Lost, Found, and Still on Duty
My partner was a genius freak—the kind who could quote Machiavelli and Mos Def in the same sentence and make it sound like they belonged together. He read five books a day in Iraq, no exaggeration. One of those people who seemed misplaced in the Army but too sharp to belong anywhere else.
We got assigned tower post one afternoon. Twelve-hour shift, middle of nowhere, just sand, wind, and the hum of our own thoughts. Our job was simple: make sure no one sneaks past the perimeter. It sounded easy enough until our radio battery died.
We called for a replacement. No one came. Hours went by. Then more hours. Eventually, we realized we’d been forgotten. We were out there for thirty hours straight—no contact, no relief, just two overcaffeinated soldiers talking about philosophy, God, war, and why Nas was better than Jay-Z.
At some point around dawn, I stopped caring about the clock. He was reciting passages from Thus Spoke Zarathustra between sips of lukewarm water, and I was laughing so hard I nearly fell off the stool. It was delirium disguised as enlightenment.
When they finally remembered us and sent a Humvee out, we didn’t even bother to complain. What was there to say? We were sunburned, sleep-deprived, and laughing like lunatics.
That’s what Iraq did—it mixed absurdity with survival. One day you’re running convoys through ambush routes, the next you’re trapped in a tower with a philosopher-rapper reading Anaxagoras to pass the time.
