David called from Baquobah at 6:30 this morning, hot, tired and dusty from a night mission, to wish his Dad a happy Father's Day.
I was in still asleep, but my husband was already up and picked up the phone.
"I'm waiting in line at the barber's," he told us.
I tried to imagine why he'd need another haircut since he'd already gotten a buzz cut just before Memorial Day, but wearing a helmet in the 115 degree Iraq heat must make any longer hair itchy, I thought.
My husband had opened the tie and card David sent before he left. They bantered about the tie design, David saying he saw designs he would have liked, but chose one that his Dad liked.
He gave an address to send mail and packages to, the first we've had since he left the country.
He's met his platoon, and most importantly, his staff sergeant, his key non-com. He's been out on two missions both at night, though he didn't tell us what he'd been doing, except he'd mostly been observing, but soon he will be leading.
This is what he came for, why he turned down a "safe" post at Ft. Riley, Kansas, where he would have taught safely out of harms way, so that he could lead a platoon.
The Army is fighting Al Quaeda here, which is in the midst of a falling out with its former Sunni insurgent allies.
His requests were a surprise to me: a type of strap for his glasses so they stay on, called Rec Specs; cash (there's a PX, a coffee place, but no ATMs at Camp Warhorse); and Arabic coffee in a Arabic coffee can.
Arabic coffee? Isn't that like bringing the mountain to Mohammed?
We think he wants the can more than the coffee, but whatever the motivation, we'll find it.
It's a happy Father's Day.
