Returning From The Desert

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   I just read Montana Madness' post about Digger and Boo coming home and
it got me thinking about a time I had put away. I remembered clearly
the strangeness about coming back home. 

It came back to me, the weirdness. Not in a crazy-vet-killer kind of way...no, that's for the stupid movies. 

In a weird kind of way, as if you could perfectly remember a bizarre,
drunken, night-out perfectly. Of course, one cannot remember such
times, but that is the best analogy I can think of.

I kept a diary so I would never forget the insanity of those times,
insanity as I decided my self, my feelings and the times were; my Army
experiences that, in retrospect, I understand have been formative.

So, to Montana Madness and the rest of you all folks who have sons and daughters coming back, give 'em space.

I think what I wrote then can explain what I mean better than anything I can say now. 

I returned about three weeks after the rest of my unit. I volunteered
to let the married guys go home first. I got back to Bragg to an empty
post, and decided to stay at the Marriott Inn, under construction when
I left, for the the few days until I could fly out of Fayetteville. 

This is my last entry of my Desert Diary as I called it.

" Barricaded on the third floor of the
local Marriott; almost out of writing paper and only the hotel supplied
ballpoints around. I've run out of Bic Razorpoints two days back- but I
can't leave to get more, not just yet. Desert decompression is getting
heavy and the carnage of last night's revelry lies everywhere. No
matter, I still have coherence and the plumbing remains operational in
both hot and cold. Amidst the chaos of clothing, a basic-load of books
(heavy on the the Hunter  Thompson- my brain REQUIRES it now) and
empty bottles I wade to the balcony and survey the perimeter. All
quiet, no breeze, the enemy will be hard pressed to launch another
onslaught right now- hell, even to find me! (No, not THAT enemy, the
more insiduous ones, friendlies.) There is only one thing left to do.
Drink heavily.

It got stranger as the day wore on. A couple of ethnocentric
business-people checked in next door, enveloped in a pheromic cloud of
poorly contained lust; they'd be screwing like rabbits within the hour.

Indeed they were. No sooner had I returned from the vending machines,
her agonized grunts pierced the wall and injected bizarre notes into
STAR TREK. I pounded the wall with my bottle, sloshing beer  over
myself, but no matter, I shower three, maybe four times a day
now.  I yelled obscenities at the top of my lungs. That seemed to
work, her grunting ceased.

Mr. Spock maintained his dignity; I drank Lowenbrau.

Desert Journal 1991.   Last Entry."

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rivet Members Profile Send Private Message Find Members Posts Add to Buddy List Left BSB in Disgrace Joined: 13 May 2009 Location: United States Status: Offline Points: 1017	Post Options Post Reply Quote rivet Report Post Thanks(0) Quote Reply Topic: Returning From The Desert Posted: 23 September 2009 at 06:44
	I just read Montana Madness' post about Digger and Boo coming home and it got me thinking about a time I had put away. I remembered clearly the strangeness about coming back home. It came back to me, the weirdness. Not in a crazy-vet-killer kind of way...no, that's for the stupid movies. In a weird kind of way, as if you could perfectly remember a bizarre, drunken, night-out perfectly. Of course, one cannot remember such times, but that is the best analogy I can think of. I kept a diary so I would never forget the insanity of those times, insanity as I decided my self, my feelings and the times were; my Army experiences that, in retrospect, I understand have been formative. So, to Montana Madness and the rest of you all folks who have sons and daughters coming back, give 'em space. I think what I wrote then can explain what I mean better than anything I can say now. I returned about three weeks after the rest of my unit. I volunteered to let the married guys go home first. I got back to Bragg to an empty post, and decided to stay at the Marriott Inn, under construction when I left, for the the few days until I could fly out of Fayetteville. This is my last entry of my Desert Diary as I called it. " Barricaded on the third floor of the local Marriott; almost out of writing paper and only the hotel supplied ballpoints around. I've run out of Bic Razorpoints two days back- but I can't leave to get more, not just yet. Desert decompression is getting heavy and the carnage of last night's revelry lies everywhere. No matter, I still have coherence and the plumbing remains operational in both hot and cold. Amidst the chaos of clothing, a basic-load of books (heavy on the the Hunter Thompson- my brain REQUIRES it now) and empty bottles I wade to the balcony and survey the perimeter. All quiet, no breeze, the enemy will be hard pressed to launch another onslaught right now- hell, even to find me! (No, not THAT enemy, the more insiduous ones, friendlies.) There is only one thing left to do. Drink heavily. It got stranger as the day wore on. A couple of ethnocentric business-people checked in next door, enveloped in a pheromic cloud of poorly contained lust; they'd be screwing like rabbits within the hour. Indeed they were. No sooner had I returned from the vending machines, her agonized grunts pierced the wall and injected bizarre notes into STAR TREK. I pounded the wall with my bottle, sloshing beer over myself, but no matter, I shower three, maybe four times a day now. I yelled obscenities at the top of my lungs. That seemed to work, her grunting ceased. Mr. Spock maintained his dignity; I drank Lowenbrau. Desert Journal 1991. Last Entry."
	FIRE IS OUR FRIEND!

Montana Maddnes Members Profile Send Private Message Find Members Posts Add to Buddy List .416 Rigby AKA Scooter Joined: 19 November 2008 Location: United States Status: Offline Points: 1799	Post Options Post Reply Quote Montana Maddnes Report Post Thanks(0) Quote Reply Posted: 24 September 2009 at 02:59
	Good pionts Rivet. I try to give them all the space they want when they get home from past deployments. Never fails Digger calls the day after they get home and says. "Get your leathers on we are going________" He seems to be more afraid to be still with his thoughts than Boo. She is happy to sit and relax and soak up the quite for several days, but not Digger. Could be that she is a plummer and stays on base, and he is C.E. Heavy equip operator. He spends a lot of time out sdie the wire, And on this trip he was there on convoy duty. Digger you see came with in weeks of grad Parra Resque training before a knee injury washed him out of school and he ended up in C.E. So when he volentiers for that stuff they jump at it. He is very well trained in modern warfare. And he just loves to serve the U.S.A. You should see the look in his eyes when someone even brings up retirment, or even stop asking them to send you back to the dessert. 25 years old he has been there 5 times now injured three times and damn near killed once. Dang near deaf in one ear, and has PTSD. He hinds in all well so they don't force him into treatment and stop sending him. He says there are to many younger guys out there that need someone like him to teach them how to come home alive. My brother Dig is a true American patriot, and a hero in my book! I'm glad he is coming home in one peice again!!!!!!!! MM
	Montana Maddness God Bless The U.S.A. On the Highways for Jesus!