Fic: Backstage 46, “Zulu Time”, 1/3

[aadler]

 
First installment.

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Artwork by aadler

Zulu Time
Copyright March 2023

Disclaimer: Characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer are property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui Enterprises, Sandollar Television, the WB, and UPN.

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Part I

17 September 2006
3rd BCT
C-1943 Barracks
Fort Bragg, NC 28303

Dear Janiece,

I’m sorry it took me so long to reply to your letter. You deserve better, and so does Scott. The problem is that I don’t know if I have anything to offer that might help. From what you’ve said, it sounds like the whole crazy business hit Scott a lot harder than it did me … but, if you want to get right down to it, I’m just as confused about it as he was. If there’s any difference at all between us on this, it may be that he’s still trying to make sense of it all, while a part of me accepts that there are some things that just don’t make sense, and never will.

Another bit of difficulty is that you’re asking me not just as someone who knows Scott, but who got to know a side of him that you can’t fully share. And you’re not wrong there, the gap between soldier and civilian is a high obstacle, and yes, men who’ve been in combat together understand each other in a way that just isn’t there for people who haven’t shared the same experiences. (And it goes farther than that; there are still a few guys in the service — very few — who did tours in the last years of the Vietnam conflict, and they faced things we can’t relate to, though we probably come closer than people who never served at all.) It’s just … what we went through, the thing that seems to still be riding your brother even though he’s back in The World now … that happened to us in the Army in Afghanistan, but it wasn’t exactly about the Army or Afghanistan. Except maybe a little part of it, and honestly that part is about as hard to understand as … well, as things Scott might be afraid to tell you, because he doesn’t want you to think he’s crazy.

I don’t want anybody thinking that about me, either. But I owe Scott, and I respect the way you’re trying to be with him and support him. So this I can do: I’ll tell you the whole story — as much of it as I know, anyhow — and even if it doesn’t solve anything for your brother, you can maybe have at least some idea of where it’s all coming from.

Here goes, then.

*               *               *

The first moment I saw her, I knew she was trouble.

Okay, no I didn’t. My actual first thought was newschick, followed a half-second later by My God, they’re hiring them straight out of junior high these days.

(I know, for most places it’s “middle school” now. In my hometown, though, back when I was still there, it was junior high.)

The girl in question was about 5'5", though she seemed taller because she was so slender and wore heeled boots, and looked fifteen or sixteen even if her credentials said she was twenty-two. (And I’m still not convinced, because … well, we’ll get into that later.) She was shouldering a huge rucksack, not military issue because of the colors, but even bigger, only it must have been packed with Styrofoam and bubble wrap because she was stepping too lightly for someone carting a serious load. She had red hair, cut short and stylish, and eyes that looked dark but turned out to be green when she got closer. Which happened pretty damn quick, because SFC Hardass was leading her through the chow hall straight in my direction, and made eye contact which told me I was the lucky target.

Maybe I should change that … but no, that’s what we called her. Actual name was Hartis, mid-to-late thirties, tough as dried rawhide, and absolute solid straight-up professional. You always knew where you stood with her — do the job and there were no problems, anything else and life started to suck fast and bad — but you didn’t always like it, because there was no give in her anywhere. And there was some wryness but no disrespect in the private-but-widespread nickname, because it was just a fact that you didn’t want to mess around with the Hardass.

Oh, and a little more to fill in the picture for you: SFC means Sergeant First Class. That’s an E-7, as in two grades higher than me. Captain is the first serious rank among officers — lieutenants are just captains-in-training — and probably the NCO equivalent would be Staff Sergeant, E-6. SFC, though, is where you start to pay careful attention, because that’s the first of the senior NCOs, the ones who’ll be moving up to Master Sergeant or even Sergeant Major if they have what it takes. With the way she handled her responsibilities, I didn’t have much doubt that Hardass would be adding an extra stripe in the near future; the only real question was whether she’d make it because of her performance in this deployment, or during this deployment for performance already tallied up.

She stopped at my table. I had already come to my feet. “Sergeant,” I greeted her. Except in specific situations, you’re not officially required to stand in the presence of a senior NCO, but her business was clearly with me and it was a good idea for me to not show anything that might have seemed like disrespect.

