Your team, along with a platoon from the Afghan National Army has just cleared the Taliban out of a small village south of Kandahar. The people are leery, cautious at first, but they soon start talking with the soldiers from the ANA. You’re thinking of what it would be like to live here, in this place of destitution when an ANA soldier reports to you. There are at least 6 villagers in need of medical assistance. You give the signal, and a clinic is set up within minutes. It’s time to get to work.

Somewhere a TV spits out static and buzz. It flickers, crackles, comes into focus. John Murtha stands at a podium. He looks directly at you, points at you, and says, "The public has turned against this war. And when the public turns against the war, Congress reacts to that." "We’re overextended worldwide, ... We have too small an Army for the job that we’re doing, yet we can’t increase the size of the Army because it’s volunteer, and we can’t enlist anybody." "We've got nation building by the U.S. military, and that's not a mission for the U.S. military. I've said this over and over again: They're not good at nation building. You've given them a mission which they cannot carry out. They do the best they can, but they can't do it." "We cannot win this militarily. Our tactics themselves keep us from winning . . ." The U.S. Army is "broken, worn out" and "living hand to mouth." The screen turns to grayscale snow.

A young boy sits before you. His right hand is missing. Playing with unexploded ordinance. The bandage over the stump is caked with an amalgam of blood and dirt. You steel yourself for what you know you’ll see when you cut the bandage off. All the while you smile and give encouragement through the interpreter. It wasn’t quite as bad as you expected, and you’ve thoroughly cleaned the wound. You show one of the local villagers how to clean the wound and leave enough supplies to finish the job. The boy smiles as you hand him a red lollipop. You know he’s never had one before, but he seems to know what it is just the same.

The TV sparks and crackles to life. Nancy Pelosi repeatedly cracks a gavel on her podium. She looks at you, but her eyes have a wild look to them and she seems to look past you. "Bush is an incompetent leader. In fact, he's not a leader,'' Pelosi shouts. "He's a person who has no judgment, no experience and no knowledge of the subjects that he has to decide upon.'' "Republicans should remember that the reason Osama bin Laden is still able to threaten the United States, three years after the September 11 attacks, is the utter failure of the Bush administration to capture bin Laden and to destroy his terrorist network..." "This isn't about the duration of the war. The war in Afghanistan is over."

A man holding his jaw, moaning softly walks in. He sits down. He seems to be in such pain that he doesn’t really take in his surroundings. You take a look in his mouth. Five cavities in various states. One of them is the obvious cause of the man’s discomfort and requires extraction. You set to work, taking out the rotten molar and filling the remaining cavities. The man, though exhausted, is in obvious relief and wears a weary smile. The interpreter tells you that the man will tell whoever will listen what you have done for him.

The softly glowing TV flashes to life with threatening snaps and hisses. Teresa Heinz Kerry looks down upon you from a balconey. She wags her finger at you, coal-glowing eyes, and spits out, "No American boy or girl should lose their lives for oil ..." The TV flashes brightly several times and then simmers down to a low, background menace.

Two teenage boys are standing before you. They both have second and first degree burns covering roughly half of their bodies. They will not say what happened, only that it happened a week ago. They’ve never been treated, other than having some makeshift bandages wrapped around them. You start the tedious process of removing dead skin. You slather on silver sulfadiazine and cover it with clean bandages. Throughout the whole painful process, the boys don’t so much as grimace. You leave a couple of tubs of the silver sulfadiazine and lots of sterile bandages. You instruct the boys on how to change their wrappings and tell them what could happen if they don’t keep the wounds clean and covered with the cream. They nod solemnly and file out.

The TV pops to life, panning left, then right, back and forth at a dizzying pace, and then suddenly stops dead center on the stern visage of John Kerry. He gives you a disapproving glare, shakes his head, and then gives you a look of utter contempt. "I'm an internationalist," he sniffs. "I'd like to see our troops dispersed through the world only at the directive of the United Nations." "There are all kinds of atrocities, and I would have to say that, yes, yes, I committed the same kind of atrocities as thousands of other soldiers have committed in that I took part in shootings in free fire zones. I conducted harassment and interdiction fire. I used 50 calibre machine guns, which we were granted and ordered to use, which were our only weapon against people. I took part in search and destroy missions, in the burning of villages. All of this is contrary to the laws of warfare, all of this is contrary to the Geneva Conventions and all of this is ordered as a matter of written established policy by the government of the United States from the top down." "And there is no reason ... that young American soldiers need to be going into the homes of Iraqis in the dead of night, terrorizing kids and children, you know, women, breaking sort of the customs of the--of--the historical customs, religious customs." "What we need now is not just a regime change in Saddam Hussein and Iraq, but we need a regime change in the United States." The TV begins to wildly pan back and forth again as the light dims and all becomes gray fuzz.

