A Farewell to Arms

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War is Hell.
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dtiverson
dtiverson
3,938 Followers

I've leveraged the Hemingway canon for a few of my stories. And A Farewell to Arms is the only one left now.

That is the definitive war novel; as iconic as The Red Badge of Courage. I was hesitant to try to cover it because we don't fight wars like that anymore. But my pal Richard Gerald talked me into at least looking at it. And in the end I saw that the love story was the real heart of the piece.

So why did I put it in Loving Wives? There are a couple of - what I consider to be - very good reasons for doing that.

First, every one of my Hemingway covers are in the LW category and it just didn't make sense to put the last piece someplace else.

But more important, Catherine Barkley has been the archetype of the hot but loving wife, for a mere 90 years. There are a few other elements in this that also satisfy the LW criteria. But her story unquestionably belongs here.

The usual caveat for you closet existentialists. If you stayed awake during American Lit you will know that the Hemingway story stops at the Epilogue...

I am a hopeless romantic and I just can't write an ending as dark as Hemingway. So I had to give it a happy ending... Kind-of... Sort of...

*****

A Farewell to Arms

You don't go to North Yorkshire for the social life. Maybe it's the relentless overcast and cold rain. Or maybe it's the fact that the sheep outnumber the locals. But the natives won't speak to you unless you sport a flat cap, wear Wellies and have a whippet by your side.

I was in Yorkshire because that is where the National Security Agency has its largest signals intelligence operation outside of Fort Meade.

I am NOT violating any national secrets by telling you that. All you have to do is drive past RAF Menwith Hill. And the 30 white domes, that look like somebody is conducting a mass hot air balloon launch, will give you a clue.

I was in Yorkshire as part of my assignment for the NSA. They download the SIGINT for Afghanistan at Menwith. But, it is a long reach from Kandahar, up to the satellites and then down again to our U.K. installation. So you have to go back and forth between the two places if you want to be absolutely certain that your data hasn't been messed with.

Our military communications networks have to be absolutely reliable and trustworthy. That's because the media is everywhere and it covers everything. And you can get some very bad press, if you inadvertently tuck a Hellfire-Romeo into a Tango's back pocket while innocent civilians are standing nearby.

So, the NSA keeps some poor schmuck permanently on station in the Sandbox.

That's me.

You can't ask one of the grunts to do it. They are there to light-up the natives, not analyze 40 gigahertz signals. So, SIGINT has to be done by someone with my particular set of skills.

I am a Grey Fox, which is a Jay-Sock code name for a fully weaponized geek. I have the ability to shoot you. But at the same time, I am anything but heroic. That's what the OTHER people are there for.

Me? I do whatever it takes to stay out of harm's way.

The Jarheads I am billeted with are either too unimaginative or too stupid to grasp the concept of their own grisly death. I guess that's why we call them "bullet catchers."

But then again, they're kids. I am a little older and a whole lot wiser. And so, if there's a call to do anything ill-advised I am ALWAYS at the back of the line.

Fortunately, nobody sees me for what I really am - which is a totally non-aggressive geek. Everybody thinks of me as some kind of swashbuckling, latter-day, electronic beau sabreur.

That is strictly a misperception on their part. I am much bigger than average. And my craggy good-looks leave people with the impression that I am the essence of stalwart courage.

Which just goes to show you that, appearances can be deceiving.

You can forget about all of the Hooorahhh bullshit that you hear from the Marines. The only reason why I was in that third world shithole was to make sure that the U.S.'s Ka Band transmissions are secure.

And my only aim was to keep my precious hide intact while I am doing it. So if one of the Devil-Dogs wants to do something brave, I am more than happy to stand aside and let him do it.

Of course, the data feeds are two way communications. So I am in Yorkshire just as often as I am in The 'Stan. And since, Yorkshire is as cold and rainy, as Kandahar is hot and dusty, it is safe to say that my luck in work venues universally sucks.

It's a complex system. The Hellfire-armed Predators and Reapers are flown out of Creech AFB in Nevada, which is the other leg of the triangle.

It's all satellite enabled. And it is one of those 21st Century phenomena that have shaped the modern battlespace into something that Sun Tzu, or Von Clausewitz wouldn't recognize.

