Operation Enduring Fashion

Womens Wear Daily reporter Bruce Plushton embeds

0700

In Iraq, fashion meets its greatest challenge: this is a country bereft of alcohol and colorful homosexuals. Women's Wear Daily has sent me here to try to answer the questions "Is there style in war?" and "War: In or Out?" The answers to these two questions, my brief exposure to the troops leads me to believe, are "No" and "Out": everyone here, it seems, has fallen prey to the unimaginative, unstructured look of camouflage. Camo, camo, camo—Jean Paul Gaultier and Marc Jacobs sent this stuff down their runways two years ago. Talk about derivative! These people aren't referencing a look, they're color-Xeroxing it. I have issues with government issues.

Out on the tennis court of the Kuwait Hilton, one of the officers who are giving me and the other journalist "embeds" our training hands me my camos and then asks me, "What's your name, son?"

"Bruce Plushton."

"What publication you with, Bruce?"

"WWD.," I mumble, hoping the abbreviation sounds butch, and possibly related to wrestling.

"You don't look too thrilled about the uniform."

"Well, I don't love it—love it—love it," I confess, fingering the dun-colored mass and imagining it in another fabric, like shantung or shirred georgette. Every garment tells a story, and the story these are telling is: I Know No Dry Cleaners.

"This gonna be a problem?" the officer asks.

"No, sir," I say. "I will Iraquiesce."

I don the fatigues, but not before accessorizing with black Armani underwear, a Hugo Boss belt, and Prada boots. You say olive drab, I say olive fab.

1300

O, Style, where are you? (O, la mode, oil etes-vous?) One of the biggest improvements in combat gear in recent years, I'm told, is our soldiers' night-vision equipment. I'm shown an illustration of the PVS-14 night-vision goggles, which mount wittily on a Kevlar helmet and greatly intensify ambient light. The illustration is not without promise. (Ce nest pas sans promise.) Indeed, it occurs to me that maybe night-vision goggles are the little black dress of warfare—they take you from day into evening. But suddenly I need to see the goggles on a soldier, so I jump in a Jeep, drive for a few hours (idea for fragrance: Sandstorm. "Sandstorm ... The future is unseeable"), and find the 101st Airborne Division on the outskirts of Baghdad. I gaze diagnostically at a recruit and his goggles. Are they stylish? No, they are insectoid. Are they tres a la mode? Only if your mode is houseflies.

Another stirring example of "Plus ga change."

1635

I scurry amidst the 101st, who are skirmishing with the Republican Guard, and ask various recruits if they think it's possible to be stylish during warfare. They seem distracted, un-

willing to talk. One becomes quite irritated by my presence, so I get huffy right back at him. He gets more irritated; I get huffier. Finally, he asks me to leave, causing me to snap, "A little Botox would do wonders for all those screw-toppy frown lines on your brow, darling! Maybe then they wouldn't call you a jarhead!"

2134

The assignment is taking its toll on me. I have become bitchier, and no one thought that was possible. I need Evian, sushi, track lighting. I walk into the canteen and fall into conversation with a corporal who is appalled by my assignment, not to mention my glibness. He thinks I am belittling the extremely noble and generous efforts of my country's servicemen. Suddenly I'm sobbing. He's right: I'm a big bitch. I'm as shallow as glass. I feel awful.

I apologize to the corporal; I plead mea culpa. His response surprises me: "To tell you the truth, I'm of the opinion that embedding and the constant broadcasting of war make war banal. It trivializes it." I nod my head. He continues, "But you're not a trivializer, Bruce. You're just someone who needs to have a licensed professional sit him down and tell him all about lithium."

"Thank you, sir," I say, moved. "You're very generous."

"Anything for my country."

HENRY ALFORD