Balkan Memories
First Morning In Naples, Italy
I had just finished being processed from Reserve Status back onto Active Duty in Pensacola, Florida. Itwas a strange, but very pleasant few days.
This was my first trans-Atlantic
flight, and I was a little anxious. I also wanted to read …. and
drink. So, while studying the information that I found and printed
last minute before getting on the plane, and reading one of the books
recommended me by an old spook, I kept the flight attendants busy
bringing me wine and coffee till the wee hours of the night. At some
point, either from exhaustion or wine, I passed out.
Thankfully, there were several coffees
on my snack tray. That there was not a puddle of drool made me
happier. The stiffness in my neck was horrid. There was also the
knowledge that I was an independently mobile stink that was about to
get worse.
Once we landed and were stuffed like
cattle into strange little bus to get from the runway to the
terminal. The mix of body odors, perfumes, foul breath, and who knows
what else in that vehicle assaulted whatever sense that my
hangover/jet-lag wasn't. Once someone lit up a cigarette, everyone
else did, including me.
There is no memory of the customs line
or counter, just a vague image in my mind of Colleen. Colleen is the
petty officer from Capudoccino who picked me up, brought me to the
camp, and showed me to my hotel room. She must have done all that, I
have no idea how it could have happened otherwise.
The morning came gently. Sitting on the
edge of the bed I considered the floor several minutes until it was
clear to me where I was and how. “Don't know that international
travel in the thing for me,” I said then flopped backwards across
the bed.
The phone ringing was the impetus it
took to get me moving again, “Good morning, I think,” I grumbled
into the phone.
“Good morning, Petty Officer
Thompson. This is Petty Officer First Class Colleen Dempsey. I
brought you in from the airport yesterday.”
“Oh, yeah, hi.”
“You clearly don't remember me. This
is your wake up call. I'll be by in 30 minutes to get you for
breakfast. Uniform of the day is dungarees.”
“Cool. Thank you.”
The hot shower was definitely welcome.
I got dressed quickly and opened the curtains of my room. It was
still early in the morning. The sun had just come up and was dancing
like diamonds on the waves of the Mediterranean. The sky was a pale
yellow near the horizon, which contrasted with the green of the
hillsides. Looking up into the sky from the yellow, the colors
quickly become a lovely light blue.
From the window I could see miles of
houses zig zagging down hillside all the way to the seaport which I
had several nights of fun years ago. Several nights that I might not
care to remember. I noticed, also, in the morning sun, a light fog
higher up the hills from where I was and that the houses below me
were draped in what appeared to be white mists. It was truly a lovely
picture. Something befitting a master's hand to paint.
Leaving the door unlocked and open, I
stepped outside onto the walkway and took a deep breath of fresh air
and immediately fell over gagging. The thick heavy stench filling my
lungs was like lead. Had it not been for the hand railing to hold
onto I would have fallen flat onto the walkway in fits of choking and
gagging.
How long she had been standing there I
had no clue, “Yeah, the locals burn the garbage here every Thursday
morning.”
Trying to regain some form of self
respect or decorum or anything better than what I was just doing, I
finally caught my breath again and got to my feet. “Yes, *cough
cough * I get that.” There I was, just having coughed out a lung at
the foot of a woman whom, whether or not there was any chance of
anything more than a handshake (which, was out for me) …. let's
just say, it is really rough to recover from something like that and
have any credibility.
Thankfully,
the rest of my time at Camp Capudoccino, or Camp Capo for short, was
not that bad. It was rather mundane. Gear issue, weapons
qualifications, weapons issue, orders for my next round of travel,
and transport arranged for on a plane owned by an international arms
trader.
