Entry #19: December 9, 2005

Camp Buehring, Kuwait (somewhere near the Iraq border)

There’s uproar in the officer corps here at Camp Buehring. Someone has violated the unwritten regulation that officers do not grow mustaches. That someone is me. That’s right, I have a mustache. I actually kinda like it. It’s quite debonair. It’s not so much the redneck crustache I thought it would turn out to be, but rather a full dirty blonde handsome mustache. It drives my fellow officers crazy, especially the field grades (majors and above). Most of my fellow Lieutenants applaud my gustiness to go against the grain. Many Captains envy my ability to grow one and the fact that I am more likely to get away with it than they are, due to the fact that I am still a Lieutenant and don’t know any better.

My thoughts are, why is it frowned upon for officers to grow mustaches? My Dad had one for the first 21 years of my life and if it is good enough for him, then it’s good enough for me (and I still retain the more hair on top of the head advantage). Back in the days of the old Army (that’s pre-political correctness, dated somewhere in the mid to late eighties), almost every officer that could grow a mustache, did grow a mustache. Why did this shift occur? I’m not sure, but this “new” Army could use a touch of the old Army in more ways than officers growing mustaches. Nowadays, the Army is such a bureaucratic mess, I’m waiting for the day where I have to fill out three forms and have a major sign another one just so I can wipe my own butt. They didn’t teach this in my officer basic course. It’s all a learn by your mistakes and having your butt chewed out kind of thing. I have a small butt as it is, and after all my lieutenant years I’m afraid I won’t have anything left to sit down on.

Like the resourceful person I am—I’ve discovered I’m really good at scrounging, Army slang for legally stealing—I picked up plenty of furniture for my humble abode here. Actually, I met some Army Reserve boys from Georgia, who were getting ready to leave this godforsaken beach without an ocean, and talked them into giving me the handy furniture they made. So even in Kuwait, I’m still using furniture made by Georgians, built for Georgians.

There’s still plenty of rumors going around. Don’t believe everything you read, believe everything you see. I’ll be back home when I’m back home and not a second before. Morale is starting to sag a bit here, as things get repetitious and dull. I’ve learned that you have to keep Soldiers busy or else they start to think too much and worry and start to get into trouble. It’s like going into the office and having nothing to do but try to beat your fastest time in solitaire. And so the Soldier’s life continues…