Carl Elliott was a Fleet Marine Force Hospital Corpsman in the United States Navy from 2006-2012, and served under the 1st Medical Battalion to various locations within Iraq.

Now he spends his days studying computer science, and relaxing with his wife and two small dogs.

Postcards From Old People

posted Dec 9, 2014

1. The accommodations failed expectations, plywood floors covered with sand that's impossible to keep out. It comes with the morning winds. Evenings are for special occasions, massive orange clouds move in from a desolate horizon like some waking animal greeting us with chunks of mud and hail as private endorsements of the desert's hospitality.

I'm staying optimistic, it's only the first week after all and there's still so much to see and do. Next week we're planning a barbecue for the fourth of July. I remember the stories we used to hear about neighbor kids losing fingers while trying to blow up mailboxes with m-80s. They scared me enough not to play with them. Too bad we can't have fireworks here though. I suppose it isn't a good idea since everyone carries a weapon and thirty rounds of ammunition; wouldn't want to confuse firecrackers with small arms fire!

2. God it's boring out here. I spend most of my time roasting like a marshmallow and my shifts are consistently uneventful. My crew and I play a lot of poker and board games, feels like we're living in the 1950s. "Corpsmen have a long and proud history," they tell us. Yea right, a long history of sleeping until reality starts blinking out of existence. I heard some cool stories though, I mean from people on other shifts. Sounds like some real E.R. in the desert type stuff.

I'm thinking' about running my first marathon, half-marathon to be precise. The command got together and decided to host one in a couple of weeks. I thought it sounded kind of risky; the temperature's getting close to 120 degrees. They know what they're doing though. I know I need to start running! Tell mom I said, hi and all that.

3. Another month, number three I think. I had a calendar to keep track of the days, used a black sharpie to mark each one with an "X." I lost the calendar, don't know when. Still have the sharpie though. I use it to draw stick figure cartoons on the plywood next to my bed.

I remember when we used to work for Dad and he made us pressure wash oil spots out of the driveway. I thought they would never go away. I told him that, too. He just said to get my ass back out there and stop complaining. That's kind of how it is out here, there's no point complaining. Just get your ass out there and don't come back 'til all the litters are clean. To think I used to complain about oil spots.

4. I decided to use a special postcard from St. Croix. Old people like to send us leftover magazines and postcards they don't use. Maybe it makes them feel better about themselves, doin' their part just like the good ole days back when this used to be a team sport, a national endeavor, a unified exploration of the value of our own humanity.

"So it goes," Vonnegut might say. It doesn't really matter anyway.

We got this RP guy, religious petty officer, who's supposed to be the right hand to the Chaplin, help us in our time of need. Like if some case gets flown in that didn't stand a chance in hell of flyin' back out with a heartbeat. D.O.A. they say, dead as a doorknob. But we see them anyway. Do the ABC's of life-saving rigmarole and the whole nine. "Get 'em on the table! Hup-hup-hup."

Happy Halloween!

5. Hey, sorry I didn't send a postcard last month. Guess the old folks didn't have much to feel thankful for and neglected to send us any fucking postcards, pruney motherfuckers. Anyway… it is December, right? I think I heard someone talkin' about Christmas the other day but not many people get into holidays like that while they're out here. Just reminds them of the bullshit they choked down into believing there's actually a point in us being out here. We're nice though, I gave some candy to a little kid that came in the other day. He had to wait for someone to pick him up while we tried to stop mommy's brains from falling out the back of her head. My friend actually cupped his hands behind the exit point and spoon-fed lumpy brain matter back into her skull. Top that Santa, you fat fuck.