Deborah 9

In as grim a tone as I've ever heard her use, Cindy my platoon Sgt says, "Deb, we gotta talk."
I nod, sense where she's headed.
"That was just ****ing inexcusable. How in hell did Col Anderson allow that crap to happen?"
I nod.
"Go**am Loch Rannoch Highlanders, think they could make the handover civilized? Not on your ****ing life. Those eerie wailing bagpipes all the time we inspected. Got everyone right freaked out."
I nod.
"And you, you don't seem one iota ruffled by it all. I'm starting to wonder where your head is at?"
"Recall the Londonderry tour?"
She nods.
"Due to cheap rents, it's become a haven for alternative web media and games programmers. Catholics and Prods work side by side, even drink together. Debates are largely about which motorcycle is best; which pusher to patronize."
"So cut to the ****ing chase Einstein, what are you telling me?"
"There is nothing an individual Brit could tell us. Officers, hoyty toyty, look down on Colonials and on Reservists. Enlisteds, mostly left school at age 14, not like our mostly university crowd. So, the bagpiper communciated with us, in the only fashion he could. Tell me what he was trying to convey."
I see comprehension flood over her, she blushes, "I get your point. He was saying, don't be lulled by past urban experience. Backwaters like this are centuries behind the cities. He wanted us to feel it, right in our bones. And he succeeded."
I nod.
"And you, how is it you know this stuff?"
I shrug, "that's what they pay the big bucks for."