SOAP 6

After supper, timid knock, Charlie opened the door, "Zala, Benazir, a pleasure, come in. I'll fetch us all a pot of tea."
As he left Benazir said to Sonali, "kinda cute, does his share."
Sonali smiled, then Zala told why they'd come, "so you ask him or should we?"
Sonali, "you do it."
After various small talk, Benazir got to the point, "you two have been good friends to us, helped us sort out a lotta things. We've decided on a ring ceremony, want you two to be our official witnesses."
Charlie glanced at Sonali, caught her nod, "Heavens, I'm honored, flattered you'd actually choose us. A real delight, when is it?"
"Two weeks from now."

Thursday in a park near HQ, two partners laid out a blanket. Zarmeena and Nasreen shared an HQ MQ unit. Zarmeena opened a borrowed copy of Nau Roz, womens monthly magazine. Nasreen started on the organization newsletter.
Five minutes later, Nasreen gasped loudly, pushed the newsletter in front of her partner, "see that photo. Guess who."
Zarmeena tilted it back and forth until light was better, then whistled softly, "I'd never forget, that's the colonel and the general too."
"We were there, saw the general pin the Iron Cross on him. Now look, history repeats itself, this time Order of Merit."
"Commander and 2-i-c of 3 Kabul. Let's us apply there."
They had already read of improvements in 3 Kabul, how it was no longer the organizational refuse pit. Now a promotion factory.
The crystal clear photo did its work. Over a dozen members knew exactly who Malali and Charlie were and applied to 3 Kabul.

Malali was in a meeting when the mail and supply plane arrived, bringing Zarmeena and Nasreen. Charlie met the plane. Both snapped to attention, snapped out the mil salute, which Charlie returned.
He smiled, "well well, so it's Sgt Hochstetter and Lt Schultz, welcome to our humble unit. It would be my pleasure to show you around."
Both beamed at the recognition, "my goodness, Col, look at the nice living units."
"Please, first names only here, security, call me Charlie."
"Charlie, HQ is an urban slum compared to how you've spruced up here. We're glad to be back with you."
"I'm honored, flattered you'd actually choose 3 Kabul. The photo?"
Both nodded.
Nasren looked puzzled, "the writeup said 21 years in the British Army. Yet you don't look a day over 30."
"In those days, you could join at 15 1/2. I did. Being in love, knocks off a few years."
Sonali walked up, hugged him, "oh Lt Schultz, Sgt Hochstetter, it's been awhile."
Zarmeena smiled, "no wonder you two clicked together so well. There'd be a lotta trust between an officer and his radioman."
Sonali smiled, "tea?"

Malali came in, joined them. Zarmeena and Nasreen leaped to attention, gave the mil salute, which Malali returned automatically.
Charlie smiled proudly, "Malali, it's an honor to introduce the former Lt Schultz and Sgt Hochstetter, now known as Zarmeena and Nasreen."
Malali grinned, "you came to the right place. We're having some fun here."
"Exactly why we applied, didn't wanna be left out, get here before it's too crowded. Think any of them donkeys in HQ know their arse from their elbow?"
Malali asked, "so Charlie, had a chance to show them around?"
"Got them set up in a MQ unit."

MQ's were back-to-back, attached in row housing. Nasreen and Zarmeena were directly across from Sonali and Charlie and an instant couples friendship blossomed.
That weekend the four went for a picnic by the coast.
"This here's fabulous, " Nasreen gave her verdict, "fresh air, miles from anywhere. Again?"
They did, Friday as well.

Saturday was their appointment with the education officer. As they snuggled that night, Zarmeena ruffled Nasreen's hair, "awesome place, nice well-maintained units. Imagine, us both privates and we're friends with a sgt/WO couple. Never happen in HQ, too snooty there."
"Yes honey, and starting courses too. We're on our way, good decision to come here."
"Well we do always know where we can get good advice."

In a few months both made Cpl. 3 Kabul was after all expanding. They'd bought a few things for the MQ unit, developed good friendships, so they wrote to friends in HQ and told them of how things were.

Malali had 3 months of accumulated leave, so Charlie would take over. The change was instant. Malali had been the sort who stayed in her office. It took nerve, effort to approach her.
Charlie, every single workday, visited everyone at their workstation. No, not inspecting work or playing the heavy. Just being friendly, opening lines of communication. He was an awful lot easier to talk to, whether a personal or work topic.
Previously respected, now he was more so. He'd gently suggest you see the education officer or counsellor or do whatever he could.

Toward the end of Malali's leave, he was opening mail. Letter from her, found her way into HQ Intel. Next letter was from C-in-C. Field commission. WO C Thompson was now substantive rank Lieutenant, acting rank Commander.
3 Kabul was in loud celebration, yes they were happy with the news, simply felt he did a better job.
The education officer Adela noticed the change in tone too. He was a lot quicker to kick HQ behind to get a particular course for someone. He gave Adela red-carpet treatment, compared to Malali's more brushing her off. Adela was happy on the personal side too, found a new girlfriend, wanted to stay.
Her girlfriend, the counsellor Nooria, was equally pleased. Under the ancien regime, counselling was almost a sin, a shame, people afraid to go. Under Charlie, he'd actually accompany you on your first appointment if you wanted, help you break the ice.
He bought more paint in a month than Malali had in a year. Gave couples a day off work to do the interior of MQ units.
He ordered several magazine subscriptions, to be left on a rack in the mess. No you couldn't take them home or they'd disappear for days.
Three Bollywood movies a week.

Snuggling, Sonali asked, "so where'd you find the loot? Paint, magazines?"
Laugh, "where else? Kicked some behind."
She kissed him, "I do recall you were very good at it, lotsa practice."
He laughed, "yeah, those were the days."
"Come on now", she protested, "tell me exactly what you said."
"If they want any success whatsoever in the literacy upgrading program, those magazines are absolutely essential. As for paint, how you gonna recruit if you don't have nice photos?"
"So, your next plan?"
"Dearly love to get these people satellite TV. Don't like the odds on that."
She ruffled his hair, "go for the morale aspect. You still need 30 more members, people who voluntarily choose to come here. If there was TV, it'd be a factor in their choice."
He kissed her, "I do recall, on a number of occasions when you were my radionman, your suggestions proved useful."
It worked, 3 Kabul was agog, they had TV.

Charlie declared a victory celebration in the mess. "Listen up people, don't want no one thanking me for this TV. All Sonali's doing, she told me exactly what to write, so 3 cheers for Sonali."
It worked in the larger sense too. Dozen good photos of camp, add TV, add letters going back to friends. Soon applications were pouring in, most from friends of 3 Kabul or friends of friends. References were thus easy to check.
Back at HQ, the chief beancounter had choked on the purchase order for TV. Until Salima called her in, told her to remove head from behind, instant attitude adjustment.

SOAP 5

Salima checked the MQ report, he'd shared with the same person throughout. Shows loyalty, but then an officer and his radioman would have a close relationship of trust. Then Salima burst out laughing, blindingly simple, 3 Kabul CO either won't or doesn't put him up for OC exam; Salima has no authority to order it. But his partner Sonali is taking the WO course. When she graduates, she'll end up in HQ and of course bring him.
Once he's here, sky's the limit. Now maybe Intel would be a good starting place. And those silly Brits only had him a Sgt; well ever since they've lost that Empire their head have been up their behinds.

Salima's plan was destined to come to naught. After three lessons, Sonali realized her heart wasn't in it, switched to English teacher course. Now the education officer on Kerguelen had no idea of Salima's underlying plan; had simply been instructed to never force an issue, people perform best if it's their choice of course.
So when Sonali came to the education officer, the latter was ultra-helpful and in no time, Sonali was re-enrolled.
Not surprisingly, this was romantic, Charlie tutoring her. For him, a chance to repay her tutoring in Pashtu.

In due course, Salima checked on Sonali's progress. After a couple minutes of thought she shrugged. Well the Col is useful where he is or in HQ, no big deal. Then Salima laughed, where had she learned that? None other than the Col. He had that ability to improv, to shoot from the hip, no matter how something turned out, he could roll with it and turn it to advantage. Life is more fun, adventure, less stress if you approach it that way.
Now let's go kick the Command Council in the pants.

Malali was astounded, whistled softly. Authorization to increase contingent size from 100 to 150; herself promoted to Acting Commander. Equipment budget, whoa, where on earth did all that money come from?
Malali chuckled, well just because Salima shot me, doesn't mean she hates me. Charlie had said two bottles of brandy that day.
She showed the letter to Sonali and Charlie, "I'm declaring a victory bash in the mess. Coffee and pastry for the quiet-marrieds, S&M night for the crazies."
The celebration would of course be a Wednesday evening.

Wednesday's mail brought the usual fruitless nonsense:
- revised travel rates, as if we ever use those;
- exhortation to increased recycling, as if we have facilities;
-memo from the Ethnic Committee on ways and means to be more sensitive to cultural minorities; as if we have time to read 568 pages;
-new regs for parking motorscooters in HQ;
-menu for the officer-sgt mess for the next month;
-new security procedures for the HQ perimeter fence.
Malali tore open the envelope arriving from the C-in-C. Two things:
-memo Charlie would be interim successor to cover any illness or absence of her;
-memo requesting her to pin the enclosed award on him during the next public meeting of 3 Kabul.
Whoa, Order of Merit, highest you can get. The citation was short, "In a situation originally involving risk to his own life, WO Charlie Thompson rallied unit resistance in 3 Kabul. They then went on to deliver the biggest achievement the organization has seen in years." It was signed by Salima herself. Well, Malali thought, it's true, he did it, not me.

Malali caught up to him at teabreak. First, showed him the letter naming him interim successor. "Going on leave in a bit, glad the unit will be in good hands."
He blushed, "I'll try, do my best."
Solemnly Malali showed the other memo and the decoration. He raised an eyebrow, "didn't she overstate a bit?"
"Not on your life, she's tough as nails on awards, never gives em out til you've earned it twice over." Malali wiped a tear, "last time this happened, I was pinning the Iron Cross on you in Yugoslavia. Conspicuous gallantry averting considerable loss of life."
Charlie wiped a tear.
"So what'll you say in your acceptance speech?"
"Not a lot, just how important love and comradership really are."

People sensed something huge coming, instant hush as Malali rose. She called him forward, read the citation, pinned the award, "now y'all know how stingy Salima is, never get it till you've earned it twice over."
Charlie looked like he was on the edge of tears, "I've been decorated five times by the British Army: 3 in Ulster and 2 in Yugoslavia. But this, well, it's special. Been in elite units, First Para and Special Air Service. I'm happy to say comradeship here is on a par with that. Very important, your comrades, do your best for them. Found something else here, something I've never had before, love. Now if you don't have it, by all means look for it. If you do, hang onto it, always do your best for your partner."
Wiping his eyes, he walked over to Sonali, hugged and kissed her. Loud applause.

