Well, it's not yet 9am on this wonderful Saturday morning, and I'm already down a few beers and possibly a glass or two of whiskey. However, I've also already cleaned my room, unpacked my gear (to be cleaned), and done a couple loads of laundry, so I don't feel too bad about my drinking.
After getting off work yesterday around 1pm, I made it until about 6 before giving in to the sleep that was calling me. Evidently I woke up for a phone call or two, and long enough to downgrade from jeans and polo, but I don't remember any of that. I finally woke up on my own around 6:40 this morning. Anyway, I've had a little time to reflect on my life over the past two weeks.
That field problem was one of the worst experiences I've ever had. Without a doubt, that was one of the lowest points of my life. Allow me to explain.
I was out with my platoon, many of us humping around way more weight than is safe or reasonable, rucking from place to place over long distances. Day one, and everyone's feet, back, and knees were already crying out in pain... a great way to start. In addition, we were running on next to zero hours of sleep, a trend that would continue over the next week or so. So anyway, we set up a patrol base (woods camp with security) around 2:30 one morning, exhausted from rucking, and hastily set up our shit before attempting to sleep.
And then came the rain. Biblical motherfucking rain. Rain that plowed its way through our paltry hooches, through our "waterproof" bivouac bags, into our sleeping bags, clothes, and every ounce of gear in our ruck sacks. Into our very existence. There was nothing except for the rain, and us.
None of us were prepared for the giant shitstorm that crushed our souls over the next three days. No one escaped the rain, nor did any of our gear. Ever tried sleeping outside in 40 degrees of windy thunderstorm, in wet socks, wet uniform, a wet sleeping bag inside a wet bivvy sack, under a wet goddamn poncho? Well it's not very fucking comfortable. Attempting to get our allowed two-to-three hours of sleep per night in those conditions was, shall we say, absolutely and totally pointless.
I mentioned wet socks. I also mentioned that we were rucking everywhere we went... the curse of the light infantry. Well, as it turns out, soaked boots/socks/feet, when combined with long walks under heavy weight through sandy jungle, equals pain and misery. The soles of my feet will need some time to recover from that particular horror, and I didn't even have it as bad as some of the guys.
During the course of these events, I managed to get myself fired as the platoon's RTO (short for radio-telecommunications operator). That may sound like a bad thing. Let me assure you that is not the case. Why? Let me explain. First, I get to go back to a rifle squad, which means I get to bust down doors and shoot things/people again - the entire point of being an infantryman. Second, I no longer have to carry (or jump!) an extra thirty pounds of radio shit in my ruck sack. Third, I no longer answer directly to my glorious, brilliant platoon leader and incredibly friendly platoon sergeant, which is reward enough in and of itself. Fourth, I'm no longer responsible when the weather/location/equipment/company RTO/supply guys/commo gods/Satan conspire to provide poor communications capabilities.
God, I fucking hated that job. Words cannot express how excited I am to be back as regular Joe Douchebag, wielding an M4 against the evil Green Plastic Men who conspire for tactical and strategic control of our shoot houses. Or, if we ever deploy, against the hostile populace of whatever country we happen to invade that week.
Anyway. I'm drunk enough that I should stop writing, lest you people get more than you bargained for. I'm not getting paid for this, after all.
Carry on, you animals
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