“Sergeant,” she acknowledged. She didn’t even glance at your brother or PVT Tsien, still seated at either side of my chair; they were my subordinates, this was a chow hall, I had taken the lead, no problem. She indicated the newschick. “This is Violet Knowles, with NSWC. She’ll be here on base for the next few days, and she’ll be in your care till otherwise determined.”

I felt Scott and Tsien get even quieter beside me; this was not necessarily bad, but not by any means welcome. The difference between news people and jihadis? you’re (usually) allowed to shoot at jihadis. I knew better than to protest, but said, “We were set to go back into the patrol rotation tomorrow. Has that been postponed? Or —” (please, God, no) “— is she supposed to accompany us on patrol?”

A little tightening of the SFC’s mouth could have meant displeasure with me, but her next words seemed to point elsewhere. “Taking a news crew outside the wire would call for a lot more arrangements than we’ve had time to put together yet.” She indicated ‘Violet’ at her elbow. “She said she’d like to spend a little time with the troops while we’re working that out. I picked your team because you’re not back in the rotation yet, otherwise we’d have to pull somebody else out.”

This was actually more explanation than I deserved, certainly more than I expected. I looked at the newschick. “NSWC? I’ve never heard of that network.”

She gave me a brilliant smile, which didn’t actually make her look any older but suddenly had me paying closer attention to her. “I guess you could say we’re the new kids on the block.”

She couldn’t mean the boy-band group, they’d broken up back before this kid would have made it to grade school (still unconsciously thinking of her as around fifteen). All the same, a little glint in her eye made me think she’d intended something ironic with that. While I was still choosing a reply, Hardass handed me a sheet of paper. “We’ve set up billets for her and her cameraman. Your team will need to help them with their luggage.”

Violet said brightly, “Oh, don’t worry, I can handle that.”

Hardass ignored her. To me she said, “Come by HQ once you get them settled in, I should have more details for you by then. Meanwhile, all yours.” A final nod, then she did an about-face and left.

I looked at Violet. A complication I didn’t need, but she hadn’t actually been unpleasant. “So,” I said. “Have you eaten?”

Again the smile. She wasn’t trying to charm me, I decided, she really was that naturally cheerful. “One thing you’ll learn about … girls like me,” she said (and what did that little hesitation mean?), “is that we always have an appetite. And the sergeant said I could show this to authorize meals.” She dug in a flap-pocket, produced something with the battalion commander’s signature. So he not only had allowed this, he was personally taking a hand in it. Not necessarily good. “Are they still serving?”

“Yeah,” I told her. “And this is a Forward Operating Base, so there’s always something out, even outside posted chow times, just not always fresh or hot.” I gestured toward the serving line. “Come on, I’ll point out everything you should definitely avoid.”

Now, Afghanistan is a big place, and there’s a lot of American presence there, with considerable variety. At the base in Kandahar, they have fast-food joints — Scott always headed straight for Burger King any time we passed through — and workout centers and internet cafés and even massage places run by Kazakh women (and there were guys who’d swear you could get a ‘happy ending’ in those with proper negotiation, but I never saw the need to check it out myself). At Bagram, well, if you could stand to be in the place (too close to the flagpole — headquarters — tends to be uncomfortable for most ordinary soldiers), they probably have bowling alleys and hotels … and a golf course, if the Air Force pukes have anything to say about it, for some reason the zoomie higher-ups have a total hard-on for golf. The FOB at Tarin Kowt, though, was a different matter. We were at the edge of the Wild West there, right where civilization (if you could use the word for Afghanistan) gave up and fell out. We’re talking walls and guard towers, sandbags and concrete blast walls, bulwarks of heavy duty cardboard wrapped in chain-link fencing and filled with rocks and dirt to soak up rockets, RPGs, maybe even sapper attacks. Not just at the perimeter, but all over, you never went anywhere but the showers without weapon and helmet, and if you had any sense you took ’em there, too, and had a battle buddy watch them while you rinsed off quick. The PX was a single room resupplied every two weeks and generally selling out within a couple of hours, the internet center was eight plywood-partitioned cubicles for the entire base and you had to wait in line for a fifteen-minute block of time (and forget wifi), and the chow … well, most of it was decently edible, but there really were days when you’d rather have an MRE, and that’s saying a lot.

