Finally we arrive back at the FOB. The patrol wasn't exactly a short one, but neither was it a long one. A few of our squad stop outside our hooch and light up cigarettes (smoking isn't allowed on our patrols) and a faint smile appears on their otherwise weary faces as the nicotine slowly kicks in.
Inside our rooms the sound of equipment-laden flak vests hitting the floor can be heard as squad members shed their excess weight. To a member our uniforms are drenched in sweat to the point of looking as if we just removed them from the washer and put them on. The salt stains from the previous night's patrol are mixed with the stains from the patrols this morning and the one just now completed. We peel our sweat-soaked uniforms off with a difficulty that is a mix of aching bodies and our clothes having become a second skin. Some of us have sweat so much that even the leather in our boots is showing stains from salt...and on some a layer of wet sand clings to our feet.
Once we have changed into our PT's we start the post-mission ritual of tearing down our weapons to clean them before we can catch some much needed, yet never even caught, sleep. After a short time snore can be heard from some squad members who have fallen asleep with their rifles, in various states of disassembly, laying across their laps...
...I'll have a real post, and a brief run-down of WLC, within the next few days. At the moment I just wanted to get that narrative out of my head before I added references to our usual Hendrix vs. Vaughn debate.
Hope everyone is being safe.
~~~
No comments:
Post a Comment