Shift Work

*Trigger Warning: War, Death, and Gore*

I can’t sleep. I don’t need to check what time it is because I know it’s not quite time to get up yet. I can still see a little bit of sunlight peeking around the black-out curtains that have become so essential to surviving shift work that they should be Air Force issued at this point. I’m too tired to get up but too awake to sleep. The front door to the apartment opens, but I can’t see who it is because my bedroom door is closed. Is someone breaking in or is my husband home from his shift? I’m too tired to care. The coffee maker beeps. Probably my husband then, but possibly a nice gesture from a home-invader. Either way, it means there will be coffee ready in about 5 minutes. With the sliver of motivation from the anticipation of coffee, I get up and make my way to the shower.

Freshly washed, hair still dripping wet, I throw on my sand-colored t-shirt and pull on my flight suit, tying the sleeves in a knot around my waist. I stare at the hair dryer for a minute trying to decide if I have enough energy to dry my hair before putting it up. The smell of coffee is now wafting its way into the bathroom. Not worth the effort. I throw my hair into a regulation approved bun while it’s still wet. I pick up my combat boots and head out of my room to see if I have to fight an intruder.

I walk out to my husband sitting on the couch, his flight suit sleeves also tied around his waist, with a mug of coffee ready for me. He smiles at me, but I can read all over his face that it must have been a heavy shift for him. Did he participate in a strike or over-watch for our guys’ combat operations? From how drained he looks, it’s a safe bet that someone died in the war today. There is no point in asking who though. Top-Secret work means no talking to your spouse about the details of your day, even if they do the same job. I drink my coffee while he picks out a TV show so we can spend a little bit of time together before he has to go to bed and I have to leave for my shift.

By the time I leave it’s fully dark outside. The 45-minute drive through the desert feels unending in the dark with no horizon to judge how far you’ve gone.

The whole squadron sits through our daily mission briefing before scattering to get coffee and snacks on our way to the GCSs (ground control stations) to swap out the previous crews. Coffee in hand, I walk out of the squadron building, taking a few moments to enjoy the stars and fresh air before being closed into a windowless box for the next 8 hours.

From the outside, the GCSs look like shipping containers with big doors on one side. From the inside, they still look like shipping containers. But, facing one of the short walls, there is one seat for a pilot, who controls the actual aircraft, and one seat for the sensor operator (SO) who controls the targeting and camera systems. We each have our console with controls and readouts from the plane. Our main screen shows the live feed from the camera system. Above that we have another screen with maps and location data. Between us are more computer monitors with mission information and a radio system and phone. We each have about 6 inches between our outside shoulder and the respective walls of the GCS. Along the longer wall there is a row of computers, recording devices, and the cooling system that ensures we are freezing at all times no matter how hot the desert gets around us. The only light is what comes off the computer screens.

I open the GCS door as the pilot walks up behind me. We swap out the previous crew and get settled in for our shift. The plane has been watching the target for hours already, but we aren’t given much intel to catch up on. Sometimes we know the names of the people we are watching. Sometimes we know more than that. Sometimes we know less. Today we know less. We were tasked to drop a bomb on this building, so a few hours into our shift, that is what we do.

The smoke clears. Slowly people start to come out to see what happened. Two men are walking laps around the rubble when another man shows up with what looks like a tarp. He lays it out flat and all three of the men begin to dig through what is left of the building. Every piece of the building is tossed to the side and every piece of a person is placed on the tarp. Our orders are to keep eyes on what used to be the building. We keep watching as the pile on the tarp grows.

Before the bomb left the rail of our plane, I knew there were people in the building. With every arm or leg added to the pile, it gets harder and harder to not do the math. I don’t want to know how many people were in there. Or how many still are. But the orders are to watch, so we do, for hours until the next crew comes to swap us out.

The shot was textbook and clean, so the debrief is mercifully short. We rewatch the strike footage and discuss every step like it’s nothing. Just another day at work. Because it is. It is just another day at work.

45 minutes through the desert. Still dark.

I am almost back to the apartment when I realize that the sun isn’t quite rising yet and my husband still has time to sleep. I don’t want to risk waking him up early, so I head to the store to take care of the grocery shopping list we made over a week ago since we are basically out of food at this point, and he will probably want to eat breakfast. I barely make it to the produce section before I notice a man staring at me. I always forget I’m wearing my flight suit in public until I get that look from someone, the look that this man is giving me right now. He has a question or a thought building in his head and he seems intent on making it my problem. Sometimes I get lucky and it’s simply, “thank you for your service.” I hate that, I never know what to say, but at least it’s simple and rarely leads to prolonged conversation. The look on his face doesn’t give me the impression that I am going to be let off that easy this morning. I try to walk far enough around him that he doesn’t have the socially acceptable proximity to me to speak to me. He nearly runs to block my path saying, “are you one of the drone pilots?” That question is rarely asked in interest and almost always asked as an accusation. I take a breath, annoyed with the word “drone”, and keep walking as I say, “Not the pilot. I sit in the other seat. But yes, I am part of the RPA program.” I guess I will not be getting the produce on our list today because I am not stopping and giving him even a chance to continue this conversation.

I make it to the meat section before I realize that I am supposed to be shopping and not just avoiding people. The list is unhelpfully vague just saying “meat”. Looking around, trying to decide what we need, I start doing the math again. All I can see is the tarp and all the pieces. I’m instantly nauseous. I try to shake it off, but I notice another person seemingly ready to make their thought or question my problem. Fuck the list. I turn around and walk towards the front of the store as fast as I can without drawing more attention to myself.  I grab a box of doughnuts without stopping and go straight to the checkout. The cashier, who must be used to people being in here with flight suits on, doesn’t bat an eye and we manage our entire interaction without even muttering a single word.

The sun is barely coming up as I make it back to the apartment and open the door. I hear my husband’s alarm go off. I put the doughnuts on the coffee table and then get the coffee going as I hear him get into the shower. Still trying to get the math out of my head, I change out of my flight suit. When the coffee is done, I pour some into his mug and set it down on the coffee table. I just sit down on the couch when he comes out of our room. Before he has a chance to say anything I say, “Have time to go shopping with me, in civies (civilian clothes), before you have to get dressed?” He glances at the doughnuts on the counter. Undeniable proof that I had just been at the store. Realization crosses his face. It only took him a second to have at least a decent idea of why I went to the store but didn’t get the groceries. He doesn’t ask for clarification, just smiles and says, “Yeah, let’s go now so we can eat before you have go to bed and I have to go to work.”