The smell, a mix of dirty water and rotting human waste, permanently stained the walls of my brain.
I didn’t have much contact with those not serving in the Marine Corps while on my deployment, but one person who remains in my memory is the man from the honey truck. The honey truck was the name given to the large truck that showed up a few times a week, in order to pump the waste out of the porta-potties, since running water wasn’t available on our outpost in Afghanistan.
Each time the man arrived, I would have to pat him down and question him. He was a small, gay man. He tried countless times to talk to me, winking at me, always asking whether we could “hang out” and “have fun together.” His constant attempts to flirt with me wore me down and soured my feelings toward him. I truly dreaded seeing him show up each day. I therefore paid him as little attention as I could and just tried to get my job done, so that he could start his.