Later Malali, Sonali and Charlie were sitting together. Waheeda came up, "you ah told him of the ritual Malali?"
Malali colored, "sor-ry, been too busy, just came in the mail today."
Wicked grin, Waheeda proceeded, "there's a tradition, in the whole organization, not just 3 Kabul. Win an award, that night in the mess, you paddle all comers. Dozen strokes to anyone who wants. Then you ah rub lotion on the behind."
He blushed beet red, but recovered quickly, "but surely that violates the proprieties? I mean, if a man does it?"
Waheeda grinned, "well that it does. So we have to slightly modify the rules. All partakers must keep panty on. We will set up a screen, behind which your lovely wife can do the lotioning."
Sonali hugged him, playfully bit his ear. A mil himself he understood the importance of unit bonding rituals.
Grin, "bring it on, whenever you're ready."
Waheeda laughed, "I go first, I want em very heavy, hard as you can swing."
There was a practical reason Waheeda went first, coach him on proper finger placement, arm motion and the like.
The entire unit chose to participate. This was no ordinary S&M night; special; first award ever to a member of 3 Kabul; first ever to a man; first ever to a foreigner. In fact, in 30 years of hsitory, only eight Orders of Merit had been handed out.
People would ask for very light, light, medium, heavy or very heavy and of course Waheeda was keeping him on track, him lacking any experience.
Anyone asking for very light, it was purely symbolic, showing unit pride, the paddle barely touched her. Lotsa couples went hand-in-hand; showing the world two things, love and unit pride.
There would be a real S&M party later for the crazies, Sonali and Charlie wouldn't stay.
After, he finished, Waheeda hugged him, "here's hoping you didn't have spanking plans."
He gave a loud mock groan, "sor-ry honey, my arm is broken."
Sonali winked at Waheeda, said to him, "don't be a wimp, use your left hand."

They wandered home hand-in-hand. As they snuggled, Sonali said, "you've arrived now. You saw that air of comradeship, this place rocks." Pause "you realize what this means also, no problem with Salima if you ever do go to HQ."
He kissed her, "fate may eventually take me there, but prefer here for now."

In fact, the party was still ongoing when people showed for breakfast. It continued behind the screen, so as not to offend the diners.
Charlie chuckled, "they'll be so tired, they'll sleep well."
Laugh, "you really are such an innocent little boy. Take away the parachute or helicopter or SA80 or APC and there's lots you don't know bout life."
"Such as?"
"They're on their way to the mother of all orgies."
"You're joking?"
"No. So let's go picnic get away from the noise."
"I'd like that," he smiled.

SOAP 4

He shrugged, "one of my platoon commanders, was battalion commander, peacekeeping in Yugoslavia."
"So why'd she give the party salute and you the military?"
"Bit overzealous in a number of situations, tried to tone that down a bit."
Sonali laughed, "and you failed?"
He hugged her, "some people never change, you're so right."
"And December 15, 1943 was what?"
"Day I died."
"How'd it happen?"
"A general was on an inspection tour.  Captain Neubauer had already drunk two bottles of brandy, unloaded a full Schmeisser clip into me and the general."
"How's you make Col?"
"Started Luftwaffe, bomber pilot, Condor Legion in Spain, 1936-1939. By 1940, colonel in bombers.  Raid on England September 1940, lost my right hand, half the forearm."
"And Fazila, her background?"
"Non-combat, pure Party."
"Ever look Fazila up in archives?"
"Died Russian Front, mid 1944."
"She seems to admire you all the same, despite the differences."
"Young, immature, not vicious."
It dawned on Sonali, "everything moves in a circle.  Died peacekeeping in Yugo, three tours there this time.  You meet the same people?"
"Half dozen in Devon and Dorsets, three in paras.  Moves in a circle, you get to experience all.  One time Col, next Sgt, next who knows could be private or field marshal.  Keep going till you get it right then move on."
She kissed him, "such as teaching math?"
He stroked her hair, "never thought of it so, thanks for the insight."
"Big question, happier here or there?"
"There, more exciting; here, more soul-satisfying.  Happier with my work here, happy I found love.  Thought I never would."
They hugged, cried.
"Just a minute," she asked, "that drinking crowd on the ferry, people of that time?"
"Yes, all of them."
"And in your group's case, it wasn't celebration of end of tour; more a sadness the world is so crazy?"
He nodded.
"Ever trace Capt Neubauer?"
For answer he drew out a copy of the newsletter, showed her a photo of Salima.
She gasped, "you sure?"
"Yeah."
She laughed, "the ultimate punishment, she becomes the two officers she killed, finds out how hard it really is."
He grinned.
Sonali asked, "what do you know of the general who was killed?"
"Malali of course, now I'm about 99% certain she has a mental block, doesn't know it on the conscious level.  But bigtime recognition washed over her face when she saw me in sick bay."
Sonali chuckled, "that would certainly explain the huge level of conflict between Malali and Fazila.  Those two hated each other from Day One."
"Which is exactly why Salima put them in the same unit."
"So if Salima ever saw you, it'd be instant recognition, better stay away from HQ."
"You yourself said, once here, never leave."
One last thought hit Sonali, "you ah happen to ah recognize me?"
Gently, "you too have a mental block, we were together three years, December 1940 to December 1943.  You were my radioman, Cpl Steiner."
She started to cry, "that explains it, first day I met you, knew I knew you somehow, trusted you."
He hugged her, "and when I first met you, already knew you were a fine person."

Next morning Malali joined them for breakfast.  Out of the corner of her eye, Sonali watched.  It's true, Charlie is driving her nuts.  She knows him but not how.  Doesn't know me though, no surprise, a general wouldn't recognize a cpl.
Morning tea, Malali was leafing through the newsletter, saw the large portrait of Salima.  Instead of her normal tense, she was more relaxed, more open.  And suddenly it was all flooding back.  Now she knew who in blazes Salima was - her murderer.  And Charlie - the Col who'd died beside her. And that obnoxious Fazila Ufff.
She spent the rest of the day with a notepad, listing clues, ending up with 34 pages.

She joined Sonali and Charlie for supper, "say after supper, think we could all take tea, go chat in my office?"
She showed them her notes.  As Sonali read, the recall came.  Malali paused, "you know Sonali, you're mixed up in this too, just can't place you."
Politely Charlie replied, "Herr General, highly unlikely you'd recognize my radioman Cpl Steiner.  Sonali was there that day, saw it happen."
Malali laughed, "so that's the real reason I got command of the devil's brigade."
"Look at the bright side Herr General, are they not the angel's brigade now?"
She hugged Charlie, "you don't change, you were by far the best battalion commander I had."
"So what'll we do now?"  Malali asked.
"If I may be so bold as to suggest, let's bury Salima alive.  Let's turn this place into an elite unit.  Let's get as many people going on courses as we can, flood HQ with our promotions.  After all, this set does have more energy than the rest of the population."
Malali laughed, "as I recall that's exactly what you did last time.  People stood in line to get into your battalion.  Only way out was promotions.  Should I set up the Officer Candidate exam for you?"
Charlie blushed, "I'll help you along, but actually I prefer teaching, more soul-satisfying." 

What was needed was example, not preaching.  Malali requested the Intel correspondence course for herself.  Highly unlikely it would actually pay off, but a topic she found interesting all the same.  Sonali, already a sgt, requested the W.O. qualifying course.  Charlie requested the Pashtu language course.  This would be a goodwill gesture, plus very romantic, curled up studying with Sonali.
The MQ block was soon a-flutter.  Neither Sonali nor Charlie preached, just answered any questions.  Sonali would gently smile, "it's sooo romantic curled up together studying."  To a lot of couples this was a major selling point.

Gulazar and Shabnab were first, Gulazar enrolling in the sgt qualifying course and Shabnab enrolled in basic English.  Not to be outdone, Zala and Benazir were quick to start, Zala on literacy upgrading and Benazir on teacher training.  As Benazir tutored Zala, side-by-side, bodies and hands touching, they experienced more romance.
Soon these people were selling the idea of courses to friends.  Within several months, 50 of the 98 members were enrolled in something, pretty good considering an averge unit had two.

HQ decided on its own to remove all MP's except one private.  No justification to keep them there, total lack of business.  In their place, an education officer from the correspondence course section, to help meet the massive demand and promote more demand; the organization needed those grads. 

Salima was now immensely suspicious of the background story on Kerguelen. She had a huge sense of deja vu, she's seen this bigtime before.  She reasoned it would be an individual, not a group.  A recent arrival, not someone there forever.  She ordered from Personnel the complete file on all who had joined 3 Kabul in the last two years.
One-by-one she sifted.  No, no, no, no and no.  Endless collection of bad rap sheets.
Oh yes, the man teaching there, some kind of sea accident.  She opened the file, saw the photo.  And now she wasn't in her office anymore.  She was back on a snowy hillside near Sarajevo, December 15, 1943, again blowing away her battalion commander and the inspecting general.
After the flashback, she sat shaken over tea.  She had absolutely nothing against the Col, highly respected him as a matter of fact.  It's just well with the DT's, she'd been seeing snakes, not the two men who got shot.
So he's back.  And the Col has delivered a tour-de-force.  He's turned the devil's brigade into the most successful unit we've got.  We darn well need those grads and more of them too.
She worked over budget figures.  Prepared to do battle with the Command Council at the next meeting.  She'd of course be seeking more funds for 3 Kabul.  Don't want the Col's juggernaut to run out of gas.  
She pondered, he's only a WO.  Why in blazes hasn't that negligent Malali put him up for OC exam?  We need more of those people. 
My friend, you need not fear me; hang around a few years, you'll be my 2-i-c. 
            

SOAP 3

They did end up dusting Thursday, but it was fun, togetherness, chat, now the place looked better, that and the curtain.
Door and window were open to air it out as they worked.  Passersby were astounded to see  that tough English sgt with a dust cloth.  Gasp, he's even having fun, they're laughing and joking as they work together.
Midafternoon, job done, the lay side-by-side relaxing.
"I would hazard a guess, whoever had this before were swine with a capital S."
Sonali's face clouded, she closed window and door, "don't say that again."
"Gotcha.  I arrived just after last payday.  Woke up in sickbay, an obvious suicide attempt in another bed."
"One more abusive relationship, her partner's back in HQ awaiting court martial." 
"So," he said sadly, "this is it. Send you here hoping you suicide or die or whatever.  Absolutely anything this unit produces is a bonus, doing its job just keeping these people away from HQ."
She snuggled close, hugged him tight.
He grinned, "tomorrow should be good weather, picnic?"
She kissed him several times, "thank heavens you are here."
Next door Gulazar and Shabnab were fighting.  Gulazar said, if even a man, a tough Brit veteran can do his share, then so can you.  Shabnab, an equal size, told her to stick it, want it done, do it yourself.  They had plenty of time to smoke dope, none to clean.  The place was now a tip.  Both were of course hoping to win next month's draw for a cleaner.
Gulazar laughed, "suppose Sonali and Charlie win the draw, they won't need the cleaner, maybe we could barter something."
Shabnab hugged her, started French-kissing.  They moaned, ripped off clothes and headed for bed.