A young man walks in, gesturing to his back. The interpreter says that his neighbor stabbed him in the back over whose day it was to access the water. You take a look. There is, indeed, a nasty looking gash that traverses half of his back. Luckily, it is mostly superficial. You cleanse the wound and treat it. As you do, you learn from the interpreter that families here do not have daily access to water, and that even when it is their turn, they often have to fight for it, though it usually doesn’t escalate beyond threats and posturing. On his way out, you hand the man a gallon of water, knowing that it’s not much, but more than he’s likely to get today. Through the interpreter, he tells you that he and his family are most thankful. You make a note to leave more water for the village.

The TV flares an angry red, collapses to pitch black, then thrashes out in blinding white. As it dims, Howard Dean lets loose a primal scream and beats his chest. He stops suddenly and looks you in the eye. "You know," he says, "The idea that we are going to win this war is an idea that unfortunately is just plain wrong." The last word echoes as the screen fades to black.

Your last "customer" walks in, leading a goat on a leash. Right away, you can tell that the man has a raging illness. You start your examination on him, but he balks and points to the goat. The interpreter says that the man will not be seen until his goat is well. You sigh and take a look at the goat. Pregnant, sure. But breach. And due any day. You call for the materials you need, and start the process of bringing a new kid into the world. The surgery is a success. Both nanny and kid will be fine. The man starts to leave, but you stop him. You do a quick exam. Most likely strep. You leave the man with enough antibiotics for himself and his family. He looks at you quizzically. The interpreter says the man wants to know how you knew his wife and children were sick as well. You smile and say, "Just a guess." You give the man strict instructions on how and when to take the medicine. He leaves very thankful, saying that he will name his kid after you. You chuckle to yourself and sit down with a sigh. It’s been a long day.

The TV roars to life. Dick Durbin stares at you from a fish-eyed lens and repeats over and over mesmerizing mantra, "PolPot, Nazis, Gulag, America. PolPot, Nazis, Gulag, America..." His voice drones on long after the TV’s light has died.

You pack up. Word has it that the village chieftain has tipped you to a Taliban hide-out. You’re done here, for now. You’re ready to start the whole process over again. There are times that it gets to you. Times when you wonder why you’re here. But you can see the good that you’re doing. You see the need these people have. And you know you have your country’s support. You’ve gotten the cards, pictures from school children, even a lucky rabbit’s foot. Trinkets all on the one hand. Treasures on the other. You load up, the faint trace of a smile on your lips. It’s all good.

Like a vampire that won’t stay dead, the TV reanimates. John Kerry comes into focus again, this time laughing maniacally, like a mad scientist. More like the Joker on a Batman cartoon. He stops. "Wait! Wait! This is a good one! Tell me if you’ve heard it before. ‘You know, education, if you make the most of it, if you study hard and you do your homework, and you make an effort to be smart, uh, you, you can do well. If you don't, you get stuck in Iraq. ...’" He busts out laughing, repeatedly slapping his knee. The TV snaps off while echoes of his laughter build to a crescendo.

The dream wavers. Then, you’re marching through the desert in full gear. There’s a humanoid with a donkey’s head walking backwards in front of you. He’s glaring at you, pointing at you, and accusing you of vile things. After each accusation, he asks you if you’re ready to give up, telling you that you can have all the comfort you want if you do. When you stay mute, he gestures, and another donkey-headed humanoid behind you slips a brick into your pack. On each brick is a name. Murtha. Pelosi. Durbin. Dean. Kerry. He has a whole wheelbarrow full of them. You’re becoming more agitated. Finally, after another offer of comfort, the donkey-man says, "Come on. What do you think." You grit your teeth and say, "More weight."

You sit up straight, awake, confused.

Kells: ‘Bout time. We’ve been trying to wake you up for several minutes now.  No more Kijafa for you.

Birhtwold: Come on, man. We’re home.

You rub your eyes. Blink. And exit the car. You’re home.


--Cynewulf



Notes:
1.  Story idea taken from this article.

2.  The "More weight" line snagged from Arthur Miller's The Crucible.

3.  A big thanks to everyone who's served, past, present, and future.  God bless you.  Y'all are the best!