As I am writing this blog my laptop battery is slowly dying. The numbers tick away, like an hour glass letting sand slip through the narrow
passage. Predictable. Predictable that the generator would be no longer
working, it is packed up. I am sitting in a sandy bowl, the wind
whipping around me, sticking in the stubble on my face. No razor to
shave with. It's gone. My folding chair needs to go, too. We are leaving
Since getting to Afghanistan we have moved five times now. We are
professionals at it. The first couple of moves were bumpy and hectic.
Practice has smoothed things over, but only a little. We are Combat
Engineers, a force multiplier on the battlefield that is the strongest
antidote to the poison of IEDs. It feels good to be wanted, but at the
same time I hate going where the fight is.
read the rest here.