Sonali and Charlie did win.  He'd already bought the lamp, so they were pretty happy about their place.  The neighbor offer of a hand-embroidered little wall hanging sounded like a good barter, they accepted.
As they snuggled, Sonali laughed, "wanna bet how long it takes for those two to get it dirty again?"
"We could always ask for that little clock as barter, if we win the draw.
She laughed, slapped him playfully.

Sonali was soon to be proven wrong.  Gulazar and Shabnab picked a day they knew he'd be a bit later, teacher meeting.  On the surface, a casual neighbor dropin only.  But eagle eyes were everywhere.  Place looked beautiful, with curtain, lamp and wall hanging, sparkling clean.  They'd seen those two cleaning, picnicing and walking hand-in-hand.  They wanted what the lovebirds had.
Finally Gulazar got to the point, "we could wait a donkey's age for a cleaner again.  Tell us how we can divide things up."
Gently, "you have tried taking turns?"
Shabnab groaned, "yes, but we spend more time fighting over whose turn it is than the job is worth."
"Perhaps if you drew up an agreement, one always do certain jobs, the other does others."
They looked at each other, realized they'd just spent the last three years being prize donkey behinds and blushed.
Sheepishly Shabnab whispered, "yes it's time, we'll make a deal."
They left hand-in-hand.

A week later, Charlie was dressing one morning, "honey our neighbors.  Strange, saw them cleaning together, hugging in the movie.  Did they ah change dope?"
She ruffled his hair, "no, just realized they had been dopes."
What really told the world Gulazar and Shabnab had arrived?  The curtain.
Not surprisingly, this provoked a lot of discussion in other MQ units on the block.
Other side neighbors, Zala and Benazir were fighting.  Benazir pointed out that if Zala spent half as much on dope, the curtain was affordable.  Zala countered by suggesting Benazir quit cigarettes instead, the argument going in circles for days.
Eventually they sought Sonali's advice.  "Suppose now each of you is responsible for saving your half?"
They looked at each other and burst out laughing.  Yes it was time.  In due course, the world saw the curtain.
This wasn't lost on other MQ blocks.  Soon half the units were filled with people either squabbling or discussing home improvements.

Malali sat over tea, staring out her office window.  Even here in the Valley of the Damned, things happen.  People sprucing up, less MP incidents.  Who started it?  The Brit.  Glad he's here.  Not only that, does a good job, he's teaching adult refugees now, not girls of course.  All say the same, explains well, makes it fun, kind, gives you little jokes to help you remember.
And Sonali, known her 20 years now, never seen her happier, must be a good love.  And imagine, he's a drunk who fell off a ferry.  World is chock-a-block full of paradox.
Sonali and he have shown them the picnic routine, any good weather weekend day, a third of the couples are up at the coast.  All that fresh air, less dope smoked, more relaxed.
One of Fazila's contingent of MP's is now demanding a transfer.  Says the place is boring, gone too goody-goody.  Imagine HQ's reaction to that.  3 Kabul goody-goody??

Fazila, fair-minded to her person, endorsed the request.  Yes demand for MP services was down, table of stats attached.  Recommend she be allowed transfer.
HQ reply to Fazila was, yes transfer authorized, but please explain why the changes.
Her reply, people are buying curtains, cleaning their units, smoking up less, picnicing more, even poetry readings in the mess.
Salima, the bewildered Commander-in-Chief shook her head.  This is symptoms, not cause.  Too busy to worry about it more, she pushed Fazila'a report aside.

A second MP demanded transfer, Fazila endorsing.  Again Salima shook her head, looking at the latest reduced internal crime stats.  Somehow or other, 3 Kabul had got on track.  Last thing they needed was Fazila's sort.  Salima's reply: MP requesting the transfer and Fazila are transferred out.
Fazila kissed the letter.  My chance to escape this iceberg.  Be gracious.  She went to the tuckshop, bought cigarettes and chocolate bars, checking with the shop lady to see what Charlie and Sonali preferred.
Shyly, Fazila tapped on their door.  Sonali invited her in.
Smiling, Fazila drew out the letter, showed it to them, laid the little package on the table.
Choking back a tear, "thank you so very much for putting me out of business.  I'll never forget you , haven't changed one iota from your last lifetime, still a decent chap.  Last time I saw you was on a snowy hillside near Sarajevo December 15, 1943."  Fazila snapped to attention, snapped out the straight arm Nazi salute.
Pure reflex, Charlie returned the military (not the party) salute. "Ah yes, Leutnant Reinprecht, I remember you."
Fazila smiled, "hiding away from the people, Colonel, should go to HQ.  Give you five-six years, you'd be 2-i-c to Salima herself."
Charlie blushed.
Fazila hugged both, "gotta run, gotta pack."
Left Sonali staring at Charlie.  She didn't need to ask, her expression said it all, catatonic shock.
   

SOAP 2

Weekends here are Thursday and Friday.  Thursday Charlie and Sonali took food and tea, picnic up by the coast.  She knew a nice spot, out of the wind, in what little sun there was.  Utterly mellow, they lay, bodies touching, watching the Southern Ocean.  As they kissed, he realized he was darn glad to be there.  Twenty years of random pickups in bars and coffee houses, not a whole lot of romance.  Nice to be with someone who likes you.
 Sonali's thoughts drifted to failed relationships.  She knew what 3 Kabul said behind her back,  just plain lacked the higher level of emotional energy needed in a lesbian relationship.  She was more suited for a relaxed sort like Charlie, to him life was one big joke.  Kissing again, she picked up his vibes.  Promising.
They sauntered back hand-in-hand, as they entered the mess, it was obvious to all they'd connected out there.  Yeah, he'd fit in ok here.
That evening, Bollywood movie in the mess.  Sonali and Charlie hugged throughout.  People were astounded to see that tough English sgt actually cry at some of the scenes.
Sonali had read how so many in the west were totally hooked on smoking, 1 or 2 packs a day.  She was delighted to see Charlie was a one 10-pack per week man, about her speed.  She was happy to buy for him til payday.
Next day, another picnic.  During the entire day, not a word spoken. Sonali reflected as they walked back, shows good attenuation.  People are usually so desperate to fill up any silences in the conversation.
Malali watched them enter the mess, why they're in love, both faces glow.
The class schedule was redone.  Charlie had been brought up to speed on curriculum.  He faced his first class, all members.  If it worked ok, they'd try him with refugees later.
The mess was for members only, a separate and larger one for refugees, all-ranks mess, field operation.  Sonali and Charlie walked into the mess after his first day teaching.  She could pick up the vibes, yes he's earned people's respect.
Tasma smiled, "I'm really amazed, you did great.  I thought all you people were ah," blush.
He laughed, let her off the hook,"sgt hasta be an instructor, new lads alla time." 
Malali, who'd sat through two of his classes said, "super, exactly what we want."
"Thank you so much."
Housekeeping on such field duty was all food must remain in mess, except for picnic.  Due to sanitary regs, no food allowed in living units.  Due to fire regs, you couldn't make tea, but there was an urn in the mess night and day.  You were permitted tea in living unit or office.
Consequently there was no grocery shopping, just a tuck shop with mostly items like soap, cigarettes, candy and such.
The ordinary MQ household didn't have much work, just laundry, sweeping, dusting. But that didn't stop people bickering over it. 
Payday was the fourth Wednesday in the month.  Malali went around passing out the envelopes containing the small salaries in cash.
Sonali came home from work, relax a bit before supper.  A few minutes later, Charlie showed.  He'd been to the tuck shop, repaid the cigarettes, bought her two choco-mint bars (her favorite) and a bar of sandalwood soap.
"You're sweet," she kissed him, "it's good for the skin."
"Well I did have ulterior motives.  Honey, meant to ask you, that little curtain sitting there in the shop, beautiful.  Sure brighten this place up.  Ok if I buy?"
Sonali thought a moment.  Yes whole place was gray and dingy, the island a craggy moonscape devoid of vegetation, the living units similar, more gray sky than blue, ocean gray mosta the time.  Also shows he consults, doesn't just unilaterally decide, like a lotta men.
It was on the tip of her tongue to offer to pay half. But he'd be hurt, don't ever discourage the romantic in your man.
"It is only a tiny window, 2 feet by 2 feet.  But you're right, it would be nice."
He returned a few minutes later, hung the curtain.
She kissed him, "looks better already."
"Actually honey, now how about next payday I buy one of those little lamps?  It'd be a soft light, a nice change from the bulb."
"Which of course you also have ulterior motives for."
He grinned, "why else?  Romantic."
Again, it was on the tip of her tongue to offer to buy, but she didn't.  
It was now obvious to her.  20 years of random pickups and he'd never had a real romance.  Let him buy the lamp, he'll feel nice.
If more around here were like him, there'd be a lot less problems.  Cheerfully does his share of the work.  In fact, we're the only couple on this block that doesn't fight, imagine that.
They went to the mess as soon as supper started, wanted to relax a bit at home before the fundraiser social that evening.
Malali joined them, "you two know how to live.  That curtain lights up that whole depressing block."
Bursting with pride, Sonali replied, "Charlie's idea, it was."
Malali looked at Charlie, something clicked.   Behind the sights of an SA80, take away the rubber bullets, the tear gas, the vehicle check points, the raids. All means to an end.  To stop two groups from out-and-out civil war.  It wasn't their fight, not theirs to say who was right or wrong. Their job, simply prevent another Yugoslavia or Afghanistan.  And yes, they were real people, could cry at sad scenes in the movie or appreciate a beautiful curtain. 
Back at home.  Funny, Sonali thought, never thought of it as home before the curtain.
Sonalia clued him in on the social, til 10:00 pm gourmet coffee, pastry, chat.  Six draws in all, quiet marrieds participated in the first 2 only, then left when things got rough.
First draw, wildly popular, a five rupee ticket got you a chance for a day off work for you and either friend or partner. All proceeds went to Malalia Hospital for destitute women and girls.
Second draw, everyone in BOQ (Bachelor Officer Quarters) and MQ units bought tickets.  If you won, you got a cleaner for half a day.  If fact, lotsa people didn't clean in the last half of the month, hope springing eternal they'd win.  It was common to see everyone who lost the draw cleaning after payday.
Smoothly Sonali interjected it was her turn to buy, he'd already been generous.
After that the quiet-marrieds depart and Fazila the Military Police sgt and her crowd arrived to keep order.  The next 4 draws, totally naked S&M (sadism and masochism) events.
He grinned wickedly, "so that's why I'm not allowed to stay."
She kissed him, "no problem, you can give me a little light spanking once we're home."  The expression said it all, this would be pleasure, not duty.
"So honey, how did 3 Kabul come into being?"
"What makes you think 3 Kabul is different from any other unit?"
"Come on" chuckling, "don't snow me, I'm a 21 year man.  This place has got leprosy colony all over it like a flashing neon sign.  They vacuumed up all the troublemakers from everywhere else, dumped them into 3 Kabul."
She laughed, "you're a good bit smarter than I thought.  Ok, guess what is Malali's sin."
"Refuses to be politically correct, tells it how it is, same as you."
"That obvious, baby?"
"Yeah, and mosta these people got MP files a foot thick, right?"
"Most of them."
"So let me guess, the social is really about steamoff.  Don't allow it, you end up with lots more MP incidents.  And Fazila, she's guilty of some giant sin, haven't figured out what yet."
Sonali nodded.
Laugh, "well let's not keep them waiting, any luck we'll win a cleaner."
She slapped him playfully, "if we don't win, tomorrow for sure, mega cleaning."
"I'm with you honey, love being near you, even if it's to clean."

