The band had been playing there during lunch too and before I walked out, I stood near them, waiting for a break in the music. When it came, I spoke up, "Hey, I just wanted to thank you guys for coming down here."

I could tell by their reactions that they do not hear this often and the staff sergeant stood up from his chair as a matter of military protocol, he being the ranking soldier. "Thank you, sir," he replied.

"How long do we have you guys for?" I asked.

"We will be back for dinner, sir, and then leave after that," he answered.

I nodded, looking at each of them and smiling, "Well I just want to say I really appreciate you all being here."

A few of them smiled back at me and the sergeant said, "Thank you, sir," and sat back down as I walked away.

Now I was sitting on the far end of the room alone, drinking my coffee. There were a few soldiers sitting at the long table between myself and the band. It was after 7 p.m. and the rooms were beginning to quiet as the soldiers left one by one. Most seemed to pay no regard to the band at all.

Occasionally, soldiers would walk by and say, "Oh, hey sir," or, "Oh, hello sir," each appearing surprised by my sitting there alone. It being such a small FOB, everyone knows who everyone is.

The song after "Killing Me Softly" was "Don't Worry, Be Happy." It made me laugh, sitting there thinking of that song in a place like this. I began to imagine how a person like Weird Al Yankovic might rewrite the lyrics just for us out here in a combat zone:

"Medic says you don't look great, we may have to am-putate. Don't worry, be happy."

I shook my head, smirking to myself. Don't worry, be happy I thought, still shaking my head

There were only a few soldiers left now and the band played on, the loud indifferent voices becoming fewer. I do not know the name of the next piece but it was classical and it reminded me of Peter and the Wolf because of the varying tempo and because each instrument took turns. As if on cue for the music, a mouse peeked his head out of the gap at the base of the plywood wall. Like it had been rehearsed, he darted across the dusty passageway floor and then waited, darted and waited, and systematically he went through his no doubt nightly routine of scavenging beneath the tables. Meanwhile, the music lent drama to his movements, as if it were all choreographed to be so. I only narrowly avoided laughing out loud at the thought as I watched him.

The next two songs were sad and sweet and I sat staring at the wall on the other side of the table. I knew that my daydreams of lyrical parodies and choreographed mice were actually only diversions I created to avoid the way the music really made me feel.

The few soldiers who were left did not appear to be listening. It was only me and I wondered if the musicians had noticed me sitting there and remembered me from lunch. I began to imagine the room were dark. I could sit there, at the far end of the room in the dark, I thought, because we can be ourselves in the dark. I could be myself.

After a while, the melody of the music was just too powerful and sweet and I couldn't take it anymore. I had held onto it as long as I could, like a boy holds onto an electric fence -- just to feel it. I walked outside, and I heard the wooden door slam behind me just as the song was ending. Out in the dark, the moon was on my side, and so, was hiding too. The air was cool and I took in deep breaths as I walked back slowly to my tent trying not to be myself. I gathered up Capt. Leonard somewhere in the shadows at the front of our tent and became him again, as best I could.

It wasn't long before PFC Graham came in. I had spoken with him before. He is a very large, muscular soldier who probably weighs well over 250 pounds. He is well-spoken and articulate. He played football in college and was an offensive lineman. He is an infantryman here and is a turret gunner. He looks like the guy you'd see crashing through walls at a tough-man contest in some sports bar somewhere. His primary concern is that he cries sometimes when he is alone.

"What sort of things are making you cry?" I asked.

"Stupid stuff, like sad movies and music. There will be a sad part in some movie and I will just start crying," he said, and then laughed at himself. "Shouldn't I just be able to turn that off? You know, since I'm here?" he asked.

"Well, what do you do at home?" I replied.

"At home?" he asked, a little confused.

"You told me before that you have a girlfriend at home right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, would you say you have a sentimental side of yourself that you share with her? I mean, do you share your feelings with her?"

"Yes, sir, I do. But that's just it. She's not here, so shouldn't I just be able to shut that off?"

I smiled, secretly resisting the urge to laugh. "If you have a sensitive side at home why would you be surprised by that side of yourself here?"

"I guess your right, sir," he replied, smiling.

"I mean, she might be glad you show that side of yourself to her, but you're not faking it are you?"

He laughed, "No, sir."

"You didn't create this side of yourself just for her, right? It's just another side of your personality?"

He nodded, tipping his head sideways as if to suggest that my words made sense. Then he added, "I mean, no one else here knows this stuff. They would never guess, I don't think. I've always been alone when it has happened. And when I go outside the wire, I got my game on."

"I have no doubt about that," I assured him. "Do you have total privacy when you have these moments?"

"Oh yah, I am in my room and no one can hear me or see me."

"I think there is nothing wrong with that as long as you are still doing your job. In fact, it's probably healthy." He paused for a moment looking at me. Then I added, "Look, you are still the person you were at home and you can't change that just because you are here. Your life was something you created. Know what I mean?" He tilted his head a little and squinted slightly, as if not sure what I was saying. "You divided your time, yourself, in a way you chose, right? Your friends, your girlfriend, family, work, each one allowing you to be yourself in a different way. It was a balance you created in your life. We all had those different facets to our life at home so why should we think it's weird that someone can't be 100% soldier, all the time here, with no break? Like the 'other yous' never existed at all? Like we are supposed to be action heroes or characters in a movie." I paused and then added, "At home, you had outlets for these feelings so it came out a little at a time. Here, not so much."

He nodded his head in agreement.

I told him that guys like him, guys that look like him, in some ways have it harder than other guys. People expect guys who look like him to be tough, and there is no doubt that he is. But people confuse toughness with emotional detachment. I also pointed out to him that the subcultures he has been involved with throughout his life -- football, the Army, the infantry -- tend to discourage emotions even further than our larger culture. I told him another subculture, like, let's say, a bunch of Goths at a poetry club, might not view his feelings as a weakness. He laughed.

I told him that there are guys who can "turn it off" but in truth, for most of them it was never even "on" to begin with. They just don't feel it or have detached themselves so much all of their lives they are just emotionally numb. I told him that being emotionally available may someday make him a great husband and father and that relationships and marriages dissolve all the time over emotionally inaccessible men. I told him that this was a strength, not a weakness.

Here is what I think about PFC Graham. I do not believe he is unusual -- unusually honest, perhaps, but not unusual. The way I see it, this soldier, he is truth. He embodies it. Not the truth you think you see, not the photos of the guns and machines, but the expression of a heart in a man. He is truth because he is irony and anomaly, and this anomaly is the exhaustion of a lie. He is not what you told him to be -- what you thought he was or should be. Instead, he is truth, he is real, he is far more than any photograph could ever tell.

All of our heroes, our supermen, they hide faces we do not see. Sometimes when they see themselves, they are frightened by this stranger. I see them here. They have nowhere to run and too much time to know themselves. I see myself too, like the rest, finding places to hide where I can but unable to stay hidden from myself.