Violet hadn’t been joking about the appetite, though. She took everything that was allowed, doubles on some of the snacks, and hoovered straight through it while asking chatty questions and either not noticing the incredulous stares she was getting from my team, or not showing it. “What about your cameraman?” I asked at one point. “Won’t he want to eat while he has the chance?”

Violet waved a chunk of naan, swallowed a glug of unsweetened tea to wash down the sizeable bite she’d taken from it. “Andrew’s with our luggage,” she explained. “The arrival tent is air-conditioned, so he won’t want to leave till he has to.” She shrugged. “And he always keeps a stash of emergency supplies, says he has a delicate stomach. Me, I just think he’s finicky.” She used the flatbread to mop up the last juices on her plate, disposed of that, and then looked around at us. “So, how do you guys like it here?”

Scott gave her a doubtful look. Even though the name-tapes on their ACUs were easily visible, I decided introductions might ease things. “Ms Knowles —”

“Just Vi,” she said breezily.

“Okay. Well, Vi, these two disreputable specimens are Private Jeff Tsien and Specialist Scott Bromfield. They’re what remains of my team while a few more are on leave.” (Two of them, and another was clear back at Bagram for a medical check, sand fly bites had turned into a full case of leishmaniasis for him.) “Boys, say hello.”

They did so, and Scott added, “How do I like it here? As armpits go, it’s not the worst I’ve ever seen.”

One of her eyebrows quirked a bit at that, and Tsien took the opportunity to observe mournfully, “I still wish I could be with one of the tank crews.”

Scott winced, and I hid my own reaction. Tsien pulled this one every time, damn it, and it hadn’t been especially funny even when it was new —

“Why?” Vi asked obligingly.

He grinned at her. “ ’Cause then I’d be the Chink in the armor.”

Newschicks frequently have not-so-much in the way of a sense of humor, but this one apparently decided Tsien could get away with making ethnic cracks about himself. She turned her head to take us all in, and asked, “How long have you been here? I mean, at this base?”

The guys let me have that one. “Seven months so far,” I said to her, “once we were past the first couple weeks after arriving in the ’Stan. And about another five months to go, unless our team or the whole outfit gets shifted to a different AO.”

She tilted her head. “Ayoh?”

“Area of operations,” Scott explained, and even managed not to sound condescending. “The place we’re set down to do whatever they tell us to do.”

She nodded. “Which is?”

“Varies,” I said to her. I was still trying to be cautious, but Violet — Vi — seemed to be genuinely interested, rather than trying to make us think she was. “Presence patrols, security patrols, sometimes we’ll back up teams hunting for specific bad guys —”

Vi centered on me. “Bad guys?” she asked, in that tone of voice.

“Insurgents,” I clarified, keeping my own tone level. “Some Taliban, some al-Qaeda leftovers, some just coming over the border to take a shot at the infidels. And, yeah, we say ‘bad guys’ as shorthand for anybody who’s fighting us, but some of these characters are truly, seriously bad. Like, if other Afghans killed ’em, there’d be quiet little celebrations in a whole bunch of villages.”

Vi considered it, nodded. “Okay,” she said.

You never knew with news people, they’re practically all convinced they already know everything, but this one at least gave the impression of being willing to listen. “Anyhow, sometimes we’re extra security for other ops. Every now and then a Civil Affairs unit will want to run a medcap or vetcap —” Again the eyebrow, so I explained, “A quick medical or veterinary drop-in, offer some services and hope to get the locals feeling a little more favorably toward us. Vetcaps usually work better, the medical teams can’t hang around long enough to do more than a quick diagnosis and say, Yeah, bring Ahmed to our base and we’ll get a specialist to look at him, but all the farmers are happy to bring up their animals for vaccinations and quick doses of de-wormer. Mostly, one thing or another, we’re just around in case there’s trouble and we have to respond.”

She took that without making any snide little comment (or earnest, which is worse) about maybe our being around caused trouble; seriously, you get all kinds of half-baked stuff from the news people). Points for the redhead. She wasn’t finished yet, though. “Patrols, you said.” She looked around. “Not just you guys by yourselves, I wouldn’t think.”

Tsien snickered at that. I silenced him with a look. “No. First off, we’re a few guys short, so if we went out they’d assign us with another team to make a squad. And that squad would be with other squads to make a full platoon at least, and generally we don’t leave the wire with less than two platoons, usually most of a full company.”

Vi smiled. “So it might be a while.”