   
Sm   
      

SOAP 1

The ferry crossing from Belfast to Liverpool was almost ten hours.  The Devon and Dorsets were in full celebration, just ending a Northern Ireland tour in XMG (Crossmaglen), bandit country down near the Eire border.  By the time they saw the lights of the Isle of Man, two-thirds were paralytic.
One man in particular was in high spirits, Sergeant Charlie Thompson, a 21 year veteran.  For him, this was completion of his thirteenth Ulster tour.  The unlucky number had spooked him a bit.  What spooked him more was his adoptive sister Pamela, talented reading tea leaves, who had predicted he'd never return from 13th.  She flat out had told him to retire.
Well the army was his home, only skill he had, he'd disregarded her advice.  Now here he was, safe and sound.  Not even the helicopter crash nor the rocket attack had got him.  Pamela had been wrong.
Not really, the D&D's arrived in Liverpool short one man.  Sgt Thompson, intoxicated, had fallen overboard.

He came to in a darkened room half dozen beds, faint night light.  Found the loo at the end.  After attending to business, he drank some water, tried to swish off some of the oil and salt.
Only one other bed was occupied, woman, fattish, white but not really, both wrists bandaged, probable suicide attempt.
He couldn't get back to sleep what with the blinding headache. So Pamela was right, was he dead or alive now?  He didn't even know, hurt too much to think.

The first faint light of day filtered in and he took stock.  Uniform, still damp with oil and salt, was hanging near his bed.  He was dressed in a hospital gown.  He wished he had tea and a cigarette.  The nurse peeked in, saw him stirring, called the officer.
 A hard-bitten, hard-eyed woman of 5'9", 150 pounds, wearing Lieutenant bars asked, "what in blazes are you doing here?"
"Ma'am, I was about to ask you the same."
"So, Sgt Thompson of Devon and Dorsets, what happened?"
"Fell off the ferry."
"Which ferry?"
"Belfast to Liverpool."
"So, you were on an Ulster tour?"
"Lucky 13th."
"You darn well fall off a ferry half a world away and new you're here?"
"Ma'am, if I were lying, wouldn't I at least try something more believable?"
She laughed, "right, breakfast and we'll try and sort this out."
On the way to the mess, Lt asked "so how do you know Dari?"
Shrug, "is that what it is?"
"You know a language and don't know what it is?"
"Ma'am, I'm not originally English.  Little boy in Czechoslovakia during the mayhem in 1968.  Maybe age 5, escaped to the west, no clue on my real ID."
Her eyes narrowed as she searched his face.  Son of foreign workers in Czech?  Very possible.  Parents originally Afghan?  Could be.  "By the way, I'm Malali, no surnames or rank here, security, we use first names only.  I'll call you Charlie."
They sat with Sonali (sgt), Tasma (cpl) and Nilofar (Warrant officer and math teacher).  Of course everyone wanted to hear the story.
"Me and Sgt York, WO MacLean, Lt Simpson, Sgt Barry, we were drinking gin on the carpark deck.  Went over to the rail to throw up, fell in."
Sonali grinned, "you boys always drink so?"
"Not usually, but after an Ulster tour, yeah.  Crossmaglen, bandit country, lucky me, my 13th Ulster tour."
They all laughed, by now they liked him.
Nilofar asked "tell me what you felt, I mean as you were falling?"
"Darndest thing.  Like I fell forever, through a tunnel, like I fell thousands of miles."
Nilofar's eyes narrowed, "what date did it happen?"
"Date?  Don't be daft, last night, December 17, 1998."
People stared at him in catatonic shock.  Nilofar broke the ice, "ever read sci fi Charlie?"
"Time to time, standing radio watch."
"Know of time warps, wormholes?"
"Yeah."
"You're in one.  You aren't going back."
He groaned. 
Malali summed up, "right.  Burn his uniform. So oil-soaked it'll never be clean.  Sonali, you look after him.  Probably need three soapy, steamy baths.  Also clue him in on the code of conduct.  Clothes, no problem, least half of us are bigger than he.  Get him 2 uniforms."
Malali turned to Charlie, "after that, you and I talk.  We'll fit you somewhere."
As Charlie bathed, Sonali told him of the place.  Kerguelen Island, Southern Ocean.  100 women members and 1,000 refugees (women and girls) attending the school.
Sonali grinned, "now the rules, you need a chaperone, we'll fix you up with an 80 year old in a burqa."
He groaned.
Sonali flashed a wicked grin, "only one loophole around that."
"I'm all ears."
Another wicked grin, "rules of conduct on field operations concerning encounters between members and any men they might encounter.  No anal, oral, vaginal, only manual permitted.  Now if you think you can manage that, well you and I could get a Married Quarters unit, no need of a chaperone."
Used to sizing up people quickly, he grinned, "sure."
By lunch  he was pink-skin clean, wearing a shalwar kameez, long loose shirt and trousers of baby-blue and off-white.  
Sonali and Charlie joined the gang for lunch.  Sonali announced they'd be sharing a MQ unit.  He was surprised at the reaction, no jealousy, people seemed happy for them.
Now there was a reason why Sonali wasn't in a lesbian relationship.  She just didn't have that high-voltage, politically correct makeup.   
Malali gently pumped him for info.  13 Ulster tours, 3 in the mayhem of former Yugoslavia, 1 tour in Belize and 2 in Cyprus; including one hitch in 1 Para and one in the Special Air Service.
After lunch Malali interviewed him.  She was in charge now, the regular commander being sent home medically.
During the interview, a strong suspicion formed in her mind.  "Ok, drop it for today.  Tomorrow you write the exams, I can mark them here."
Turned out she was right, strong math skills, 99th percentile of the population in ability.
She smiled, "be a math teacher with us.  You'd be a WO.  In fact, as WO you'd get more than me.
Shrug, "ok, sounds fun."
Sonali and Charlie joined the mess bull session.  After maybe an hour, the massive 5'10" Wahida fixed a hard eye on him.  "you owe us buddy, a good story."
"Sure what would you like?"
Wicked smile, "your worst date."
He blushed, oh well here goes.
"Me and Lt Simpson, we were in London on  technical course.  We were in a nice coffee house, next table turned out it was two closet lesbians who were university professors.  Now they needed someone to be pretend dates at a Faculty Club meeting of  their department.   Lt Simpson says sure, why not, food'll be good there.  Anyhow, I ended up with the real hardcore drinker.  She was drinking too much red wine.  Ended up throwing up all over me."
Howls of laughter.
"It got worse.  She fell onto the buffet table, rolled around in the food and vomit."
Laughter went up ten decibels.  
As people whooped, cheered, punched his arm in fun, he knew he had passed the test.
Waheeda grinned, "your clothes?  Cleaners get the stain out?"
"Yeah."
"Consider yourself the winner.  I don't suppose this helped her career prospects any."
More laughter. 

Soap opera preview

I sincerely hope you enjoy my collection of vignettes.  Time to move on.
Everyone loves soap opera.  I'll number the episodes so it's easy to track.
Start with a contingent of Afghan women in a remote location, already with problems.  Add a variety of foreigners, all marginal in their home culture, many carrying dark secrets.
If you enjoy, please tell your friends.  Thank you. 

AUTHOR

Big day is here.  Brother is a sessional lecturer and grad student in English Lit.  He's done reading my 350 page novel.
Today I'll hear the verdict.  I buy us each a latte and we settle in, watch trendy shoppers float by.
"We-ll Taslima, first it's excellent setting.  Lotta good script describing the sights back home.  That's nice, but not in terms of marketing.  See real Afghans already know this, you're wasting their time.  White readers, well most are busy people.  They'd much prefer 250 pages, doable if you unload a lotta this setting."
I groan inwardly thinking of the work.
"Character dialogue, you're caught in the middle.  Your white reader will miss most of the nuance.  Your Afghan, feel insulted as you explain the obvious."
Oy.
"Plot, come on Taslima.  Why not an assassination, marketing black market nuclear devices, a big drug shipment or something important?  Most exciting thing in your book is someone smuggling a suitcase full of watches.  Bor-ring."
Ouch. 
"Characterization, again caught in the middle.  Your white is gonna view all this as fiendishly complicated.  Why?  Simply it's unfamiliar names, much more difficult for them to keep track.  Your Afghan is gonna groan, too over-simplified."
"Suppose I succeed in cleaning this up? Your guestimate on royalties?"
"I'd really be surprised if you could pull in a thousand.  No market demand for this genre."
"So I've wasted my time?"
Gentle smile, "not really, lotsa good jokes in here to share with your friends."

PATROL

We lift off from base at L'Anse Aux Meadows, northern tip of Newfoundland, Canada.  We follow the Labrador coastline, heading north.  View is spectacular, starboard windows showing Iceberg Alley and port showing one magnificent coast.  Take those Torngat Mountains, now a mountaineer couldn't do much better for a low-budget adventure, a tough challenge.  Who can afford Everest now, with fees and help and gear?
We pass near the Dome which used to be the huge casino and red-light district at Port Burwell.  Over the Button Islands, we make our turn and descent.
Now we ain't flying, but cruising.  30 days back and forth the length of Hudson Strait.
Why?  No one knows, there's stuff in Eskimo culture they'd never tell outsiders.  But somehow or other, after centuries of peace, a feud has broken out.
Our job, deter small planes and boats crossing on raids.  To that end, we have radar, sonar, infrared detectors, night-vision goggles and a variety of devices in case it gets unfriendly.
So, why did they pick humble me to command this gig?  One of the very few non-smokers.  We're sealed in, outside it's now -68 degrees.
My XO Parvana grins as she passes the duty roster to me, "well Nilo, truly breathtaking scenery up here."
"You ain't whistling Dixie.  Tea?"