Signals intelligence is geek work. But the part of my duty that takes place in Afghanistan can also get you killed.

Your untimely death might be the cost of doing business in downtown Kabul. But the odds go infinitely higher when you start exploring in-country, which is something that I occasionally and very unwillingly have to do.

The Air Force doesn't deign to fly into the nooks and crannies of the surrounding mountains. And that creates some pretty big holes in our electronic intelligence net. So the only way to get good SIGINT is to patrol on foot in those mountain gaps.

And, there is nothing like climbing a narrow mountain trail with 80 pounds of electronic gear on your back to make you rethink your career goals. Especially if you are in a dangerous place like Helmand Province.

~

We had been dropped by Chinook to patrol from Lashkar Gah toward Marjah. I was there with a platoon from the Fifth Marines. We were just starting to enter a little mountain plateau, when all hell broke loose.

There were 30 of us and a whole lot more of the bad guys. I really wasn't in a position to count. Since I was too busy diving behind a rock. Still, I didn't have to be a tactical genius to figure out that we were in deep kimchi.

For those of you who have never had the pleasure; the movies don't come close to portraying what it is really like to be shot at.

The gunfire is just background noise. What you are painfully aware of is the vicious "viiiiiiping" sound of the near misses as they whiz past you. Or the surprisingly emphatic "cracks!!" as they hit whatever you are hiding behind.

The 7.62 millimeter slugs from an AK-47 are a lot bigger and slower than the 5.56 millimeter bullets that we fire. And they sound like a freight train as they pass. I was hearing a lot of that as I shed my pack and fired up the satellite link.

The good news was that the Hajis had jumped us before we had gotten into their kill-box. So we had. adequate cover. And we have come a long way from the short range field radios of the Vietnam days. So, I could have talked to my sainted mother at that particular moment thanks to the satellites.

But instead of my sweet old mom, I was talking to the short-tempered AirBoss in Kandahar. Air support in the 'Stan is a lot like booking an Uber. You don't know what you are going to get until it shows up.

What we got that day, was like looking under the Christmas tree and finding a pony. They sent us a C130U "Spooky II", instead of the F16s that I expected. That was a nice surprise because the jet jockeys can be a little casual when they are dropping shit around you.

Spookies are flying weapons platforms built on the big, old, slow moving C-130 cargo plane. And the precision of its 105 millimeter air-cannon and the 30 millimeter GAU23A Gatling's brought a quick and emphatic end to the engagement.

I never found out whether the Hajis were Taliban fighters, or just one of the local bandit gangs. I DO know there were a whole lot less of them after the Spooky appeared. Later on, I remember walking past two sandals that were just lying there by the side of the trail. The former owner was a vaporized ring of gore around them.

The odd thing was that the sandals themselves were completely undisturbed - positioned exactly as the owner had been standing when he was air-burst by the 105mm round. And those lonely sandals perfectly illustrated the consequences of combat with a technologically advanced foe like us.

That also more-or-less sums up 21st Century asymmetric warfare. The war we were fighting doesn't involve any of the desperate conditions of the World War I trenches, or the mass destruction of the monumental battles of World War II. In fact, my average Tuesday morning might involve an hour long firefight followed by a helicopter ride back home for a nice lunch.

But the single thing that we DO have in common with all of the soldiers from all of those other wars was the prospect of our imminent demise. So, you either develop a thick skin, or you go nuts.

~

I rotated back to the U.K. three weeks later. It was a C130 hop into RAF Waddington.

The Hercules doesn't feature sexy flight attendants, complimentary drinks, or reclining seats; just an unshaven and slightly smelly E-7 Loadmaster. I couldn't sleep much anyhow since the four turbo props made the twenty hours in the air feel like I was sitting in blender.

Then I rented a car and drove the two hours from Lincoln to Harrogate. I did that as a private citizen.

I am actually a Captain with the 742nd Military Intelligence Battalion, based at Fort Meade. Going incognito wasn't an espionage thing. NSA just likes to be the "No Such Agency".

That was also the reason why I checked into the White Hart Hotel in nearby Harrogate instead of the transient BOQ on base. I had the usual debriefing meetings at Menwith Hill the following morning, which was a Thursday. Then I took weekend leave to go down to London.

