Hatu

The special operations warriors segregated themselves from the rest of the soldiers in the DFAC.  “Deefak” is how everyone referred to the dining facility–the chow hall.  After only a matter of days in-country, it became apparent to all how to distinguish those who worked inside “the fence” from those who worked outside “the fence”.  These men worked outside the fence.  They weren’t necessarily more dedicated, or smarter, but they had always wanted to do what they were doing and happened to be good at it.  And they were dedicated.  And they were smart.

On the ceiling of the DFAC hung flags.  There were flags of the different nations of the world that were in the coalition of forces, and flags of the 50 states.

Suddenly, after a break in the conversation, one of the men spoke up.

“Hatu.  Huh, where’s that country?  It sounds familiar, but I can’t seem to place it.  South America?  Africa?” he asked.

“Definitely Africa,” chimed in one of the men more respected for his book knowledge.

“I don’t know,” said another.

“It doesn’t have an African ring to it.  I wouldn’t be surprised if it was in South America,” challenged a third.

Without the internet at their fingertips, the hard men were left with all the nuances of communication to determine who to believe–conviction in the voice, the tone of voice, facial expressions, and look of the eyes.  Lastly, all waited to see if somebody would wager that they were correct.  No one was so bold.

At last, all eyes found themselves gazing at the flag, trying to look for clues.  The stocky mustached reader finally broke the silence.

“Hatu.  Ha.  Morons.  It’s not Hatu, it’s Utah.  You just read it from the back side of the flag.”

In all caps, it was an easy mistake we suppose, but one that silenced this proud group of men for some time.

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4 comments

    • A Mugwump

      Truth be told, I just learned last year that you don’t need a passport to enter the state. For some reason, growing up in the Midwest, I had always been told to avoid the state…

      Like

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