Groundhog Day

The military has a word for daily routine: battle rhythm. In Baghdad, our shop works seven days a week, 0730-2200 (7:30 AM - 10 PM, if you’re a civilian) with a two exceptions: we come in at 0900 on Fridays (our nod to the Muslim holy day) and 1300 on Sundays (where we get a whole half day off). My only complaint is that assigned work hours are like hard drives: work, like data, expands, often unnecessarily, to fill the space available to it. As a result, I believe we are in the office longer than the work we’re actually doing calls for. The only advantage of our Draconian hours is that the days seem to fly by when we’re busy (which is most of time). Week days become meaningless; numerous times, I’ve tried calling my attractive wife at her office when it was a Saturday or Sunday. When you’re on our battle rhythm, weekends lose their meaning.

Here in Qatar on TDY it’s much the same only not as intense. Since most of the people attending conferences here are coming from commands in the US where they still have eight hour work days and weekends, our meetings usually wrap up between 1800 and 1900. You can see the consternation on their faces as early evening approaches. I chuckle. In Baghdad, dinner is more like lunch during the work day back in the World.

Everything here at Camp Asaliyah is the same as it was when I was last here in March: Stark, utilitarian, buildings, blinding sunlight, heat, bunches of enlisted kids on four day passes, Toyota mini-buses hauling them over the large expanse of the base from the living quarters to the DFAC and the PX. My ten minute walk from billeting to the building where my conference meets is exactly the same (only it’s hotter this time). After work ends, we grab dinner at the DFAC, walk back to billeting, change into civilian clothes and walk to the Top Off, a giant converted hangar housing three bars, a performance stage, pool tables, and Internet computers, where we can enjoy our sanctioned three beers a night. I’m drinking with roughly the same group of people from last March. I’m wearing the same one and a half sets of civilian clothes (two polo shirts, one pair of canvas pants) and listening to bad Karaoke wafting over the roofless walls of the pub from the performance stage. It’s like I never left (or arrived, depending on the point of view).

Among the many things I miss (my attractive wife and clever two year old son being chief among them), is simple daily variation. Or maybe it’s variety. Of course, routine has a quality all its own, especially if you want time to pass quickly.