The trip from Harrogate to King's Cross took three hours. I booked the early afternoon express so there were relatively few stops. And I was at my usual cheap west-end hotel by dinner time.

I was going to meet Rinaldi at our normal spot. Rinaldi is a few years older than me. And he's a doctor in his day-job. He is stationed with the Brits' 256th Field Hospital. That outfit might be based in the City of London. But I met him in Afghanistan.

The 256th isn't anything out of M*A*S*H. It's more like a reserve unit. Nevertheless, they rotate it in and out of The 'Stan because of shortages in the army medical services. And the fact that they need to deploy reserve units like the 256th perfectly illustrates how the whole cluster-fuck works.

Rinaldi is about as far opposite me as you can get. He is five-ten, compact, very good looking, urbane and deliciously witty; while I am tall, Viking looking, a little over-muscled and the best you can say is that I am not too embarrassing in public.

Rinaldi might be English. And he DOES sport a really cool Oxbridge accent. But he is of Italian extraction with the thick black hair, Roman nose and olive skin of one of their legendary Hollywood leading men.

Rinaldi is also a world class pussy-hound... me? Not so much.

His huge nearly violet eyes are almost irresistible. And when he does his seductive "I-want-you" stare. Every woman just seems to melt.

That's probably why he has fucked them all; from the whorehouses of Kabul to the drawing rooms of Belgravia.

I met him in Kandahar, while I was being patched up after a little disagreement between my Humvee and a Taliban IED. It was mainly just to check me for concussion symptoms. But he seemed to take an immediate shine to me.

Perhaps he thought that he could improve my sadly lacking social skills.

Whatever - he suggested that we visit an off-base place that he had heard about. In a city like Kandahar anything off-base can be extremely hazardous to your health. And I am not talking about STDs. Plus, I WAS initially under his care because I had a concussion. He laughed that off like I was being a big baby.

So we journeyed outside the blast walls that separate the security area from Haji-Land.

When we got to our destination, I discovered to my utter astonishment that Rinaldi was taking me to a TGI Friday's!!

Look it up!! It was there!! It closed back in 2014. But the fact remains that there was once a little slice of America in the unlikeliest spot on earth.

It would be an understatement to say that it felt like teleportation to visit a TGI Friday's in the place where I am sure they will stick the hose if they ever give the earth an enema. And it set off shock-waves of cultural dissonance in my slightly concussed brain. It just seemed so wrong to be munching on loaded potato skins instead of the usual tikka and rice.

Given its "girls night out" vibe - I could understand why a TGI Friday's was Rinaldi's version of the Happy Hunting Ground. Plus, it was probably the only place in Haji-Land where a woman could hang out and not need a Berka. So all the civilian workers at the Kandahar Airport drank there.

Rinaldi had appropriated one of the hospital's medical transport Humvees - think, "giant hulking, armored, diesel powered ambulance with red crosses on the side." I had wondered why he had taken that beast instead of one of the staff cars. I stopped wondering when he began to work his magic.

We had been there perhaps ten seconds when Rinaldi locked onto two women sitting by themselves. They were at what the locals laughingly called a "bar." They looked like they might be clericals in airport operations.

One was built along the same lines as our Humvee. But she had a pretty face. The other one was actually kind of hot.

You normally don't find Western women who are obviously that attractive out alone in a third world tire fire like Afghanistan. That is, unless they have gotten acculturated. The social vibe in that Muslim country can be very intimidating for females.

And I didn't have to be a clairvoyant to know which one I was going end up with. But HEY - this was Afghanistan. So any port in a storm.

I have never approached a woman sitting at a bar in my life. I just don't have the knack. My total lack of savoir faire also extends to any other setting including weddings, funerals and Bar Mitzvahs.

I can get a date. But getting a permanent woman in my life is an entirely different matter. Fortunately, finding a woman is just not that important to me. There are very few lust inspiring female engineers. And there are even fewer of them in Army field units. So you learn to not think about it.

Or maybe it's because I'm a nerd and we are a solitary species. Our complete lack sensitivity, social skills, feelings and some aspects of personal hygiene cause that. More important, I have struck out swinging every time I have stepped up to the plate with a woman. And the walk back to the dugout is just so humiliating.

Rinaldi breezed up to the two of them like he just knew that they would be happy to see him. And of course they were. Meanwhile, I stood there, tongue-tied and staring at the floor.

