Entry # 25: January 11, 2006

Camp Buehring, Kuwait (Somewhere near the Iraq border)

They’re here. We’re not alone. Alpha Company from our battalion has joined us here at Camp Buehring for a little while until they head north. To Shawn and I, it means one thing—Eddie. Ya see, Eddie is the third musketeer. He, along with Leah, shape up the rest of the group. By group, I mean four people. Shawn, Eddie, Leah, and myself. Whenever we go out to eat, it’s generally just us. Oh sure we hang out with other people, but we always hang out with other people with one or two of us also there. It’s a good support group, like a small family.

It’s tough to describe Eddie. He’s certainly from an interesting background, yet we have a lot in common. But let me start with this. Eddie is African-American. He is a WHITE African-American, having been born in Zimbabwe. However, he grew up in Hawaii and claims that paradise as home. His accent is a strange mixture of chill Hawaiian and rough South African. He went to a good college and studied in England like me. So right now at Camp Buehring, we have Billy Yank, Johnny Reb, and Eddie the White African-American. Those Iraqi boys aren’t gonna know what hit ‘em.

Here’s a quick story about Eddie and I. So there we were, behind the Iron Curtain, deep in the heart of old Commie territory in Budapest, Hungary. After a nice morning, relaxing in the Hungarian baths (similar to Turkish baths, but made by Hungarians), Eddie and I are casually milling around some shopping area when Eddie spies something. He sees a black man standing in the doorway of a store wearing a shirt with the Zimbabwe national flag on it. Being the gregarious person Eddie is, he strolls up to the fellow, puts out his hand and proudly announces, “Hey, how are you? Are you from Zimbabwe? I was born there myself.” The man stares at Eddie with this look that says “Whatever buddy, like hell you’re from Zimbabwe”, then just walks away. Eddie is left there, hand extended, wondering what the heck just happened.

Anyways, it’s always nice to see a good friend even if it is for only a few days. We’ll smoke a couple of Cuban cigars and pretend we have 12 year old single malt in our hands. The jokes will fly forth and stories will be told. We’ll dream of a land where grass exists. Then we’ll sigh and get back to our platoons to get them ready for whatever comes next. And so the Soldier’s life continues...