Holiday season is here. I'm checking a couple of lists more than twice. However, I'm not Santa. Just a hunt-and-peck guy looking for a writing topic from my archives...both written and mental. Hunting for a memorable tidbit from my near 70 years.

My research lists are designed to aid in my writing. They are rarely the entire basis of a writing project. I have no sweeping 10-item 'bucket lists' of places I've been or places I wish to visit. No top 10 of loves, hates, or people. My lists are restricted to five itemized experiences, no more, no less. My categories are my own, but that doesn't mean others don't have lists with similar subjects.

Steering clear of holiday lists, I flipped a coin. It was a gold wrapped chocolate coin of the type Santa used to secrete in my stocking. Anyway, my 'Showers' list lost the toss to 'Girls Named Debbie'. Unfortunately, as I prepared notes on the Debbie list, I realized I would have trouble keeping most content appropriate for readers' consumption during the yule season.

Therefore, 'Showers' became the source list by default for this writing. Of note, one of the showers listed was also a bit too adult in content. Interestingly, Debbie number 2 was a key player on that occasion. Good 'clean' fun.

For now, accompany me back to a late afternoon shower time on a Friday, early May 1991.

I'd been back in Germany for about four hours. A member of the 207th MI Brigade redeployed from Desert Storm. We landed at Stuttgart International and bused quickly to the other side of the runways because that was our detachment's home location. Our mission was aerial reconnaissance and we had planes and pilots, along with imagery analysts. As senior NCO, the analysts were my responsibility.

There was a much appreciated welcome from wives and family members including a lot of children. When the party wound down, everyone dispersed for the non duty weekend. For me, this meant a room across town in a hotel the military used for senior personnel when there was no other suitable housing available.

The hotel was close to a base with a PX. After check-in, I purchased a case of my favorite mouthwash, Stuttgarter Hofbrau, then grabbed a couple of wursts from a street corner stand on the way back to the room. Twenty bottles of brewed heaven on earth. Real German beer after spending five months in a land where only non alchoholic beer was available.

One wurst was placed in the fridge on a shelf next to half the beers. I put the half full case on the toilet seat, easily reachable. I wolfed the wurst covered by mustard with a kick. Extra towels were stacked in the sink. Off came the brown/tan camouflage uniform, my name sewn above a pocket and American flag displayed on the top of a sleeve. Underwear joined the soiled stack in a floor corner.

Why was I planning an extended shower? Simply, I could not get the feel of sand off my body.

It lived in my hair, in and behind my ears, between my toes, in my pants, and even in my mouth. Although I had taken repeated field showers, I could not shake the feeling. Surprisingly, the welcome ceremony with its plates of cookies and far too many cupcakes did not ease my psychological discomfort. After all, I was a graduate of Cocoa Beach High School and was familiar with the authentic feel of intrusive grains of sand that were present after beach shenanigans.

So, I opened the first beer and greedily tasted it. When the water streaming from the showerhead felt comfortable on my hand, I stepped under the spray and exclaimed rather loudly "Hallelujah". No experience in my first war 20 years earlier could match how happy I was at that moment. I let out another "Hallelujah".

I was at Fort Lewis when the Middle East troop buildup had begun. Consequently, it came as no surprise when I got orders to leave Washington for what was to be my second Germany tour. Thanksgiving week, I joined the Stuttgart-based unit whose soldiers were preparing for quick deployment.

And quick it was. We were in Saudi Arabia for Christmas. I remember seeing Santa in full camouflage, weapon on shoulder and gas mask strapped to his side. What came to mind, was whether his gas mask could maintain a good tight seal over the white beard. This was sergeant thinking.

The beer kept going down with little effort while the shower spray searched for grainy desert remnants.

All our personnel had returned safely to Germany. Even though, two of our planes were ditched, parachutes ensured no one was missed at the homecoming. I looked up and thanked the Man upstairs for doing his part. "I know You can't always spare everyone and I know those of us down here make your job difficult. Divine help is appreciated."

Raising my current drink, I toasted toward the ceiling, "To You."

Twenty years before that celebratory shower, I had thanked God when I stepped into the Flying Tiger passenger jet flying me out of Vietnam. Again, a thank you as I landed back in America. I grabbed a plane which would get me to Melbourne, Florida. My high school buddy Don was there and his handshake convinced me I had indeed made it back. We drove up the coast to my mother's and she presented me with my favorite, fried chicken. She tried acting as if I hadn't been gone 12 months, but a tear or two said different.

Those 12 months have never totally left me. I try to avoid thoughts and words concerning Vietnam, but memories and feelings don't die. It's not surprising they joined me not only in the desert, but also followed me into my feel-good shower.

A day after the Desert Storm fighting ended, I visited another deployed unit. Outside its desert headquarters were two mock graves. Two parallel mounds, each with a standing headstone. The one on the right was for Saddam Hussein and the one on the left was for Jane Fonda. A Southeast Asia footnote referenced in Southwest Asia. I understood.

In the shower, recalling those mock graves prompted me to open another Hofbrau. Although I drank to whoever put them there, I figured the display was more from hard feelings than sense of humor. War can cultivate many emotions including hate and bitterness, and time alone doesn't always sweep them away.

In time, I wasn't feeling any sand. I wasn't feeling much of anything. There were only four beers in the case. Closing time was near, but I had one more toast scheduled. For all soldiers who did not make it back.

On the road to Kuwait's Airport, we came across a destroyed Iraqi convoy. It hadn't been cleared. Trucks, armament and bodies were scattered. On the flat bed of one truck were three soldiers' bodies burnt black and unrecognizable. Other bodies lay in the sand.

As I carefully walked around the scene, I avoided weapons, ammunition and pieces of vehicles. About 40 yards from the flat bed, I nearly stepped on a hand. It looked like a Halloween prop, but it was a human hand. Off the road to the right were six dead Iraqi soldiers. They were all recognizable as men. One wore a red and white head wrap. His right hand was missing.

The whole scene was unsettling. Bodies and body parts lifeless on the sand. Others charred black and unrecognizable. The vision brought to my lubricated mind an Edgar Lee Masters quote -

"Stranger! Tell the people of Spoon River two things:
First, that we lie here, obeying their words;
And next, that had we known what was back of their words
We should not be lying here!"

How many times in history were soldiers sent off by leaders who withheld the truth, twisted the truth, or totally ignored the truth? I again toasted soldiers, ours and theirs. Then I gulped a mouthful of beer six. That was the last clear memory of my shower.

The following morning, mysteriously only three bottles remained in the case and not so mysteriously, I felt awful. Details of that day after are item three on my 'Hangovers' list.