The camp to myself

It is my first duty day and I learnt how absolutely inadequately I am prepared for what an officer has to do in our administrative taskings. By making a fool of myself, I have learnt how to use a metal detector. I’ve scanned everyone once only to find out it has been off the whole time. One of the guys told me it didn’t beep when it passed through his hand, which has metal rods inside of it, and he found it strange. Everything on duty day feels like I am on the brink of blundering like this again.

No one is really where they need to be either. The duty room is locked after I visited twice, which is to say my patience has ran out, and I found that the window was unlocked. I had papers I needed to sign and thus I put my urban ops training to use.

In the guard house, which still holds that quality of enchantment as a place I have never really visited in the absence of guard duties, the air-condition has turned the room stale and everyone is sleepy and bored inside. I walked around like an outsider who finds the mundane interesting. On the walls there were photos of contracted workers who came every morning to keep our camp clean. In their neat little square pictures, they were all smiling and aged and painfully out of place in this room of young NSFs. The faces whisper to me about their weariness about having to do work young people no longer want to do.

I also learnt how absolutely inadequately I was prepared for managing a small crisis as someone breaks down and unloads their traumas onto me. How do I make people feel better, even if we are practically strangers? Is this the trust that has been placed in my rank? I eyed the time nervously as the turnout creeps close and I have no idea how to choose between the duty and the person before me. Finding the right time to cut the story, and feeling apologetic and uneasy, I had to leave for duty. I returned to find the lights on, blanket tucked into bed, the quietude of someone sound asleep.

The guard house at night as a very strange atmosphere. As we watched the minute hand crawl towards the time for the turnout, some large cups of bubble tea were peacefully sitting in their condensation puddles, pearls resting like fat tadpoles in brown waters. It was so still, and ironically unaware of the shouting and running that will ensue once the button is pressed.

In the interval between my turnouts, with insufficient time to fall asleep or do anything else, I cleaned the toilet with half closing eyes. There were weeks of grime and hair and I have reached the limit of my tolerance. The walls, floors, bowls, sinks, I scrubbed while chanting to myself that no matter how tired I was, it was not worth it to take a crappy nap. Pants rolled to my knees, sweat pouring everywhere on such a warm night, I glanced at my watch to keep track of time, and feeling exhausted, had to dry myself and march off to the second turnout of the night.

Waking up at ungodly timings, I had gotten used to dragging myself out of bed and then returning to shallow disturbed sleep. My voice is thick and cracked in the wee hours as I tried to talk and conduct yet another check.

Finally the day brightened, and I sat up in bed bleary eyed, not sure if I had actually woken up the few times. I felt like I am still in a dream. The time to leave and hand over everything is near. I wore my boots again and blinked away the dull ache behind my eyes. First thing in the morning, I broke a sweat walking to the guard house again, surveying this empty camp that has been mine through the night. I was happy to be alone here.