less than sixty days left in a combat zone

Despite the heat, the sun is still setting early here. It's still rather warm but tolerable to be outside. On any given night as Aramis and I walk around our little neighborhood of sorts we'll pass games of sand volleyball, sober karaoke, groups of people doing complicated-looking line dances, some random guy strumming his guitar, smokers milling around outside of buildings, couples huddled around laptops, friends having a good time. It's times like those that makes it easy to forget that yes, I really am in a combat zone.

On the other hand, there are numerous reminders of where I am and why I'm here. A sprawling cavernous tent hospital, complete with its own frequently used helo pad and armory. Drills, alarms, giant voice instructions, body armor and protective masks. Explosions that make me want to crawl under my desk and hide. The occasional metal-metal click of someone reassembling an M16. Weapons in the chow hall, the PX, the gym, the MWR. Sandstorms that stop convoys. Bases that run out of food. And that blasted fence.

I have less than sixty days left in this place. It's both nice and strange to be able to say that.