The Fresh Food Army
There's a Woolworths I shop at in Adelaide, not far from where my brother was born. On a cold Tuesday night not two weeks from solstice a blonde teenager who looks about the same height as me but most of a decade younger pulls cans of fruit out of recycled cardboard and slams them onto a shelf. When he looks at me passing with my trolley he doesn't see that five years ago I was him, filling aisle one with halved apricots and two fruits from what theoretically could be the same cardboard box as the lightest of rains seasoned the midst of an evening. And I was as ignorant that night as he is now to the fact that very moment somewhere in the sky an airplane is carrying people important to someone into the airports of the Middle East to be deployed into wars and occupations with view to protecting the very Woolworths we worked in.
To define the word 'protecting' I do not mean the literal defensive from terrorists and insurgents pointing homemade RPGs at the new self-serve checkouts. This protection is more separated, in the way of building hospitals, stifling dissent and educating the untarnished to weaken the strength of the potential terrorist talent pool much like a 17th AFL team loaded with draft concessions. They're not defending borders as much as earlier diggers, but they're protecting the same values which strengthen the same share prices of companies like Woolworths, which misleadingly closed today down 11 cents most likely because these deployments are conducted with stealth and not included on market reports.
There are plenty of viewpoints to have about wars and wars-by-name, but I'll say this: I'm glad I live in a country where I can have viewpoints about all sorts of shit and that the primary sort of brainwashing and conscription that exists involves me spending more money on brand name products at worst. I also want to read my brothers memoirs after he gets back.
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Some 15,000 odd kilometers away, a week or so after I took the flight into Kuwait, I walked out onto the tarmac to board another plane. This one wasn't going to include business class seating or my jeans and polo. Nor was it a balmy tropical Townsville night, but a swirling sand inferno under a scorching desert sun. Cammo uniform, dog tags, kevlar, ammunition, and my rifle were my only creature comforts. No electronic devices allowed, just in case they set off the counter-measures the plane had on board.
You know it's funny how much you pay attention to an inflight safety brief when it involves things like: "In the event the aircraft comes under fire the following actions are to occur...." - "Once we reach the border all personnel are to strap on body armour, helmet and remain seated..." Two hands on my weapon tend to make those moments a little easier.
I read your short article about 24 hours prior to this flight and I spent some considerable time contemplating what annecdote to share as a comment. But, it was as I lead my men onto that plane with a sub-way grilled chicken sandwhich in one hand, assault rifle in the other, that I knew what to share.
As I spilt the olives and cucumber from that sandwhich all down my body armour I too recognised and am glad that the country I now head off to represent allows my brother to have view points about all sorts of crap. That the primary sort of brainwashing and conscription that exists involves him and me spending our money on brand name products at worst in Australia and abroad. I don't know whether my Sub-Way purchase or even my role in Afghanistan will have an effec on the share market price. I do however know that courage is best fueled by support from home and that no matter where you are in the world, Sub-Way still tastes the same.