycle. The clear plastic trash bags we carried were bulging with MRE trash, papers, and plastic. When they were full we would carry them to nearby Firebrake 6 for a cargo HMMWV would pick them up. 

"Ah what the fuck is this?!" Hibbin was down in an old machine gun fighting position, his voice muffled as he reached into an uncollapsed section of the overhead cover. He emerged with a half of a Katana sword. The blade had been snapped off about halfway up. We passed it around as Hibben rooted around for more. One by one his searching brought out a Nazi flag, a faded and water logged gay porn magazine, and a nearly empty tube of 'Hot & Spicy' butt lube. The platoon stood in a half circle, the items layed out in a neat row before us. Finally, in his Pennsylvania accent, Chris Housenick broke the silence. "Area J. The Area 51 of FT Bragg." 

Area J: Here Be Weirdness