If ya’ll aren’t already Valentined out, here is a story a little on the lighter side of the whole love and romance theme. Granted, for most of you Valentine’s day is over, but here on the west coast there are still a few hours left of hearts (although you won’t find any of those in this apartment), so I thought I’d share this story. It is one of my favorites.
First of all, you must understand that it takes place, not on Valentines day, but on Christmas. Lest this surprise you, allow me to assure you that romance really can exist outside of February the 14th. I know, crazy right? I was as surprised as anyone.
So this one time in Afghanistan, at Christmas, we stopped over in FOB Tillman. We were doing some blasting to cut out rock so the construction engineers could build a nice new road to the top of the mountain where the FOB had an observation point (OP). All in all there were worse assignments to have for Christmas. It was a nice easy job, only during daylight hours, and the cooks knew what they were doing at that FOB. They left the chowhall open at all hours, so no matter when you got the munchies you could walk in and grab some chips or those little single serving microwave pizzas or some raw fruit of some kind. Our sleeping arrangements weren’t so bad either, apart from the mold-and-gasoline smell that permeated the rooms we stayed in. They were old brick buildings with I-beams supporting brick roofs, and they had clearly seen some use, but we didn’t have to pull guard duty, there were plenty of cots, and some MRE boxes to use as card tables. So not too bad.
On this particular night, we were all packed up to be ready to leave the next morning and we turned the lights off at about nine. I was asleep fairly quickly. I slept about the same as I always sleep, which is to say I woke up every couple of hours to drink some water, and every time I woke up in the middle of the night I heard a cricket chirping away in some pitch black corner of the room. Sometimes I awoke to the sound of swearing or a flashlight being cursorily swung around the corners of the room. No one put it in any serious effort to find the offending insect. Instead they turned off their flashlights, muttered some vulgarity or profanity, and tried to muffle their ears with their pillows. It didn’t help much. Every time anyone woke up, for the whole night, all we could hear was the incessant, “Chirrrrrrup! Chirrrrrrup! Chirrrrrrup! Chirrrrrrup! Chirrrrrrup! Chirrrrrrup!” Of the little troubador in the dark.
In the morning the LT was tired and cranky and almost the first thing he said after the lights went on was, “I’ll pay fifty bucks to anyone who can find that @#$%#@$%^ cricket and kill it!”
“Aw, come on, Sir,” I said in the voice of sweet reason. “He’s just trying to find a lady cricket. All he wants is some love.”
“That’s all well and good,” snapped the LT, not the least bit sympathetic. “But I think after six $%#^*&+
hours, I’d give up.”
I didn’t reply to that because he was in a bad mood, but secretly I was glad no one hunted down that cricket and killed him. He was a persistent little fellow and I was rooting for him.
After all, faint heart never won fair lady.
