Life in a war zone

"The [Afghan] interpreters saw us in the middle of the compound and started asking 'Qaeda? Qaeda?' They thought we were detainees," said one soldier who got the late-night treatment.

Soldiers of 1-87's Charlie Company have staged more creative diversions to break up the camp's long hours of darkness.

One night, they put on a skit spoofing their commanders using puppets they fashioned out of Popsicle sticks.

On another, they had a movie and bonfire. The highlight, though, was "casino night," an evening of blackjack, craps, and other betting games in which the soldiers used live bullets from their weapons as chips. "One round equaled $5 worth of stuff," says Cpl. Clayton Fuchs of Cortez, Colo.

Perhaps the camp's favorite entertainer is Pvt. Jeremy Wilson, a medic of the 10th Military Police. The sign on the wooden door to his mud-walled room reads "Welcome to the Pig Pen."

"It stands for pride, integrity, and guts," he says in a slow drawl.

A former band member from Scottsboro, Ala., Private Wilson says he joined the Army after losing his college scholarship because he "partied a little too much."

He's now saving money for a truck, and has found new appreciation for his musical skills, which he hopes eventually to parlay into a career.

"I take the day's events, things that are funny, and I elaborate on them," says Wilson, who composes songs that poke fun at everyone from the commanding general to the lowest private.

When he picks up his steel-stringed acoustic guitar, called a "flattop," he usually has a captive audience.

His latest musical parody is a takeoff on a song about a jilted lover, "She Hates Me" by the band Puddle of Mudd. Naturally, Wilson calls it "The Army Hates Me."

"The haji food sometimes makes me hurl,
At least Kandahar has Air Force girls,
I have to shower with another man
And on top of that fight the Taliban.
The Army hates me..."

One of the biggest sources of comfort - but also worry - for the soldiers of 1-87 lies on the home front.

Bundles of mail delivered by helicopter bring everything from letters to boxes of fudge, Christmas trees, and hand-knit socks from Mom.

But word from home can also mean arguments and breakups, and a few soldiers say they'll be going back to empty houses.

"They say 'My girlfriend left me,' or 'I may not trust my wife; she might be out there,' " relates battalion Chaplin Ken Godwin, who adds that such relationships top the list of concerns the men bring to him.

To bridge the gulf of time and distance, some soldiers write, phone, or e-mail home as often as they can.

Pfc. Patrick Barrett keeps a daily journal for his "girl," Katie. "Today was stupid," he writes in a small green notebook one afternoon as he sits on the hood of his Humvee.

Others minimize contact with those back home - and the pain it can evoke. "I try not to call at all because it makes me sad," says Private Howe of New Hampshire, explaining that an extended deployment means he'll probably miss the birth of his first child: "I was supposed to be home, but good ol' Uncle Sam....'

Indeed, for many of these 10th Mountain Division soldiers, there's a Rip Van Winkle feeling of life passing them by while they're at war.

"When you're here, it's like everything at home is fast-forward, and you're standing still or in reverse," says Meadows, who has a girlfriend back in West Virginia. "I don't want to go home and find out my life done left me."

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