retreating... admitting wrong. Accepting defeat. Not medal worthy behaviour.
The turbulence was already working on my head, jumbling mythoughts like a half assembled puzzle; some of my reservationsmatched up, but most of them were upside down and backwards,and coming apart fast.The second I stepped onto the tarmac, my nose recoiled. Thesmell of death and burning settled like indigestion in my throat. Ontelevision, not a week ago, I watched the Prime Minister walk aroundBaghdad airport with a smile crowding out the rest of his features. There was no indication of the stench on his face.
Politicians have an arsenal of impervious faces
One for every occasion.
Squinting into the bleached canvas of the Middle East, I was ledto the morgue, one of the only walled structures among the tentsand convoys of the Australian command centre. It is hard torefrigerate a tent, and the large air conditioning units on the side of the building were a dead giveaway.“Where did you find him?” I asked, beginning my assessment. The female sergeant assigned to escort me returned my questionwith glazed silence.
Right, of course. Top secret.
Must have been ona Special Forces mission.I tried another angle. “
did you find him… other thannaked?” I pried.“I didn’t… someone found him the next day. On his back.” She
The Way to a Man’s Heart