Exhaustion sets in

Things are either 100 miles an hour, or we sit mired in misery, crawling slowly through the days' tasks. The temperature has dropped exponentially and days that not long ago were started with quick consideration over snivel gear now begin with a groan, a shiver, and a whimsical look at where the sun used to be...where warmth used to be.

As the vehicles begin to arrive in the gray morning mists, they line up like tanks, exhaust spluttering behind them in great plumes, steam rising from the hoods as mist, rain, and snow melt and evaporate over the hot engines. It is too cold to congregate near the drill hall. Too miserable. Behind each pane of glass the soldiers sit alone with their thoughts, alone with their music, their coffee, their McDonald's breakfast. Here and there the glowing ember of a cigarette briefly lights up a soldier's face, and just as quickly it disappears in a breath of smoke and fading light. Only slowly does the sky begin to lighten, the conex trailers take shape, the motorpool transforms from an inky pool of of nothingness surrounded by barbed wire as the HMMWVs and trucks appear, their cloth covers sag beneath the weight of rain and snow. Here and there a trailer cants to one side, a flat tire the culprit.

The first door slams, and soon the parking lot echoes with them. Greetings are exchanged, patrol caps nod thoughtfully in the air, laughter peels out at a bad joke. The gray door to the hall opens and we shuffle inside, wincing as it slams behind us like the gate at Alcatraz. Today is more of the usual.

Is the inventory done? Check it again. Whose shipping box is this? Find out. Did you pack these correctly? Who cares. Why is 3rd PLT hanging around? Because they're finished. How are they finished when no one else is? We all shrug our shoulders, angry that our efficiency has been discovered.

Has anyone seen my orders? No, but they were supposed to be here last week. Hey, can the UA find copies of these DD forms? He says no. Isn't that his job? More shrugging of shoulders. Chow time. Make sure you sign the meal roster. We're out of meal tickets. What do we do? Shoulders shrug while decisions are discovered.

Packed. Trailers finally locked. We won't see them again in the States...like a time capsule with a short expiration date, filled with things that will undoubtedly appear new, or re-arranged, missing, or broken the next time we see them.

As engines warm up and the sun fades we drive out, the windshield wipers acting as a metronome for our thoughts and exhaustion. Too few days to say good-bye, and always the nagging thought, "Will I be remembered while I'm gone. Will I be missed. Have I made a unique and positive impact on the world. Will I come home."