Since we weren’t allowed to drink, most of the Marines in second platoon started chugging Nyquil to get to sleep. That was before Lance Corporal Price stepped on an IED. After that our doxylamine-induced nightmares got a little too real, so we stopped. Also it left our throats raw and our mouths feeling sugarcoated. So then we started bribing Doc for some of that off-brand Ambien. Eventually though the higher-ups got wise and started locking it up at night and keeping an eye on the number of pills. Around that same time the satellite phone stopped working too. No more calls home. That was when we started paying Iraqi cooks who worked on the outpost to sneak us in cans of whiskey for $20 apiece.

It worked like a charm.

One can gave us 4-6 hours of uninterrupted sleep. But after a while our cash reserves started running low. ATMs are hard to come by, and most Iraqis don’t take credit. The closest place to get cash was Al-Taqaddum, the Air Base on the other side of Habbaniyah Lake. Which was a 2-hour convoy from COP Sedgwick, and our Command only authorized a TQ welfare run once every month. Goose and I did the math: $20 a can a day multiplied by 2 people multiplied by 30 days equals $1,200.

“Sounds reasonable,” Goose said. “Let’s do it.”

 

When the day arrived Goose and I were cash poor and running low on tradables. Our platoon circled the Lieutenant for the mission briefing. He said his piece, we nodded along, and we loaded up the MRAPs. Just before we all climbed in though we faced each other, leaned forward a bit, and patted our legs like they were a bunch of good boys who’d just return the stick on the first throw.

Any day could be your last with your legs out here. Show some love when you can.

The MRAPS bumped and bounced along the dirt road. When we hit the hardball, the massive tires with cavernous tread whined as they spun across the highway. A couple hours later we weaved around road blocks and showed our IDs at the TQ front gate and parked in the staging area for a briefing.

“Marines,” LT began. “You got 4 hours. Make sure you hit up the chow hall. They’re serving steak and carrot cake today.”

The Marines of second platoon looked at each other and started salivating, Goose and I included. We were on a mission, yes. But that could wait. Months of MREs and pre-frozen veggie omelets had turned our colons into something resembling a tightly-packed German sausage. Cartons of cigarettes and baby wipes and extra cash for cans of Iraqi whiskey could wait.

 

An hour later we were filled with overcooked steak and several pieces of carrot cake. We loaded our cammies down with as many Rip It energy drinks and Otis Spunkmeyer muffins we could manage and then Goose and I made our way to the PX. When we got there we stood in awe. It looked like a Wal Mart. The only thing missing was shopping carts.

Things like this made grunts hate rear echelon folks: Marines who sit behind computers in AC and call home twice a week while we wash our nuts with baby wipes and wait impatiently for handwritten letters from our moms and girlfriends to arrive.

Goose and I loaded up on all the essentials: baby wipes, socks, cartons of Marlboros. We also found a no-shit ATM. We withdrew our Sleepy Time Funds and headed to the door. As I walked down the camping equipment aisle, a smell wafted over the dividers and into my nose. I left Goose and followed it to another aisle where I found a row of women’s perfume. I sniffed one of bottles and the knots in my shoulders unwound. I let out a deep breath and thought of home.

 

Later that night, after we’d loaded up the MRAPs and driven the 2 hours back to Sedgwick, and after we’d paid our guy for a couple cans of whiskey, Goose and I met up in the hooch for our nightly get-drunk-so-we-can-sleep ritual. We sat back in our recliners made with two-by-fours and sleeping bags and sipped whiskey while watching an episode of One Tree Hill on my laptop. For a while imagined that we were back home, just regular dudes watching a football game with a couple whiskeys. It was near-perfect.

Two hours later, both cans empty, we still weren’t tired. We started another episode of One Tree Hill and Goose motioned to me with a wave of his hand.

“Get any smokes?”

I leaned to my right and grabbed the plastic shopping bag from the PX and dug around for my carton of Reds. I pulled the carton out and saw the bottle of women’s perfume. I turned to Goose, tossed the carton to him, and held the perfume in my hands. Goose looked over and caught me studying the bottle.

“The hell is that?”

“Perfume from the PX.”

“Why did you buy that?”

“I don’t know, so my room could smell like something other than ball sack?”

Goose raised his eyebrows approvingly.

“Let me see it.”

I tossed him the bottle. He turned it over a few times, sprayed it in the air in front of him, and dove in nose-first. He stopped suddenly, frozen in space. Then he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I watched his shoulders droop and his head tilt back. The muscles in his neck turned to liquid and he fell back against his recliner. His eyes closed and he smiled. I took the perfume and did the same. The strands down my neck loosened like shoes strings and my body melted into the chair.

When we woke up the next morning, we told our whiskey connection we’d no longer require his services. When he asked us why we both shrugged and gave the same answer.

“Adapt and overcome.”