TRAFFIC

I return from a sweltering day with the Guyana Traffic Police.  My husband, a bank teller, is already there.  Something in his manner says trouble.  I pour lemonade, wait.
"Well you see it's like this.  We gotta do our own thing, have our own space, experience life more fully and ..."
I sense it pointless to argue.  I sit numb, watching, as he exits with 2 already-packed suitcases.
In search of company, I knock on Mrs Ramprashad's door, she's the retired pensioner.  She serves tea and I pour out the story.
"Dear, wife is always last to know.  He's been yapping bout you, how black you are these days."
"Goes with outdoor work."
"Don't tell me, tell him, I can tell you where he is, Jasmine's apartment, nother teller."
"Nah, let the rat go."  I feel better as I leave.  As I look out the window, I realize there's still lotta guys left in the Police.  Take Brijlall, nice guy, but super-shy, he'd never dare ask.  Bet he'd love to go to Demico House, best burgers in town.  Or maybe he's more into Sip N Chat, the trendy bakery cafe.  Yeah, things'll be ok.  

DEEP

I look at the sked, 1300 foot level today, means cool and damp.  I get into warm clothes, then slicker pants and jacket, rubber boots with safety bars, hat lamp on my helmet and battery pack for it on my belt, connected with cord.
Cagetender is in a jolly mood, tells of winning two thousand in a poker all-nighter.  I get off at 1300 feet, I'm running trammer locomotive and ore cars.
The gentle reader protests, "don't men do that?"
They did, centuries ago.  Now, all mechanized it takes precision, not strength.  Besides, too many of them brought addictions to work, had accidents.  Now, it's all women.
Arifa, shift boss, shows once per shift, "how's things?"
"B16 hookup will need replacing.  Other than that, bang on."
She enters it into her handheld, then 5 minutes of friendly talk.  See, I solve a problem for her.  Very few can handle working on levels alone, most want the two-person levels.  I make her scheduling easier.
Why?  Asperger Syndrome, first cousin to and variant of autism.  Just plain happy to have a job here, see so many jobs nowadays are people jobs. 

STORE

When the sky opens in Guyana, you simply stop wherever you are until it lets up.  As I emerge from Guyana Stores with my purchases, the deluge begins.  I'm standing under the awning next to a middle-aged black woman of immense girth in a Guyana National Service uniform.
Not there's reasons I might not talk with her.  Lot of us Star Fleeters are arrogant, look down on these Mickey Mouse units.  Or racial, so many of us are soooo much better than the blacks.  But me, I'm not like that, simply strike up a conversation.
Talking loudly over the roar of the rain, I've soon placed her,  one of the erstwhile teachers at Mon Repos Elementary.  Not one of mine or I'd  have remembered right away.
After much cheerful talk of the old days, she asks the obvious.  Why didn't I do like most everyone else?  Get some phony certificate or other to dodge the draft.  After all, everyone knows everyone else, (small place) and any government functionary will sign any nonsense statement for a tenner.
I reply that as a Jehovah's Witness, morally I cannot lie. She grins, then remembers who my family is and we talk more.
As the rain stops, "but dear, don't you people have a religious obligation not to bear arms?  Surely they'd let you off, your family has been JW for generations, not like you just converted to dodge the draft."  
"Yes, that's called Conscientious Objector, still draft you, non-combat job.  I'm a medic aboard SS Gargantuan."
She grins, "must be nice to travel, say hello to your mother for me."
As I walk away I realize I have a duty to salvage something out of this mess.  Once my hitch is up, maybe I should volunteer to join the medex program for the interior Amerindians.

CHRONICLE

Sunday I choose a bright floral print dress.  Slowly saunter to the minibus terminal, today I'm going to Rose Hall, visit my aunt for Sunday dinner.
Just my luck, end up sitting with a girl I've known since school.  She takes her cell phone out, parks it on her lap.  Probably just to show off it's an expensive one.
"So," regal manner, "why is it y'all at the Chronicle are like that?"
Like what?  She could be referring to anything.
"Now all you journalists at the Guyana Chronicle dress like homeless bums.  I walk by that building alla time.  Last time, a cop actually asked one to move along.  The cop sure blushed when the guy whipped out his ID."
"You must be referring to our editor.  6'3" douglah, thin, huge nicotine stains?"
"That's the one, so why y'all dress like that?"
"Perhaps the fact salaries haven't raised in 10 years, everything else has."
She sniffs,"and such lapdogs y'all are to the government, simply print all those press releases verbatim.  Why even bother with journalists?"
"Perhaps we're needed to photograph birthday parties for the Cabinet Ministers' children."
She looks at me with that not-quite-sure look.  Am I pulling her leg? 
"And that story on the company startup.  The one manufacturing dish-draining racks.  Was that really worth a full page?"
"We're a slow-news country, want excitement, move to New York."
"Now me, I've got a really important job.  Financial analyst, Bank of Guyana."
Perhaps there just might be some connection to the fact her father is Finance Minister.
She starts to show off the cell phone, all its games, and surfer gadgets.
I sigh with relief when she disembarks at the Enterprise turnoff.
An elderly black woman in Sunday best boards and takes the vacant seat, with her it's a fun conversation.  

ARRIVAL

I have no sense of time, could be years going by in the real world.  Been stuck in this waiting room forever, the other arrivals were promptly dealt with.  Finally an angel, middle-aged Afghan woman, approaches me.  I get the read fast, tough, no-nonsense, like a homicide detective on TV.  "Let's find a quiet corner."  We do.
"Your choice kid.  Younger set, all wishy-washy, new wave, dance around the topic, you could be talking for years.  Me, straight-shooter, if you're honest with me, you could exit this isolation block today."
"I prefer you, ma'am."
"Right, your childhood, your relationship with parents, no vague, want the straight scoop."
"From Day One, ma'am felt a sense of total rejection.  They blamed my arrival for screwing up their divorce.  The stayed together 'for the good of the child' and let the child know every day."
"You were the only child?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"School?"
"Red neck part of Canada ma'am, we the only Aghans in town.  Other kids didn't beat me up, but avoided me like a plague carrier."
"Good, now the real reason for suicide?"
"Ma'am I just simply could not face another night."
"Maybe you could be a little more specific." 
"Night meant either sleepless or nightmare."
"These nightmares, one topic or several?"
"One topic ma'am, womens concentration camp in 1940's Europe."
She gasps, "in this dream, you were a prisoner?'
I blush ferociously, "no ma'am, the commandant."
"Compare this dream with others, in terms of vividness."
"Other dreams ma'am, vague, black and white, remember almost nothing.  This, full color, full sound, smell, taste, even the feel of the uniform fabric."
"How long did you experience this dream?
"Since a young child ma'am."
"Right, now when you moved to the city, lived alone, started working, how did you react to this dream?"
I blush hotly, "read several books on reincarnation ma'am, became convinced it was a genuine past life memory."
"I see, and the level of guilt, remorse and regret was simply too much?"
I nod, edge of tears.
Gentle smile, "right, off the hook as far as the suicide goes.  Two reasons.  First, profound depression and a form of temporary insanity.  There is no such thing as reincarnation.  So I'm guessing that dream came from a movie you saw as a young girl, imprinted itself strongly on you.  Second, there is no suicide legally, no dead body."
I raise an eyebrow.
"You see, the future people have sophisticated technology.  One of theirs, almost totally paralyzed, took over for you."
I sigh with relief.
Grin, "can you imagine, a master sergeant in the starship marines, 8 decorations for bravery, macho as they get, stuck in your body?"  Wicked laugh.
"I imagine he's flopping, ma'am."
"Not actually, spun his wheels at first, getting traction now.  Even forming friendships, albeit superficial ones."
"Wonders never cease, ma'am."
She stares into my eyes a long minute, "right, you pass.  That door, enjoy."   

INITIATION

First day at the mine.  Shift boss shows me around.  When she's done with the technical stuff, this kind older woman smiles gently, "little afraid?"
"Ye-es."
"No shame in that, either are or you aren't. Noticed a pattern over the years.  Half of all people we hire quit the first day.  Nothing to do with size or experience.  Seen tough ex-paras who just can't handle it and seen girls just outa high school, like you, who can."  Pause. "See it's all in your psychology.  Here's how we find out.  I'll walk you down that drift, we'll turn, you'll be in total blackness except for the hatlamp.  I'll come back here.  Turn out your lamp, stand there, feel the dark, find out.  If you need me, just call."
As I stand, I realize there's over a mile of rock above me.  But properly rock-bolted
After a time I feel really good, this by far the most daring thing I've ever done.  I switch on my lamp and walk slowly back.
Shifter breaks into a huge smile, "saw your face, dear, you gonna make it." 

CHARITIES

I'm in the coffee house with Jennifer and Rachel, coworkers.  Jennifer ordinarily is not a whiner, so we indulge her as she vents.  Topic is the endless collection of telephone fundraisers and their guilt routines.  (Translation, she just had a particularly obnoxious one.)
After a bit, she smiles sheepishly, "I do recall Rachel you saying how you have two sets to deal with, mainline and minority.  And you, Malali, I imagine the same." 

BRENDA

Morosely Brenda sits next to me in the sergeants mess. 
"Rough weekend?"
"Ye-ah."
"Like to talk about it a bit?"
"What's to say?  You know how things are these days."
Well yes I do.  But still that's pretty vague, could refer to a dozen things.
"Swine," she says vehemently, "should put the lot of them in a Louisiana bayou, let the alligators feast."
Clue, fight with her husband.  I nod.
"How many tours we done?"
"Lots, enough, too many."
"Exactly my point," she asserts, "back in ancient history the men did the tours and the women had to stay home and behave.  Now it's their turn, think he'd know better."
I rather suspect her husband knows little of history, in fact little on anything other than sports.  I nod.
"You, smart, never married."
Well not exactly smart, just that all the Afghan boys were scooped up by white chicks, none left over for me.
"Thought about stabbing the rat, decided no.  Them stockades are probably every bit as tough as in the old movies."
"Bread and water, swing a sledgehammer."
She grins, "heck with him, I threw him out.  Gonna chase that young guy in the motor pool."
"Is that wise?  He can't even change oil properly, you could get stranded."
"Now that sounds interesting, " wicked grin, "pass the sugar." 
   

