I am writing in the flickering glow of an old kerosene lamp, which sits beside me on the bottom plank of the rifle rack, located at the end of my bed-roll. The light from the lamp highlights the gun barrels, sending streaks of orange across the dark shadows above my head. We have just returned from the war games, dirty, fatigued, infected by chiggers, but happy to get back to where we can get cleaned up, and, enjoy a few of the amenities of life again. I sit at the end of my bed-roll, inside a pyramidal tent, a relic of the first world war, which is definitely superior to the pup-tent we were using on maneuvers. The glow from the kerosene lamp, not very strong, played itself out at the extremities of the old tent, giving odd shapes to the piles of equipment strewn haphazardly everywhere. The red dust of North Carolina is just as prevalent inside the tent as on the outside, covering the interior with a reddish film, which was almost impossible to escape. We are all in bad shape after two long months in the field, blistered cracked lips, sores on our bodies from chigger infections, and feet infested with a fungus that tenaciously resists the bright purple medicine provided by the medics as a cure. A life of modest comfort, the ordinary things we take for granted, seems distant, after a few weeks of these combat exercises. Fort Bragg, to my mind, is a luxurious impossible dream, a place where you can get a cold beer, see a movie, and enjoy the luxury of a shower. All aspects of life are transformed by circumstances; the common things take on critical importance, and small things, those taken for granted, take on magical qualities. At night, out in this Godforsaken place on the perimeter of the maneuver area, you are reminded of this fact again and again; the life you have known is reduced to a primitive level; there is nothing to anticipate; nothing to enjoy; and I wonder if anything is worth this kind of suffering....