It's been 13 years since I went to the Sandbox, and my connection to it distorts with time, twisting like tendrils of smoke. War is many things — hell, famously, being one of them — but it has a certain primal rhythm.

I like rhythm, or recognize it at least, which is more than I can say for the many events that transpire in this world. Perhaps that's why I like smoking pipes; there's a rhythm that transcends each moment, a necessary cadence sustaining the fire within. A bit like life, really.

Emotions surge, unbidden. Puff. Memories wax ominous. Puff.

...there's a rhythm that transcends each moment, a necessary cadence sustaining the fire within.

For eight months, I woke every morning to a menacing rhythm. A Two-Forty-Bravo is a heavy staccato, faster than even my most overzealous puffing. In the pre-dawn light, about 50 feet away from my bunk, the outgoing patrols test-fire their weapons. A Squad Automatic Weapon is smaller and faster than the 240B, like a Dunhill Group 2 Pot versus an ODA Billiard.

The rhythm becomes tangled and too fast. I take a deep breath, then practice smoke rings. Puff. Not too close together; it doesn't work. I let one linger before I try the next, and my pulse slows. Echoes of the devil's alarm clock mellow, and I let my chair rock a little.

They say that a combat tour is months of boredom punctuated by minutes of terror. That's a bad rhythm. An M2 Bravo is a .50 caliber machine gun, the big boy, slower rate of fire, booming, comforting. An Ardor Giant? That's what was mounted on my truck. GUH-GUH-GUH. My heart accelerates at the remembered sound. Too fast again.

I was told that you have to manage the rhythm. Activate your autonomic nervous system to mellow out. The words float upward and I draw them in with a fresh breath from my pipe, hold them in, considering both. Puff-hold.

Tactical breathing is practiced by warfighters and emergency responders. Inhale slowly, four seconds, hold four, exhale four, hold four. The smoke drifts toward my porch roof. It's a better rhythm than a .50 Cal. A slight breeze catches the smoke and it dissolves. It seems a good end to the smoke, a peaceful melding with nature.

Days have rhythm, even the worst ones. Like pipes. I stare at the Tigris river, the lifeblood of Iraq, trying to process the days' events. Then I try not to. I want that bowl to be over, the fire in it to go out. But I keep going. Puff. I am back on my porch, my world confined to the feeble glow of my pipe. I give it a couple of desperate pulls, drawing air through it, the simple act keeping the glow, and me, alive.

Days have rhythm, even the worst ones. Like pipes.

My pipe heats in my hand, unable to adequately control the blaze I am creating, just as my mind struggles to contain the fire of memories best forgotten. The rhythm is wrong, and I correct it, consciously inhaling through my nose as I draw a gentler flow of air through the tobacco.

There we go. I realize my chair is no longer rocking and give a gentle push. Sip. Rock. Sip. The crisp night air mingles with the smell of maple topping, and it smells good. Puff. Burning trash smells terrible, war much worse. Adrenaline surges. Puff. Rock.

The wind stirs, and I subconsciously duck my head. Helicopter blades beat the air. You have to duck your head when you walk to the bird. No one wants their fire to go out like that. WHMP-WHMP-WHMP. The blades spin fast, but somehow the concussion of air comes in a slow, steady rhythm. Puff. Rock. WHMP.

A helicopter can take you to safety or the opposite. My cadence is off, and my pipe is failing. I hastily relight, welcoming the glow of my lighter's flame. Flick. Puff. Puff. The light ruins my night vision. I see flares exploding from the back of a Chinook. The back ramp is open to the night air, making the fireworks the only thing I see. The Crewmaster is yelling, "Missile inbound!" The aircraft shakes and banks back and forth, adding evasive maneuvers to the flares. I wonder if he meant RPG. I wonder if I am about to die.

I am rocking far too fast now, one hand gripping the smooth armrest of my chair, the other crushing the bowl of my favorite Dublin. The plateau of the rim digs into my hand, reminding me of the present. My breath sticks in my throat, my heart along with it. Rock-rock-rock. I focus on the pipe; it needs me. I draw through it and am rewarded with a little smoke. Not enough. I focus on the rhythm, trying to get it going again without my lighter. Puff. Rock. Puff.

My patience is rewarded and the flow of smoke resumes. Four in, hold, four out. Tendrils of smoke trickle upward with the retrohale. I examine my pipe's grain in the dim light, marveling at the striations that are both uniform and different, each precious, each unique. Like lives.

My patience is rewarded and the flow of smoke resumes.

Memories get stuck. That's what they say. It takes a rhythm to get them unstuck, a certain back-and-forth therapy called Eye-Movement-Desensitization-Reprocessing. I have benefited from this treatment but wonder if I have found a variant. Puff. Rock. Think.

My bowl nears its conclusion, the ashes of my porch-adventure a cooling remnant in the pipe's chamber. I feel loss at the memory of fires that will never rekindle. I refuse to surrender to the encroaching darkness. I empty the troubling thoughts from my mind with the ashes from my pipe and refill.

Flick. Puff. Puff. The lighter's flame is the only fire I see this time. Rock. Puff. Afternoon Delight is the only thing I smell now. Puff. Beautiful grain is the only thing I see now. Puff. Calm is the only thing I feel now. Puff. It's a good rhythm. The rhythm of solace.