3
The girl sat across the wooden table from Kee in the mess tent, shoveling it down as if she’d never seen food before. Someone had set her up with a mounded plate. Fries and sausage. Eggs and toast. Two pancakes and a hot dog complete with mustard, ketchup, and relish.
There were fliers who wanted breakfast in the morning, others wanted dinner when they finished their night’s flying. The girl was working her way through both.
Kee tried talking to her, but her Pashto sucked. Big time sucked. Okay, beyond that. She could say “Thank you” two tries out of three. She had Los Angeles street Spanish, mostly too foul to use in public, picked up bits of Mandarin from the Chinese Tong gangs, learned Japanese and Korean after she’d joined the Army, but Pashto, Farsi, Urdu, Russian… nope.
She’d r
