The LT

Sunday morning broke clear and cold over the Pendleton mountains as the sun spilled out onto Las Pulgas. I awoke quickly and showered, one resurfacing military habit among many. Shaving, dressing, cleaning--all these were accomplished within twenty minutes. I was determined to make the most of each day, and my mind was already focused on the work to be done for the upcoming week.

Before being dismissed on Saturday, LT had requested we get together to discuss the team's training schedule and along with some general thoughts on methodology. He lived near the 101 Diner on the Pacific Coast Highway in Encinitas, so we agreed to meet there around 1230.

Finding him in the normal Sunday brunch crowd was not difficult. LT stands a full 6'6" and weighs around 220 pounds. A narrow, intelligent face and piercing green eyes seems almost out of place on top of his large, muscular frame. Even a pair of thin framed glasses could not soften his overall appearance. He spoke deliberately and with good grammar, a deep baritone voice matching his appearance perfectly. I had to remind myself that this 2007 Notre Dame grad was actually two years my junior.

As a ground intelligence officer, LT had been to some of the most demanding training offered to new Marines, including the Infantry Officer Course. His first posting was with a Military Transition Team in Iraq, and he had only returned a few months ago from that deployment. Pushed into an intelligence job confining him to an office, LT quickly sought out another opportunity and landed at Civil Affairs.

LT was hard. None of his skills had had time to atrophy--he did not know yet how quickly the body and mind forget without sustainment. His expectations of me and the team would be very high, and this scared me. Well, it also motivated me but when I lay alone at night on my bed going over the day I would only see the deficiencies endemic to my "on again, off again" military career.

On this warm Sunday afternoon, however, the conversation was much more abstract. We spoke about the Civil Affairs mission, Afghanistan, politics, food, and women. I'm sure he learned more about me than vice versa, but he was an intelligence officer trained to gather relevant information--that and no one ever had to pull my leg to get me to talk. We conversed until the diner closed at 1400, then walked the four blocks to his westward-facing home.

Sunlight floated onto the porch where we sat with our feet (my shoes, his sandals) propped up on a off-white wooden patio table. I laughed thinking back two days to our conversations at 29 Palms: they were similar in content but took place on metal cots in a freezing K-span 100 miles from a name anyone would recognize. How many more of these informal debriefs would we have over the next year? In how many different places?

The day and the conversation began to cool so we parted ways about 1545, feeling more confident in the next week, each other, and our team. I walked with LT as far as the main road on his way to a haircut, shook his hand, and headed on my way. I drove north on I-5 slowly, letting the sun warm my face as my mind went over the day.