Caffeine in Wartime

Standing in front of the map, I really only saw a blur. A couple of blinks, and the mass in front of me was just greens and browns depicting an area roughly the size of Connecticut. I’d done the math the week before. Or maybe it was the month before. In any case, the numbers were probably right. Or close to it.

“Sgt Angel, did you book my ride over to FOB Joyce for tomorrow?” I didn’t even look over my shoulder as I said it, half worried the good sergeant would also be a fuzzy blob.

“You went to Joyce last week, sir. You’re set for Mehtar Lam at 01:00 hours tonight.”

I shut my eyes, but that made me rock back a bit on my heels. Eyes open, I racked my brain, tried to pull things together. On the bright side, I was still facing the wall for this little episode. Deep breath in. Slow exhale out. The map was a little clearer.

“I thought that was tomorrow. Jesus, what day is it?”

“It’s Tuesday, sir.”

“And I’m not flying anywhere today?”

“Not until tonight, sir, military air.”

“Is that one a blackout base?”

“No, sir, but it’s, um, kinetic. A bit. Last mental health provider to go out there swore he wouldn’t go back.”

I shrugged off asking what nitwit made that declaration, “Do I have patients today?”

“No, sir. Sir, did you sleep last night?”

I cracked open the can of Mountain Dew that had been chilling my fingers since bringing it from the DFAC. Rather than answer I took a swig, still not turning around. My mind still struggled. A parade of dusty memories danced by. People in matching, drab green uniforms. Makeshift buildings. Gravel. God, so much gravel. Swallows. At least the swallows were nice, swooping and darting.

“Sir,” Sgt Angel reiterated, “You didn’t sleep, did you?”

“Somebody was playing a video game or something. Beeping all night. Could have killed someone if I knew which one of those…” I stopped myself. Deep breath. Rubbed my eyes. Patted my hip to once again make sure I hadn’t forgotten my M9 somewhere. I turned and offered my sergeant a smile, raising my can of neon green beverage in salute. It felt lighter than it should, or I’d already drunk half of it without realizing.

“Sir,” he said gently, “It’s 08:54.”

I looked at my watch, “Yes. Yes, it is.”

Sensing that my expression conveyed the reality of blurry thought going on behind my eyes, he added, “So, if you want to avoid Capt V, you should go in your office now.”

“Oh, is she still upset about the pilot?”

“Very, sir.”

“I’ll be in my office then. Thank you, sergeant. And, um, 01:00 tonight, military air?”

“Yes sir.”

I ducked in my office and shouldered the door shut to make sure the latch caught. A sigh of relief escaped my lips as I could hear the clinic door being jerked open immediately after. Capt V’s voice came muffled through the door, something about how terrible men are. Not quite as loud, the voice of Specialist Sun saying something in agreement wafted through. Wisely, Sgt Angel was staying quiet.

Plopping down at my desk I was disappointed to find that my can of soda was now empty. I had two, or maybe it was three, in the mini fridge, but that was in the waiting room. With Capt V. In her defense, the helicopter pilot was a very attractive man, and so polite. I wondered if the group would still play us in volleyball or if that would be too awkward.

My eyes slid softly shut, bored by the bare plywood walls of my little office space. Vague ideas of decorating the walls flitted about. Mentally I walked myself through the tiny supply shop, trying to remember if they had any art supplies. The USO had art supplies. I could ask Weller. A slow train of other thoughts flowed from there, none of them profound, none of them terribly helpful.

A knock on my office door was followed by Sgt Angel’s cheerful little face poking into my office, “You want to go to lunch, sir?”

“What?”

“Lunch, sir. It’s noon.”

I did not look at my watch, “Yes. Yes, it is. So, we should eat.” That was intended as a statement, but in truth it wound up sounding more like a question. I got up, and we made our way outside, me patting myself obsessively to make sure everything was in place. Pistol. Cover. Rank insignia. Boots laced. Which unit patch was I wearing today?

Mindlessly, I walked down the narrow walkway between our clinic and the stacks of conex trailers to the DFAC. With little interest and zero passion, I selected my food. A little of this. A bit of that. Cheese sauce on something. Dodge the local carrying the salad tray and saying, “Hot pan. Hot pan,” to get people out of his way.

Perhaps most tragically, the cooler was devoid of Mountain Dew, so I had to settle for a grape Rip-It, which was disgusting. Caffeinated, but low grade stuff. The orange flavor was tolerable, though it still felt like poor brand loyalty to my way of thinking. Much better was my strategy of dropping a few Jelly Belly candies into a Mountain Dew to get a variant flavor.

Blinking, I looked up from my soda pop musings to see Sgt Angel and Captain Weller sitting across from me. Weller offered his usual broad grin, always looking on the verge of laughing. More often than not, he did wind up laughing. Sgt Angel just looked concerned, but he usually did, and more so on Thursdays.

“How’s your dinner, my dude?” Weller said, jabbing at the air with his fork to indicate my plate of DFAC mess.

“Well, it’s a lunch, so…”

Weller indeed busted up laughing, head thrown back, and Sgt Angel said gently, “Lunch was four hours ago, sir. It’s dinner now.”

“Right. I knew that.” I did not know that. I drank half the can of soda in one go and let my head loll forward to consider my food. I didn’t remember picking any of it, but it did look like stuff I would pick. Sure, I knew the stuff they called ‘Afghan Potatoes’ were just potatoes cooked in salsa, but they were pretty good.

Reining in his laughter, Weller turned serious, or as serious as he could, “Dude, maybe you should talk to someone.” As we were the same rank, he didn’t have to address me as sir in every sentence. Also he could tell it like it was, which was not great.

I shrugged and took a bite of the potatoes, “Who would I talk to?”

“Seriously,” and Weller indeed looked serious as he said, “you can talk to me.”

I pointed at him with a bit of potato on my fork, “Technically, I’m your boss, so no. Besides, you’re not allowed to prescribe me any of the fun drugs.”

Sgt Angel snickered, but I think Weller kicked him under the table before adding, “Couldn’t hurt to at least talk though.”

“Thanks. I’m good. Besides, even without the Officer in Charge title, we work together. Total no-go.”

“Capt V?” Weller suggested, offering a shrug. Sgt Angle nearly did a spit take and wound up coughing and laughing into a napkin.

I held up a hand to pause the brainstorming. In all seriousness, I went through in my own mind available options. He wasn’t wrong. I wasn’t doing great. Sleep was a fleeting, inconsistent experience. My wife only spoke to me once a week, because it was too hard on her to see me out here. I missed my kids. Urges had been building for a while, but no way to address that without risking a court martial. 

Head shaking, I had to admit, “Nope. I’m it. I’m the guy. Just me for this whole mess, for the surrounding 10,000 square kilometers. I’ll just have to talk to myself.”

“You start doing that,” Weller teased, “and I will find a way to put you on medication.”

“Shut up, and eat your…god, what is that?”

“It’s a steak.”

“No. No, it is not.”

“Don’t forget, sir,” Sgt Angel cut in, “01:00 hours, military air. Bring your sleeping bag.”

“Got it. Going to Nagil.”

“Mehtar Lam, sir.”

“I knew that.” I did not know that. I didn’t know much of anything at that point, just a cycle of cat naps and caffeinated myself sufficiently to put on a professional face for my patients. Interspersed in that, of course, was the constant fear of something exploding, hordes of zealots swarming the base to kill us, or mortars and rockets raining down from the sky.

I probably should have talked to someone.