Rinaldi was making brilliant headway with the hot one. The other was looking at me glumly, like she was used to being stuck with the wing-man. I looked her over and decided that she might be chubby. But she was more than presentable.

She had the aforementioned pretty face, thick brown hair and a huge rack in a scoop neck sweater. For my part, my only thought was of burying my face in her impressive cleavage and going, Brrrrrrrrrrr.

She clearly expected me to say something. But I'm a nerd. And I am quite comfortable with extremely uncomfortable silences. So, after an embarrassingly long period of time SHE opened the conversation.

She stuck out her hand and said, "My name is Gage, I work air traffic control at KDH. That surprised me. KDH was the IATA abbreviation for the commercial aviation part of Kandahar Air Field.

She looked to only be in her early thirties so I said, "Wow - how did you get a job like that!!" She said, "I was an ATC at Bagram when I was over here with the Air Force in 2008."

I'm a total idiot!! As usual I had way under-estimated a woman. I realized that I wasn't talking to her for any other reason than the fact that Rinaldi had decided to fuck her friend. But I knew that I should never leap to conclusions about somebody before I actually got to know them.

I said, "My name is Frederic Henry. I'm the man with two first names" That was my one lame attempt at geek humor. She smiled kindly - obviously a good sport

As I looked at her I decided that she was really attractive in a plus-sized sort of way. And she had a very pretty face. More importantly she was looking at me with a certain amount of undisguised lust. It was like she had not been laid in a very long time. Not coincidentally, that was my own situation. So I was more than interested in HER too.

I told her as much of my story as I was allowed to tell. I knew that there would be a kidnapping in my future if I told her who I actually worked for. The locals would LOVE to get their hands on somebody like me.

Gage was beginning to get that look in her eyes that let me know that she was more than available for whatever I had in mind. And Rinaldi and her hot friend were actually making out at the table.

So I said, "Maybe we should take this back to our quarters on-base?" There was a nice roomy bed back there.

She said, "Our place is in the commercial compound. It's a whole lot closer and more comfortable." So we adjourned to our Humvee for the short trip back to the Base, over one of The 'Stan's almost undrivable roads.

Medical Humvees look a lot like the old fashioned boxy truck campers with a section that extends over the cab. The medical part is walled off from the driver's compartment in some of the older ones. But ours was a new conversion, where the medical area is integral to the cab.

I was driving so Gage and I got the front seats and Rinaldi and his woman settled into the medical area. I had not even started the engine when I heard the slurping sound of a very wet kiss and a little moan. That explained why Rinaldi had insisted that we take the vehicle with a built-in bedroom.

Gage looked distressed. She leaned on one elbow to reach across the Humvee's exceptionally wide transmission hump and unzip my pants. I was trying to keep from killing us as she pulled Old Lucifer out and began to enthusiastically stroke him.

In the interim, things in the back were beginning to really heat up. The smell of sex a loud slapping noise and the constant sound of moaning indicated that a very wet pussy was being plumbed by something.

It might have been fingers, or even a tongue. But, from the building crescendo of groans, cries and "Fuck-Mes" coming from the back I assumed that it was Rinaldi's rather large cock.

Meanwhile, Gage was having no luck trying to get over the transmission hump. So she sat back looking frustrated. Nonetheless, she was still working on Old Lucifer like she was trying to pump the water out of the Titanic.

We arrived at the Airport security gate with the loud sounds of a woman getting her brains fucked out in the back of the Humvee, and with Gage stubbornly holding onto my cock.

The sentry walked up enquiringly, took in the scene and waved us through with a big smile. We obviously weren't a threat. There are just some things that you REALLY can't fake.

Gage was calmly directing us to their quarters off the perimeter road. The shrieks and moans coming from behind us were only a minor distraction. When we got there I parked and looked at her enquiringly. She said, "If she goes according to form they are never going to leave the vehicle."

I said, "Do you have two bedrooms in there?" She nodded affirmatively. We adjourned to hers.

I had never been with a woman like Gage. They call them plus-sized but she was not really fat per-se. She was just built on a truck frame. And she had a very pretty face with dark brown eyes and a wealth of long shining brown hair.

dtiverson
dtiverson
3,938 Followers