COFFEE

At the counter, I buy a vanilla and hazelnut coffee, put in cream and sugar.  I stare dubiously at the reading rack.  This coffee house is obviously into stereotyping, sports mags for the men and tittle-tattle tabloids for the women.  Not even one respectable newsmagazine for show.
I find a comfortable chair, near the window, sit back and watch the world go by.
My good mood soon vanishes.  It's those girls, they must hang out in this coffee house too.
They enter, settle in with coffee, and start talking loudly  in Dari.  Looking around, I don't see any other obvious Afghans, so thank heavens for small favors.
"Get a load of that dress.  This is the 28th century, how is  she gonna find a boyfriend without showing skin?  Gotta advertise."
"Go on, she'd never find one anyhow, so ugly she belongs in a burqa."
"Those went out centuries ago, she'd hafta sew her own."
"So how'd she get that fat job?  Jump the boss's bones?"
"No way, she so ugly a camel'd run away."
"What's that awful stink?  Suppose she ever has a bath?"
"Yeah, look she's so underendowed, you could dress her up as a tenyearold boy."
I finish my coffee, leave with perfect timing, so I'm there as the transit  door opens.  I breathe a sigh of relief, least they didn't follow me out, shoot their mouths off in the street.  But then, they wouldn't wanta waste the coffee.
So why are they so?  Hate me the person?  Highly unlikely, they vaguely know me, act this way with all traditional girls.  So I'm guessing they aren't too comfortable in their lifestyle.  If they were, they wouldn't need all the bravado.
Enough of that, on my way to a meeting to improve the website.    

SICKBAY

I wake up in strange building, a sort of hospital.  After using the washroom, I lie back down.
Feel stiff, sick to my stomach, thirsty, tired.
Every day a nurse comes by, talks. Tells me what a brave little girl I was to manage to stay alive.  Am I really?  I feel more dead.
She keeps harping back to the same topic, the dream.  Now I just ain't gonna say, no matter what.  Eventually she shows with another ten-year-old girl, introduces us and leaves.
The girl ain't snoopy, friendly, tells about herself, "see this real bad dream.  War, winter, way up in the mountains, nothing to eat for a week.  Well, you know what I did?"
I nod.
"See" she says kindly, "they were dead anyhow.  But still, it was only a dream.  Your ever get dreams like that?"
"Time to time."
"Wanna talk about it?"
"Not really, too horrible."
"Well then, have a good cry, you'll feel better."
I do and it works. 

DRUNK

Once again my husband is drunk.  As he enters the apartment, he throws up on the carpet.  Only choice, I drag him to the bathtub, mess is easier to clean.  I clean the carpet fast, not wanting the stain to set.  As for him and his clothes, that's his problem.
Staring out the window I ponder.  Why does coming to this land of opportunity set loose the demons?  Maybe just because it takes less effort to survive here, got more free time and money and yes some will make lousy decisions with this freedom.
Still I've had enough.  We have no kids, I make more than him, so why not?  I start to pack. 

IRELAND

I'm one quarter Irish ancestry.  Throw in a lifetime of inside jobs, and the Canadian cold climate, bottom line I could almost pass for a white.  Not to a real white of course, but most other minorities just automatically take me for white.  Me, don't care one way or another, I am what I am, like me or not
After much reading, curiosity overcomes me and I head for a trip to Ireland.  Walk up the wild west coast, 15 miles a day, stay in bed and breakfasts.
Nervous at first, I soon relax, seeing how friendly everyone is.
All that fresh air off the ocean is intoxicating and the people a welcome break from the cold attitude most Canadians use on each other.
Last night before my return, I end up telling the B&B hostess all this.
She grins, "happy they were to see you, not having to worry whether you was Prod or Catholic." 

PLOESTI

Usually I remember little or nothing of dreams, vague, black and white.  One exception, a very graphic dream that recurs every month or two since I was a young girl.
It starts in a briefing room, I'm Captain Robert E Lee Beauregard of Baton Rouge, Louisiana, USA, pilot of a B24, the bomber of six centuries ago.  It's August 1, 1943 and today we're going on a low-altitude assault on the oil refinery complex at Ploesti, Romania.
Even the logistics are staggering, forget getting much more than 2,100 miles on a fully-loaded trip.  Our round trip will be 2,700 miles, requiring an unbelievable amount of extra fuel and ammo.  Why the ammo?  Our nose gunners are gonna be busy 150 feet up over those 250 flak guns and unestimated number of machine guns.
The four engines on Everglade Erin are howling louder than I've ever heard; I'm fast running out of North African runway.  Finally, with zero to spare, it staggers into the air, sullenly.
Over the Adriatic, a plane ditches.  Nothing we can do; radio silence.
Only after did we find out why we flew over the flak train; the Colonel confused landmarks, turned 4 miles too early.  I order everyone I can spare forward, as we settle in at 150 feet; we're even using Thompson submachine guns.  Any who do pray, do so now.
Capt Culpepper of Dagwood the Dragon waves, I wave back.
We arrive at Astra Romana, the largest refinery, it's a sight.  Another group read maps wrong, already attacked this in error.  Massive columns of thick black smoke, huge flames, exploding buildings and flak thick enough to walk on, almost.
Somehow I gotta find my target building in all this soup.  As we exit a massive smoke column, wingtips barely skimming over the smokestack top, I spot it, undamaged naked to the bombsight.  Three second delay on our fuses to give us time.  Our bombardier lands em picture perfect and we turn for home.
Now the hard part, fighters.  Gotta fly really low so it's hard to swoop on you accurately.
I stagger in for the worst landing of my career.  Two engines dead, cornstalks stuck in my bomb bay doors, 8 of my 10 man crew dead and the other seriously wounded.
40 planes in our group, 21 didn't make it back.  Of the 19 who did, 10 are total writeoffs, beyond salvage, including mine.
Yeah, I know everyone has goofy dreams no big deal.  So what scares me?  I've looked it up in archives, accurate in every detail.  In fact, history books of the time show a very stark photo of Everglade Erin on final approach, taken from Dagwood the Dragon.
Finally, I drum up enough nerve to talk with a coworker who analyzes dreams.  After much questioning, she's convinced it's a genuine past life memory, as in reincarnation.
Well, doesn't that go against religious teachings?  Yeah, but gotta read up all the same.   

COURSE

We're on course in Germany, little town of Blaubeuren, in the Schwabian Alps (not real Alps) just west of Ulm.  Pretty much everyone plans to use offduty time for shall we say howling, away from the husband.  Me, well no one to run around on, so I play tourist.  Visit a castle, hike in the Black Forest, do the different shopping, get wonderful photos of lovely old architecture, stuff you don't see on our side of the pond.
As we buckle up for the return flight, my neighbor asks what I did and I explain.
"Life is wasted on such as you, now listen to some good stories."
"Gotta headache, wanta sleep."
Doesn't work, she simply turns to her other  neighbor.  As I can't help but overhear, it dawns on me, hey they are actually competing with each other.  Imagine that. 

REFUGEE

Yeah I know you have seen all the web news on the latest refugee crisis.  Yeah I know it's newsworthy because it's the first time off-planet.  So what else is worthy of note?  Seen all the white faces?  Usually doesn't happen that way.

QUEBEC

I'm a very ordinary girl from Iles de la Madeleine, Quebec, Canada except for one thing, workable English, superb English in fact.  I'm just out of advanced training for paras, wondering what life brings next.  To my surprise, I find myself reporting to the Afghan unit.
The CO smiles, "should feel flattered, we asked for you."
"For me, ma'am?"
"The army, in its usual infinite insanity is clean out of French-speaking units, all are out on station.  Heard of the mega-riots in French Guyane?"
"Yes, ma'am." 
"We're it.  All our people know English, people there French.  You're out translator."  she pins Lieutenant bars on me, "acting, for the tour, translator hasta have dignity."
In the cargo plane we can see the smoke from miles out to sea, it's horrendous.  A sergeant calmly asks, "first jump on real business?"
"Ye-ah."
"You go out the hatch just before me, I'll keep an eye on you.  Once you land, look for me."
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it, all gotta start somewhere." 

SKELDON

I'm growing up in Skeldon, Guyana, on the coast, near the Suriname border.  Mother snaps, "don't be silly, take the umbrella."
"But it's only half a block to the shop."
"Don't you backtalk me.  Sun is hot, gotta keep a nice complexion."
I could point out that my brother has been playing football all day with his friends.  Why bother?  Just get her angry.

SUMMER

The barrack is alive with preparation, to attend the Street Performers Festival.  Weather being hot, most opt for revealing.  Meena fixes a hard eye on me, "get real.  Ankle length?"
Breezily I reply, "ever heard of skin cancer risks?"
"Bull roar, you's too old-fashioned, that's why."
Amira lifts my dress hem just a little, "ah ha, just what I thought, too darn lazy to shave your legs."
I blush as everyone roars with laughter.

SUNDAY

Sunday the library opens at 1:00;  having free time, I opt for an espresso before.  As I sit, I watch faces, not staring, just glancing.  Four couples with one of our guys and a white girl, none the other way around.  What do they expect us to do?  Manufacture people out of thin air?  With a sigh I leave.  

LAW

Used to laugh at the ancients, back in the days of polygamy.  But the World Wide Nuclear War changed all that, altered the genetics.  Now more boys born than girls, norm is 2 husbands.
Today I visited my sister in Cancer Ward, she told me of her will.  When she dies, I legally must acquire her 2 husbands.  Oy!
Well now, one loophole only, I stop off at the army recruiting center. 

MARKETSTALL

I'm the polite little girl helping her mother at Saturday market.  You western kids roll your eyes.  Bor-ring.  Saturday is for computer games.  Well we don't own one, so I have time.
Fascinating people here.  Take the next vendor, a man, always playing with that silly cell phone.  Now there's a dozen holes in his zinc roof.  Not one flake of paint on his house.  Daughter is in my class, needs medicine she ain't getting.  And him showing off?
I know, you call me sexist, trashing men.  Ok, here goes, next to him is a woman vendor.  Now here's what she does .... 