I didn’t have anything to add to that, but I knew the battalion commander wouldn’t be letting a news crew go out without enough protection to either keep anything from happening to them, or to show he’d taken all necessary precautions if anything did happen. But, “That doesn’t seem to bother you too much,” I observed.

“I’m in no rush,” she said with a shrug. “If I go outside, I’ll learn things. If I talk to you guys, and whoever else in here, same thing. It would be different if I was chasing a particular story, but —” She gave me a quick, wide smile. “Right now, just being here is an adventure.”

The guys were starting to loosen up a little, Vi was just that engaging (plus, seeing an American woman not wearing a uniform was a welcome novelty). Scott snorted at her comment. “It gets boring pretty quick,” he told her. “Unless something interesting happens, then we’ll be remembering how nice it was when things were boring.”

(Actually, he was just repeating the maxims of the experienced NCOs. The young guys want action, that’s why they enlisted, and Scott hadn’t seen enough of it yet to be cautious about wishing for more.) Vi nodded. “Okay. So what now?”

“Well,” I said, “Sergeant Harda–… Hartis said they’d assigned you quarters.” I studied the information sheet the SFC had passed over to me. “So let’s pick up your luggage and get you over there, see if it’s squared away or if we need to requisition anything else for you.”

We all stood up, and she watched as we slung our weapons and picked up our helmets, then observed, “I saw you weren’t the only ones laying your rifles under the table, next to your chairs. Is there a rule where it always has to be within reach?”

Tsien and Scott traded another of those Civilians, right? looks, and Tsien said, “Not a rule, but it’s a really, really good idea.”

“Nice to have it there if you need it,” Vi agreed. “I just wondered if it was official policy, is all.”

“Probably would be official if too many grunts got stupid,” I said to her. “But the Sergeant Major isn’t about to let things get that far.”

Vi looked curious. “You know, I’ve heard about sergeant majors,” she said (I hid my automatic wince, it’s ‘sergeants major’, but even some soldiers slip on that one), “in movies and stuff, but I just realized I don’t actually know what that is.”

Scott started to say something but looked to me first, and I took the lead and answered. “Sergeant Major is the highest enlisted rank, top of the heap as far as NCOs go. A Command Sergeant Major — and that’s a position, not a rank, both of ’em are E-9 — is the commander’s right hand, and is basically understood as being the commander’s representative wherever he goes.” I paused, working out how to make it clear. “He’s technically below any officer, he’ll salute a 2nd lieutenant because that’s just the rank structure … but officers know not to mess with a sergeant major, because the next thing that happens is the commander hauling them in for a private blistering. Or not always private, because an insult to his top man is a challenge to his authority.” I shook my head. “Short form, we say ‘yes, sir’ to officers and follow their orders, but NCOs are the ones who actually get things done, and the sergeant major is over all that. The one in charge of the guys in charge of us.”

Vi was taking this in. “And the sergeant who brought me here —?”

“Give her another six, seven years,” I answered. “She’s got the stuff, she just needs more time in grade.”

She nodded, smiled, “Getting an education here,” she said. “It’s … complicated.”

I smiled back. “You should ask a Navy guy about their enlisted rank structure. When they start to talk about ratings, I not only don’t understand ’em, I can’t even figure out what they’re trying to explain.”

Vi hefted her rucksack one-handed, swung it around to settle across her shoulders. (Yep, definitely super-lightweight stuff in there, I found myself wondering what it might be.) “Okay, then. I think I can remember where the baggage tent is … but you’ll already know that, right?”

We did, and all headed out together. None of us had any reason to be especially watchful, but we automatically kept an eye out anyway; it’s just what you do. I was a bit surprised to see that Vi seemed to be doing the same, but then she was probably on the lookout for anything that might offer a good story.

Just as we reached the tent, a head came out the main flaps, a pink-faced young man looking around anxiously. He brightened on seeing Vi and her escorts, and I suspected he’d been sticking his head out every few minutes. Relief was in his voice, too: “Vi! Oh, yes, thank God! I knew you wouldn’t just leave me, but I kept worrying something would happen before you got back.”

“That’s okay,” Scott said before Vi could answer. He ostentatiously checked his watch. “Taliban wouldn’t be attacking for another, oh, twenty minutes at least.”

