France is at war...
...and the world is too small.
A long rambling report on Envoy Spéciale. The Afghan foothills. A captain who was a student of mine urging ANA soldiers up the hill on a noon patrol. CPT X's hair is grown out. He has a beard. He is carrying an American rifle. His boots aren't regulation for either army and I wonder where he got them. I'm eating potato chips with S and watching while my chicken is roasting. CPT X isn't taking off his sunglasses for the reporter. This is SOP. I recognize him anyway. He's relaxed, like he is back in the barracks. This is a noon patrol, a safe one for journalists and cameramen and the folks back home to see how the training is going. His section is bunched up. His men look without pointing their rifles where they are looking.
You learn this early. I'm sure CPT X has taught them. I'm sure he will teach them again. If you look at something you may as well point your rifle at it. Doing so will save you a second. They go up the hill. The journalist asks if this is where the insurgents set up the mortar. CPT X shows them the marks. This is where they set up the mortar last night, he tells them.
X takes the patrol back down. I ask S to check on the chicken. I have not told her that X was one of my students. I do not say that this patrol he is doing is nonsense. "France is at war," says the reporter in a tone meant to surprise. X meets his American counterparts, the ones who protect his little training base, and I hear his accent again. We have a lot of work to do on Rs when he gets back. But, goddamn, he pronounces his Hs.
The rocket fire in the night is no surprise.
Nor is the punitive raid that the Americans mount in the morning.
CPT X and a sergeant I do not know are one the screen. S drains the potatoes. They are listening to a radio. The Americans are being shot at. I watch CPT X listening. He is listening so hard. The Americans request the QRF, reinforcements but the sergeant doesn't understand. THE QRF, says X in English.
X firing at a hillside over the fender of his vehicle. Four Americans are dead. The French patrol in broad daylight. They try to get the ANA soldiers not to bunch up. X is wearing his sunglasses. His target is well beyond range. It must be the sergeant's rifle he has. He is firing the sergeant's FAMAS. The Americans are putting the casualties in the truck. X's FAMAS jams in front of the cameras and he smacks the breach to clear it. France is at war, the journalist is saying.
Later, X leaves the camp. He says goodbye to the Americans. We eat our chicken. I prepare a passage of Kipling, "The Lost Legion," for my three colonels to translate. I prepare flashcards of uncountable nouns. I plan a class on the usage of the simple past.
A long rambling report on Envoy Spéciale. The Afghan foothills. A captain who was a student of mine urging ANA soldiers up the hill on a noon patrol. CPT X's hair is grown out. He has a beard. He is carrying an American rifle. His boots aren't regulation for either army and I wonder where he got them. I'm eating potato chips with S and watching while my chicken is roasting. CPT X isn't taking off his sunglasses for the reporter. This is SOP. I recognize him anyway. He's relaxed, like he is back in the barracks. This is a noon patrol, a safe one for journalists and cameramen and the folks back home to see how the training is going. His section is bunched up. His men look without pointing their rifles where they are looking.
You learn this early. I'm sure CPT X has taught them. I'm sure he will teach them again. If you look at something you may as well point your rifle at it. Doing so will save you a second. They go up the hill. The journalist asks if this is where the insurgents set up the mortar. CPT X shows them the marks. This is where they set up the mortar last night, he tells them.
X takes the patrol back down. I ask S to check on the chicken. I have not told her that X was one of my students. I do not say that this patrol he is doing is nonsense. "France is at war," says the reporter in a tone meant to surprise. X meets his American counterparts, the ones who protect his little training base, and I hear his accent again. We have a lot of work to do on Rs when he gets back. But, goddamn, he pronounces his Hs.
The rocket fire in the night is no surprise.
Nor is the punitive raid that the Americans mount in the morning.
CPT X and a sergeant I do not know are one the screen. S drains the potatoes. They are listening to a radio. The Americans are being shot at. I watch CPT X listening. He is listening so hard. The Americans request the QRF, reinforcements but the sergeant doesn't understand. THE QRF, says X in English.
X firing at a hillside over the fender of his vehicle. Four Americans are dead. The French patrol in broad daylight. They try to get the ANA soldiers not to bunch up. X is wearing his sunglasses. His target is well beyond range. It must be the sergeant's rifle he has. He is firing the sergeant's FAMAS. The Americans are putting the casualties in the truck. X's FAMAS jams in front of the cameras and he smacks the breach to clear it. France is at war, the journalist is saying.
Later, X leaves the camp. He says goodbye to the Americans. We eat our chicken. I prepare a passage of Kipling, "The Lost Legion," for my three colonels to translate. I prepare flashcards of uncountable nouns. I plan a class on the usage of the simple past.