SCHWEINFURT

Sergeant Virgil Hunnicutt (real name Homa) waves her finger at Captain Robert E Lee Guidry (real name Bobogal, me), "I tell you, insanity. Got my Master's in Physics.  Serious risk here."
"I'm all ears."
"Doing an historical re-enactment, you can hit the wormhole, end up in the times for real."
"What odds?"
"Say one in a hundred."
Breezily I reply, "why worry?  No one lives forever.  Want one a them  horrible cancers that eats you alive, for 20 years in a veterans hospital?"
"Not a joke moron," eyes ablaze, "to you, just a historical movie for the army.  To me, real.  Say we hit the wormhole.  You and me, idiot, gonna be all alone 25,000 feet over Schweinfurt, Germany October 14, 1943.  Ball and roller bearing plant is one tough heavily-defended target.  Us, don't even have a real machine gun, just phony ones to use as cameras."
"So quit, get a paper job in HQ."
"Sure, and kiss goodbye to any further promos?  No way.  Gonna insist we get one real MG, mounted in nosegunner position, that's our biggest risk, when they attack head on.  Me, I'm one first-class arcade gameplayer, I'll be gunner.  You taxi driver.  You knew them ME109 fighters can kick out ten 20 mm cannon shells a second, as they close at nerve-wracking speed?"
Now me, I love this historical stuff, like a theme park or museum, no way I'm backing out.
We've climbed to 20,000 feet to dodge the coastal flak, when I feel dizzy.  As it clears, I see the faces in the next B17 bomber.  Oy!  Not ours, here goes.
Homa cuts loose a blue streak of sailor talk.  When she stops for breath, I say, "save your energy, those fighters of ours turn back near Eupen, limited fuel endurance you know.  You gonna get lotsa practice on the arcade game, and sooner not later."
400 yards ahead, an ME109 comes out of an impossibly tight bank.  She's already stitching.  Musta hit a fuel line or tank, because it blows in a giant fireball.  Beautiful and we got it on camera.
During the hour and twenty minutes to Schweinfurt, she bags eight confirmed kills, all at extreme range.  Her shooting way outclasses the resta them USAF gunners, who only hit closer in.  We enter the flak zone over Schweinfurt, the ME109s peeling away, not wanting to be shot down.  After the flak, they're right back.  Follow us clear to the coast, attacking all the way, her bagging a further ten on the return trip.  Our fighter escort doesn't show, probably weather at their bases.
We land in England.  As I turn off the engines, one tough Colonel walks up, already landed.  He stares in total fascination for a solid minute, then whistles softly.  Awe in his voice, "not what I expected. Glad to see you all the same.  Saved my life, you did."
Ego as big as ever, Homa grins, "that was me.  Her, just taxi driver."
"May I invite you ladies for coffee?"
We do a walkaround.
He grins, "how bout that?  Everyone else a Swiss Cheese, not a mark on you.  That would be because you shot so well none got close enough."      

ELECTION

Mosta these reporters are using recorders.  I hate transcribing, tedious work, so I do shorthand.  After a long time, I hear, "and now for my final promise.  If I am elected mayor of this fine city, I'll clean up the downtown parks.  Too many dope smokers, I'll increase police patrols.  I thank you for attending this press conference."
Chad of the Chronicle grins wickedly as he turns to me, "he ain't getting my vote, maybe yours."
I blush, don't reply.
"Self-righteous, hypocritical, puritanical, two-faced moron.  Owns a house, he can smoke up all he wants.  Rest of us, these tiny apartments, where else but the park?  Seen him there lots buying, Reinhard is his favorite pusher.  Still, reckon half the voters have seen him too.  Slow-news day, bet the editor prints the whole speech."
We both laugh.  Gotta run, deadline.  

LIBRARY

I stand in line at the library checkout, scarlet with shame.  I tuck the book so no one can see the title. It's an eternity; an elderly woman checks out a dozen romance; an elderly man, a half-dozen westerns; a geek, a dozen sci fi.  My turn.  Thank the heavens the librarian doesn't raise an eyebrow, just run it through the scanner.  I tuck it in my bag, fast.
Now I need an espresso.  As I sip, I ponder, got 28 days, think I'm going through that lineup again to renew?  So what is the shameful book?  "Other Side of the Closet", resource book for those suffering marital breakdown due to spouse being a closet gay.  Uff.
Monday I show at my hospital laundry job.  Sheepish smile, Wahida asks, "find anything?"
"Ye-ah.  Lotsa stuff for their side of the fence.  Only one book discussing the real problem.  I'll read it and make notes, tell you all about it."
Awkward grin, "gotta do adult literacy courses some day.  But when, between job and kid?" 

SHAMATTAWA

Not many men left as pilots, this one is obviously trying to impress me.  Extra steep dive, even more than the usual super-steep dive of a Twin Otter.  My stomach drops, as it always does on dives in the two-engine relics.  Good job I'm not hungover.
He lands on the strip at Shamattawa, northern Manitoba, Canada, temperature -55.  Helps me offload.  I watch the takeoff, hotdogging, he's skimming the treetops as the end of the runway.  Maybe he's never heard the old saying, "there are old pilots, bold pilots, but no old bold pilots."
Otter, you ask, surely those were scrapped centuries ago?  No, eminently practical, about the best thing for remote flying in the Canadian north, with short runways and unreliable weather.
Shamattawa, you ask, that was abandoned centuries ago?  Big scandal, high murder rate, they urbanized those natives.  Exactly why I am here, to be alone.
Why?  Final exam for the Special Air Service, 2 weeks here alone.
Got an insulated tent, so small my body heat can keep it warm.  Eiderdown sleeping bag, very pricy nowadays, only rich mountaineers buy them.  Arctic rations of 6,000 calories per day.  Blaster, in case of wolves.  Radio in case I get sick or jam out early.  Think I'll quit now?  Not on your life.  Hard to get into the SAS, ain't quitting now.  

AA

Shame?  You bet.  Don't think I've been more ashamed in my life, still, gotta go thru with it.  I smile wanly at Jamila as we enter the Community Center.  AA meeting.  As in, she's going and I'm her moral support.  She just wouldn't dare go alone.  Women's only meeting of course, think we'd discuss this in mixed company?
My mind runs a mile a minute.  Surely these people think the worst of me.  I have a burning desire to blurt, "I'm not here for real, just keeping her company."  Still, I don't, loyalty goes a long ways, she saved my life during the siege of Sarajevo.
The chairperson calls the meeting to order, tells rules.  No one has to talk, but you can if you choose.  Gradually as I hear short vignettes, I cease to concentrate on my own misery and shame.  By the end of the meeting, I can see the sufferings of others.
I end up going six times.  By then Jamila has made friends, doesn't need me anymore.  Now I see if for what it is, not a sign of moral weakness, but a disease.  Don't believe me?  Fine, go ask the American Medical Association. They've classified it as a disease for years. 

TINKER

Settled folk in Ireland call us Tinkers, we prefer Travellers.  Centuries ago was easy to dodge the draft, not anymore, computer in every vehicle, your e-mail follows you around.
Settled Irish can't stand us so they assign us randomly, the official rationale being it widens our cultural world.  With considerable misgiving, I report to the Afghan unit.
I'm surprised, these are decent people, not like the settled Irish.  In no time, gotta six-pack of friends.  Never look back, end up a career soldier.  

JED

My full name is Jedediah Jeremiah Ahpay, nickname Jed.  Grew up twenty-third century Canada, Lilac Valley Indian Reserve, eastern Saskatchewan, a Saulteaux tribe.  Lilac Valley has a reputation, 48 of the last 50 years leading all other Indian Reserves in Canada, category homicide.  In fact, this little 2,500 person tribe usually beats all Canadian cities in the under 200,000 population category.
First kill, age 8, welfare night, everyone howling, dark of the moon.  Neighbour, totally hammered was firing random shots.  One came too close, crawled in, stabbed him.
The police don't go onto Lilac Valley, simply accept verbatim whatever report Chief and Council choose to file.  Mr Taniskishayinew died of suicide, stabbed himself, end of story.
Like every Canadian child, I took the full test battery age 12.  Intell, aptitude, endless psychobabble.  Me, they discovered an almost total disconnect of emotion, a variant of autism.
At 16, joined the Imperial Star Ship Marines, made sergeant in no time.  Feel absolutely no fear, yet excellent math and geometry, just plan my next moves.  
This trait is both good and bad.  Won me 8 medals, my men follow me anywhere.  Off duty it pinches.  I spook people, bigtime.  They remember close calls on faraway planets where I did not even sweat.  Never find friendships nor love.
Now what the World War 2 Germans experienced in their para assault on Crete, that's what we faced on Zeltar Five.  Wasn't even combat paralyzed 3/4 of my body.  Was a vehicle accident of all things.
My choice, lie there rest of my life playing stupid computer games or recycle.  What else you gonna do?  Spin off into the void.  Enter a random body just before the moment of death by suicide, person leaves in peace, you inherit whatever mess you get.
I woke up in a strange body in a strange apartment in a strange century, crawled to the bathroom, threw up the pills, then slept.  Awaking I took stock.  I was now an Afghan, and yes of all things, a woman.  Oy!
Her job is boring, work in a linen rental service, count in dirty towels and aprons and such coming back from customers.  Got it taped in half hour.  No problem there.  Whatever caused her to take her life would be something personal.
Not able to emote myself, I start visiting the public library, trying to decipher womens magazines.  Nothing fits.  Like trying to look through the wrong end of binoculars or read Swahili.
Any attempts at conversation with other women in library or coffee house, usually result in them running for their lives.  Undoubtedly reacting subconsciously to the aura of one mean master sgt.
Tricky job, but what else can you do?  Slog on.
So, please don't be rude to me, doing the best I can.   

TAX

Rough few months.  Our unit was disbanded, us scattered to the four winds.  I ended up the only Afghan here.  It's been a struggle for social acceptance.
Tax time rears its ugly head.  Now most of this crowd is math-phobic.  I can zip through a return in no time.  Tradition says they owe a real coffee-house coffee.
By the end of tax season, I've arrived, people like me. 

CURFEW

Afghan families in the west haven't changed a lot in the last thousand years.  Brother and I go to university.  If I'm half-hour later than usual returning from class, it's the third degree.  Him, out howling half the night.  His freedom comes to a crashing halt.  Big bathhouse raid, there's his face on the news on the web.
I try not to smirk as he gets the third degree for missing his bus after class.

PROFESSOR

Fereshta's nickname in our unit is Professor.  Always reading, telling us of the sublime and the ridiculous of the world.  Monday breakfast someone asks, "read anything good on the weekend?"
"Indeed.  In Indian, the prostitutes feel hurt by the reactions of other women.  They believe they are providing a valuable service to womankind.  Without them, there'd be horndog men attacking women on every bus, on every corner.  However they provide relief, just can't understand why women are so down on them."
Zahmina drawls, "school friend is an Immigration Officer.  Gonna phone her, tell her to deport halfa them hookers back to India.  They're doing the job too well, looked long and hard, ain't found me a horndog."  Murmurs of agreement.
Zala says, "only two kinds left.  Addicted to internet porn or gay.  No one left."
Zahmina smiles sadly, "yeah, last guy I picked up, was only because his computer was on the fritz."
Zala grins, "so let's hang out at a computer repair shop, stead of bar or coffee house."
Laughter.   