This new face — Andrew, Vi had said — looked from her to us, doubtful but uncertain: almost sure he was having his leg pulled, but not absolutely sure. “Zip it, Scott,” I said brusquely; then, to Vi, “How much luggage you bring?”

Andrew stepped outside the tent; seen fully, he was even less impressive, flyaway hair and a spindly build and a rather weak chin, and his clothes were all but soaked through with sweat. “It’s all still over there,” he told me, pointing at one of the big pallets they’ll transport on Chinooks sometimes. “I wanted them to bring it in the tent, but they don’t have the netting off yet.” He shook his head, perspiration trickling down from his temples in obvious rivulets and dripping off his chin. “I tried to keep an eye on them, but it’s just so HOT …”

(Was he actually whining, or was that his normal voice? I could keep my opinions to myself, but I couldn’t stop myself from thinking: the Army would absolutely eat this boy alive.) Aloud I said, “Well, just point out which ones are yours, and we’ll get them.” We probably could have picked them out ourselves, since most of the stuff under the cargo netting was duffels and other military-patterned bags. I watched Scott and Tsien sharply; time in-country can make troops impatient with civilians, and 1) these were really young guys, and 2) Andrew was shaping as a particularly inviting target.

They glanced at me, and at each other, both recognizing the NCO eyeball was on them. Andrew had already gone over to the netted pallet, and Vi with him, to find the side that held their bags. So low I could barely make it out (and probably he didn’t know I could), Scott murmured, “Don’t ask.” Tsien’s mouth twitched in a tiny smile, and he returned, just as low, “Don’t tell.”

Forty feet away, Vi’s head came up, and she looked back at us with the normal cheerful friendliness suddenly absent. I looked around for anything that might have triggered her, because there was no way she could have heard them, but I didn’t spot anything. My unease made my tone sharp. “I said zip it,” I told my men. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”

I got a dutiful yes, Sergeant from both of them. Still, I could tell I’d be having to ride herd not just on the news people, but on my own troops. “Find everything?” I called, raising my voice.

“Right here,” Vi returned, her tone noticeably cooler than it had been. “These three and the camera bag.”

“Unhook that side and pull ’em out,” I told Scott and Tsien, and they moved to comply.

Vi watched them for a moment, then the tightness around her mouth eased, and she came back to stand next to me. Very quietly she said, “I know he can … can be really Andrew sometimes. But he’s a good guy, and if there are going to be any problems, then everybody is going to have problems.”

As threats go, that was pretty much the lowest-keyed I’ve ever had directed at me. Somehow, the softness of it didn’t make it any less emphatic. “I told them already,” I said to her. “I’ll make sure they understand I mean it.”

Her nod was almost microscopic, but I got it. And something else I got: there was more to Vi than your standard newschick.

That still didn’t answer my larger question. She couldn’t have heard them, I barely had from three feet away and she’d been a lot farther than that. So how had she picked up on it?

No, not your standard newschick.

The paper I’d been given showed the location of Vi’s and Andrew’s quarters, and it was only a few spaces down from where my own team was billeted. That would make coordinating with them easier, which I figured Hardass had set up deliberately; she might not have our convenience at the top of her priorities, but she did like things to go smoothly. The door was locked, but Vi produced a key which had been provided (again, by the SFC), and removed the lock. I pulled open the door, and Vi’s eyebrows went up as she observed the arrangement that worked to keep the door from flapping loose: a water bottle, filled with rocks and dirt, suspended from 550 cord run through a bent nail to make a counterweight. She didn’t say anything, but just the fact that she saw it as noteworthy told me she was new in-country, because Americans all over Iraq and Afghanistan do the exact same thing whenever more modern equipment isn’t available (and it never is, except in headquarters units).

I took a quick look around inside, not for any particular dangers but to make sure there were no breaks in the wall (you never know what troops might get up to when they’re bored) and to see if our guests had everything they’d need, because otherwise we’d have to find the missing amenities ourselves. I showed Vi where the light switches were and how to turn on the wall-mounted A/C units. Noting that the room had a wooden bunk built in on either side, I said, “You can hang up a poncho as a partition if you want privacy, we’ll get you one if you need it.”

“I’m fine,” Vi assured me. “Andrew and I are used to each other.”

