IStock Photo 2265622 © Rockfinder

I used to love doing foot patrols. They are always shorter, get you out of the tent, out of the vehicles, stomping through the fields, M4 in hand with a canteen full of water and nothing but whispering breeze in the trees and the absent background chatter of the man-packed radio. Somewhere to the west a helicopter makes lazy circles, its thrumming engines melt with the dull roar of newly hatched insects.

My first few patrols were through the lush valleys of Afghanistan in the early spring. I felt like I was in a scene out of a Vietnam movie: chest-deep in grass, knee-deep in mud, flanked by a machine gunner wearing a cutoff sleeveless shirt, belts of ammunition crisscrossing his chest, and a pack of smokes tucked in his helmet band. We all had a couple days of beard stubble and greasy dirt smeared on our faces.

I was in it. I was in the war, the front lines, the grind and fight, the guts and glory.

I feel the same pain in my knee from the day before. I was attempting to cross a semi-dried irrigation canal. Water from snow melt has begun to make its way into the valleys for the beginning of the growing season, and not wanting to stay too long in the mud, I lunged to cross the shallow ditch. I only made it partway, still not used to carrying the heavy load of body armor. I fell short and hyper-extended my knee. Today it is a nagging dull throb. I asked my medic for some pain killers, but he refuses. "It'll make your blood thin, won't clot as easy. You get hit then you could bleed out." I could beg, plead, even order him to give me something for my knee, but I don't. I guess I need to be a big boy.

I call a halt to the patrol. One of the perks of being a Platoon Leader is I get to call when we stop for a break. I flop down on the ground and lean against a mud brick wall. I shove one hand into my right cargo pocket and dig around. Gum, no... toothpicks, no... ah yes. I clutch a small pack of peanut butter, rip off the corner with my teeth and squeeze the contents into my mouth. My Mom sent me this peanut butter along with lots of other processed snacks she would never let me eat when I was younger. I look at the package. Little cartoon kids on colorful skateboards chase each other. I picture my Mom piling the grocery store checkout counter with edible tidbits meant for children half my age, and laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

I really hate foot patrols. It is hot, my feet hurt, the bugs eat me alive, and we never find the elusive Taliban.

I don't tell my Mom and Dad a lot about what is going on here. I tell them we go to meetings with village elders, look at maps and plan construction projects, or talk to the local police about recent events in the village. I send them pictures of us playing football in the dirt, doing maintenance on vehicles, playing fetch with Hesco, our unit's dog. She is named after the large wire basket blast walls we see everywhere. I don't tell anyone from home about this blog, and I don't intend to either. I have no idea why I am even writing. Maybe because it passes the time.

My Platoon Sergeant strolls up, rifle lazily held in one hand by the pistol grip. He taps my good knee with a mud-encrusted boot and grunts. I hold out my hand and he grasps it and pulls me up. We continue the patrol in a large loop, returning to the small outpost we are temporarily operating out of. As soon as we return, I drop my gear and I strip to the waist to dry the sweat. A small desk fan blows hot air in my face and I bask in the breeze. I find the small box full of snacks my Mom sent me and select a pack of gummy bears. This will make for a good dinner. Again I drift off into thoughts of home. I wonder what I am going to do when I go on R & R. Most likely sit at my parents’ house. Maybe I will go to Boston and see friends. R & R is months away, maybe I should just focus on the moment and enjoy my gummy bears.

ODDS FACT: The odds a male 20 or older eats candy at least once a day are 1 in 13.89.

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