10/90

Typical, no briefing prior to arrival.  To my huge relief, my company sergeant-major is Amina, a friend from the Cyprus tour.  We settle in with tea.
"So Wahida, what'd they tell you?"
"Square root of minus one, start from scratch."
"This is a 10/90 company."
I groan aloud.
"Ever had the joy of commanding one of those?"
"No, but heard plenty."
Professorial tone, "I like sports analogies, people understand quick.  Surely you had a boyfriend who insisted you watch football."
"Football is outside my experience."  my hot blush gives away the rest.
"I see," she says sympathetically, "now the Canadian Football League and the American NFL are different.  NFL, polished, professional, passes click, guys on the same page of the playbook.  CFL a litany of missed passes, miscued handoffs, unnecessary penalties and the like.  Why?  The NFL is fulltime, all week it's attend meetings, practices, watch videos of the opposition. CFL boys arrive after their day job, do a short meeting or practice."
"And a 10/90 is the exact parallel to the CFL?"
"You got it.  Regulars are used to working together polished, girls like each other.  Now in a 10/90 no one is happy.  The 10% regulars, they just wannabe back with their real friends.  The 90% reservists are scared.  They'd been hoping to fill that draft obligation with one weekend of training a month, praying they never get the call."
I groan aloud.
"Next week, we go out the hatch over Cape Gloucester, New Guinea. Lotta work to do."
"That would qualify as understatement of the year."
We both laugh.
"The ancient Americans were there, after Guadalcanal, before Okinawa.  Now look at these casualties for illness."
I gasp.   

SQUADRON

Sergeant Elke Althaus removes the cigarette from her mouth.  Theatric sip, grin, "Meena, if you were a guy I'd marry you."
I raise an eyebrow.
"Best darn field coffee in the whole army.  Don't you Afghans usually do tea?"
"I's one of those dis-graces, a westernized one."
She laughs easily, "I knew for a goldplated fact the Draft Board was insane when I first met you.  Why else send a 4'11" history grad to command an armored car squadron with UNPROFOR in New Guinea."
I laugh, don't reply.
"Meena, we gotta keep an eye on Private Sanderson."
"How so?"
"Normal around here is to arrive mad as blazes, endless hate mail to the Draft Board, your Member of Legislature and the Empress herself.  It just ain't normal to arrive with that quiet crushed look like her."
"Meaning ah well .."
"You got it, one fine day step behind a tree, use your blaster." Grin "well nuff chitchat, let's tour."
We hop in a blue UN jeep, head down the washboard road to the location of Pluto 5, an armored personnel carrier.  As we arrive, Master Corporal is regaling the girls with stories I rather suspect are anatomically impossible.  Still wouldn't want to call her on it, my knowledge of kink is sub-par.  I don't want to interrupt so we let the story go on.
"Lieutenant," M/Cpl grins, "starboard engine, still overheating."
"Overheating the same amount?  Or more?"
"Same.  Useless motor pool lunkheads, seen this baby a sixpack of times.  They do dick.  That Lt Guidry in charge, spends all day staring glassy eyed at porn on her handheld."
Everyone laughs.
"What you need to do Lt," M/Cpl grins, "go up to her in the mess, hug her, start French-kissing."
Drily I reply, "never work.  First, I'm straight."  Loud chorus of remarks doubting this.  "Second, I've heard how she describes me.  I quote 'little matchstick girl who belongs in junior high.'  So, gotta Plan B?"
"Yeah, steal her handheld, ransom is the repair job."
Loud howls of laughter.
"Any other problems, M/Cpl?"
"Yeah, look at the 88 mm cannon mountings.  These insane roads are fracturing them.  Need an appointment with the armorer."
"We-ell, should be easier than the engine repair, but not much."
Our next visit is Pluto 2, an armored car.  The girls are watching a horse race on the handheld.  Loud cheering as their bet comes up a winner.
M/Cpl grins, "won a hundred, finance a weekend of dope.  How's your day, Lt?"
"Average.  Problems with the beasty?"
"Only a shot muffler.  Every headhunter within 50 klicks can hear as we change location."
smile, "think you could exert a little influence with the motor pool Lt?"
"Not a chance, she looks at me like I'm a dis-grace to all of womankind.  Still I'll try."
At the next armored car, Pluto 3, there's a huge oil leak.  They hafta do an improv welding job, refill oil.
After our day's patrol Elke and I head for supper in the officer and sgt mess.  On our way in, we pick up mail.  I tuck mine in my pocket.  One from my brother, back home in Stornoway, Hebrides Islands, Britain.  Other is Stornoway Library Board.  In the rush of conversation and general hectic life, I forget about the letters a bit.
Next day, out on patrol, Elke and I are having a field coffee, when I remember.  Rip them open and read.  I'm aware she's talking to me, like from a distance.  Finally I hear, "Meena, you ok?"
Wordless I pass them to her.  The brother informs me my parents are divorcing, selling the business and house, leaving Stornoway.  Just can't manage socially with the other Afghans there now.  Library Board legally has to hold open my job until end of draft hitch.   But now they can't, bankrupt, shutting down.
"Bad news, Meena" Elke asserts, "maybe hafta be a career officer now."
"Oh go soak your head."
Gently, "come on, little one, don't pretend to be brave, just cry, you'll feel better."
I do, it works.  Few minutes later, we pull up at Pluto 5, hear M/Cpl telling of interspecies sex.  Uff.      

SUGAR

I live in Enmore, East Coast Demerara, Guyana, work for GuySuCo, the government-owned sugar company.  After a day of cutting cane in fierce sun, sweating profusely, I return home.  See my husband hop off the minibus cool as a cucumber, secrectary in a government office.  To be fair we do our own laudry, by hand of course, as Guyanese clothing is thin, damages too much in a machine.  His stuff, done in no time, on the clothesline; me, still scrubbing, between the sugar, sweat and ash from burning cane.  Not for the first time, I wonder if all the recent changes have been good.
I take the food out of the microwave.  Oh no, not another longwinded story on how rude his boss is.  Come on, what does he expect?  Why do they hire secretaries who can't spell?
After supper he wants to watch the mind-numbing drivel he taped.  In search of real companionship I head to the rum shop.  Buy a quarter, sit with Vydia and Meenakshi.  Sadly, they each bought a large (26 oz) .  In no time, conversation tanks and I walk slowly home, wondering how it all went wrong.  As I lie down, I insert ear plugs, the soap opera is still blaring and walls are thin here.
Next morning neither Meenakshi nor Vydia shows for the GuySuCo truck, hungover probably.
Next stop Indira hops on, "heard the news?  Stabbing at Ramroop's."
On edge, I ask, "who?"
"Meenakshi is in jail; Vydia in hospital." 

CRAWLER

I'm singing along to the music, loudly.  I've downloaded darn near every country song produced between 1950 and1980.  No one to tell me to turn it down.  Why?  I'm in the cab of a crawler train.  80 meter long locomotive, 100 meter long sleighs, over 3 kilometers long.  I'm hauling ore from the X2 mine to the east Greenland port of Angmagssalik.
Why?  Why a job so insane?  Money is nice, but also I'm an outcast, can't bear to live in those cancerous cities with their300 storey buildings.  Here, you're your own boss, I'm alone with this beasty during its 24hour run.  It's dark, but my powerful headlights see 8 km or more.
I'm moving just above walking speed, 2 hours out of X2, debating whether to put on black or green tea, when I see a figure ahead.  On the iceroad to Ang?  I let down the platform for the person to board.
It's minus 60 degrees.  The person gets into the cab and peels off Eskimo parka and snow packs.  I'm staring.
"What's so funny?" she demands in a sharp tone.
"Forgive me ma'am if I appear rude. I've never seen such clothes outside of a historical movie."
I give an ingratiating smile, "prefer black or green tea?"
Sharp, "that's rich, coming from an Afghan.Whatdo you think, Einstein?"
I start to put on green.  "And I've never seen such clothes outside of a scifi movie.  So we're even, your mother dresses you funny."
"Lemon, sugar, ma'am?"
"Both.  Why on earth they hire a girl for this?  Surely it's a man's job?"
I laugh easily, "the men bring too many addictions to work, never last."
"And I suppose you're one of them westernized Afghans?"
"Ma'am I'm ; trying to be polite.  Maybe a little less scorn in your voice? And what's wrong with westernized?"  She shoots me a filthy look, doesn't reply.
I pour, we sip in silence a bit.  "I ah well guess I came across as a little rude.  Forgive me.  Just the shock of being here.  Where is here?"
"Ice road leading to Angmagssalik."
"Where's that?"
"Eastern Greenland."
She stares a moment, "I'm starting to get the message.  Displaced in time as well as space. What date is it?"
"February 15, 2315."
"How do I get back?"
"To where?"
Touches the 2 silver shoulder bars.  "Captain,  NGO called Association of Afghan Women, circa 2000."
"Far as I know ma'am, time travel still isn't invented perse.  Perhaps your displacement was an accident."
"So what do I do?"
"No problem.  This is my last run before R&R.  Got an apartment near Copenhagen.  You can hang out with me a bit.  Got friends who can find under-the-table work."
"How do I get to Cope?"
"Chill, airticket costs an hour's wage. No passport, domestic flight."
It's dead easy, two days and she's got a diner job.  Just for fun, I buy some opium to end my R&R.  I drift off peacefully, wake up in a strange world.
I'm lying on mail sacks in an ancient cargo plane, the kind that burns hydrocarbons, is noisy and vibrates a lot.  As I peel away the blanket, I groan, I'm in the same uniform as she.
Gentle smile,"feeling ok?"
"Felt better, felt worse, say average."
Tentative smile, "turns out I found a wormhole back.  Only problem, dragged you too.  Was an accident, didn't mean it."   Yeah and the road to Hades is paved with good intentions.
"Look don't take it hard, we'll dream up a good cover story for you."
"Such as?"
She touches the sergeant stripes on my sleeve.  "Now I'm guessing anyone who can handle all those controls knows electronics."
"Yeah, one hitch in army, electronics tech."
"Good you are our electech.  Easy, our stuff is lots simpler."
"That's ridiculous.  What about the cultural faux pas I'll commit?"
"Chill.  Everyone knows techies are geeks.  Any slipup, they'll just attribute to geekdom.  Or westernization.  Or both."
We both laugh.
We come in for a landing, dodging craggy peaks, step off into the cool moist air.
The jeep driver smiles ingratiatingly, "Captain, I swear I take back everything I ever said about you. Yes I called you a nincompoop, to your face,  many times. But hey, to dig an electech out of HQ, now THAT is an achievement."