Bones of the Lost

of the stairs, a puffy brown jacket draped over one arm.
    “Good morning.” Breath coned from her mouth.
    “Good morning. Bring my gear?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    I collected my duffel and backpack and clumped down the stairs.
    “Take this.” Mensforth offered the jacket.
    “You think it’ll be that cold?”
    “Better to have and not need, than to need and not have.”
    “My mother used to say that.”
    “Mine too.”
    We both smiled. I put on the jacket.
    “Thanks.”
    “Thank Uncle Sam. Hungry?”
    “Oh, yeah.”
    “Let’s hit a DFAC.” Pronounced
dee-fack.
    A different kid in uniform now manned the wheel of the van. Scarecrow thin, with buzz-cut hair.
    As we drove, Mensforth briefed me on my upcoming travel arrangements.
    “Your flight downrange is at noon, which means lockdown by oh-nine-hundred. You’ll be issued IBA at the airfield.”
    Individual body armor. I was looking forward to that.
    The kid made a couple of turns, then braked by a structure that looked like an aircraft hangar.
    Mensforth and I presented ID and were admitted to the dining facility. After washing our hands at one of a score of taps, we entered the main hall. The air was thick with the smell of warming food. Sausage. Canned corn. Tortillas. Bacon.
    Troops in camouflage and workers in civvies filled trays at hot and cold stations, salad and sandwich bars, burger grills, and dairy cases. Men and women of all ranks ate at hundreds of tables set out in rows.
    Mensforth gave some instruction, which I missed, then left me on my own. I headed to a banquette that seemed to be drawing a decent crowd.
    My instincts were good. Large metal bins offered standard Midwestern fare: eggs, bacon, toast, hash browns. I heaped my plate, added juice and coffee, then found an empty place at a table by a soft drink cooler.
    Further down, on the opposite side, was a man in a uniform I didn’t recognize. French? Polish? Beside him sat a twentysomething carrying a weapon half her body weight.
    Banging trays, clanging utensils, and humming conversation vied with football play-by-play coming from wall-mounted screens. Now and then staccato laughter broke through the din.
    Mensforth found me, and we ate without talking. She’d gone for some sort of burrito with a cheeselike overlay. Breakfast finished, we bussed our trays and headed for the airfield.
    Flight staging took place in another hangarlike affair with TVs airing yet more football.
    Troops sat crammed onto benches, either on cell phones or otherdevices or with eyes closed or numbly resting on a game. Observing them, I wondered, Is sport the new opiate of the masses?
    Others slumped on duffels or slept tucked to the walls. Male or female, all looked weary. And wary.
    Mensforth led me to a side room in which shelving and bins overflowed with IBA.
    Personal protective gear is designed to protect your person. Which does not mean it fits your person. Especially if your person is of the doubleX gender.
    Outer tactical vests come in four colors—woodland green camouflage, desert camouflage, universal camouflage, and coyote brown, the khaki of the Marine Corps. Mensforth handed me a universal, size small. I removed my outer jacket and slipped into the gray-green beauty. Not bad.
    Then Mensforth added small-arms ballistic inserts to the front, back, and sides. And handed me a helmet. The combined weight came to somewhere north of forty pounds. I felt and looked like a Hesco unit with feet.
    And then we waited.
    I dozed on and off, mostly sat listlessly watching game after game.
    Wisconsin lost by a field goal to Minnesota. Badgers and Gophers? Really?
    Oklahoma hammered the TCU horned frogs.
    Okay. Maybe small furry mammals didn’t make such bad totems.
    The room grew thick with the smell of sweat, mildew, and dusty canvas. With the scent of exhaustion and fear.
    At one point those around me began gathering their gear. Mensforth reappeared and told me to stay put. It wasn’t my flight. Mine was delayed.
    Just past four, Mensforth finally led me onto a bus crammed with marines. Fifteen minutes later, we were standing on the tarmac outside a plane that looked as if it had been designed to transport shuttles for NASA.
    “You’re going to be impressed.” The shriek of aircraft engines forced Mensforth to shout. “A C-130J can carry three vehicles, or close to a hundred troops.”
    I eyed the plane’s interior, estimated the space was maybe forty by nine by ten.
    Not exactly business class. I