That seemed to confirm the automatic assessment of him as non-threatening. “Okay. Check around whenever you come in or when you first get up in the morning, we haven’t had much problem here with scorpions or camel spiders, but we all know to watch out for them. Anything else you need, just let us know; if we can’t find it for you, we’ll check with Sergeant Hartis.”

“Okay,” Vi said. Most of her earlier reserve had dwindled, she was almost back to the bright, chipper demeanor I had marked as her norm. “So what comes next?”

I thought about that, shrugged. “We can show you around a bit if you like, but I’ll be finding out if there are any specific plans for you at the evening briefing.”

Andrew looked up at that. “When will that be?”

“Unless something changes between now and then,” I told him, “briefing is at 14:30 Zulu time every day.”

Andrew looked confused, but it was Vi who said, “Zulu? What’s that?”

Scott looked to me, and I nodded, so he explained, “That’s Army for Greenwich Mean Time. Afghan time is Zulu plus four and a half hours, so by your watches — if you’re set for here — that’d be seven in the evening.”

Vi grinned. “When you said ‘Zulu time’, I automatically thought about the movie: you know, Rorke’s drift, a hundred or so British against thousands of Zulu warriors. But that wouldn’t exactly be an everyday thing, would it?” Before Scott (or I) could respond, she jumped to something else. “But why use a whole different time zone to describe time here? Especially with a four-hours-and-some differential?”

I actually knew the answer to that, but it took me a moment to frame it in terms that would make sense to a civilian. “We get orders, and reports, from all different commands and locations. You might have one report referencing things from three or four different time zones. To keep from having to convert each one into something that makes sense to us, we use Zulu — GMT — as a single standard. To simplify things.”

Her smile looked like genuine amusement, not just good spirits. “Does it work?”

I gave her an answering smile. “I don’t really know, and don’t really care. Army says do it, I do it.” I shrugged, holding the smile. “Thinking too much just makes headaches, especially when you’re dealing with Army logic.”

Vi nodded, cheerful again. “Okay, got it.” She looked around. “We’ll get settled in, let you know if we need anything.”

I took an extra minute to point out to her the hootch I shared with Scott and Tsien and the still-absent rest of my team. Once she and Andrew had closed their door, I pulled my guys away and told them, “Stay handy in case they have any requests or questions, okay? I’m going to check with HQ to find out if there are any special instructions on how to deal with this.”

I found Hartis at our company headquarters, which was the most likely location for her but not a guarantee, so I’d got a bit of luck. She sighed when she saw me, but just like before her next words showed she wasn’t irritated with me specifically. “You want to know just what’s going on here,” she said, her tone level and controlled.

“Yes, Sergeant,” I acknowledged.

She made an impatient gesture. “Same here. And the Captain isn’t happy, either, because he couldn’t get any more information from upstairs than I have. What I can tell you is that somebody with some serious pull wanted to make sure this news crew could get in for a visit, and it was made clear to us that … that things would go easier for everybody concerned if they didn’t run into any snags while they’re here.”

We deal with non-Army stuff on a regular basis — Afghan troops, local government people, international agencies, coordination with Navy and Air Force, NGOs, even other agencies in the U.S. government — so it’s not unknown to have to make adjustments to our normal operating procedures. This one, though, was a lot more vague and open-ended than the usual. “They’re news people,” I said. “And not even from any bunch that I’ve ever heard of. Just how much of an open door are we talking about?”

Hartis sat down at her overloaded desk, shaking her head in resignation. “Again, not really knowing here. Just tread light, okay? You already know the basic rules for dealing with media: no operational details, no politics, be friendly but don’t let down your guard, come check with me if you’re in doubt about anything. So far the pressure we’ve got has been very polite, and I’d like it to stay that way … without giving them free rein, because she really does seem to be pretty nice but she’s still one of them.”

Yeah, no getting away from that.

“How long do we expect this to run?” I asked.

She considered that. “News people never stay long, unless they already have their teeth into a story. I’m not getting that kind of feeling, but it does seem like they’re here for something. I’d say we can hope — hope — for less than two weeks, but keep your eyes open and keep me up to speed.”

“Will do, Sergeant.” I didn’t quite come to attention (this wasn’t that kind of situation), but I stood straight, gave it another fraction of a second to make sure she didn’t have anything more to add, then went back to resume custodianship of my new responsibility.

New, unwelcome, but so far not too bad.

So far.
 

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