1142 November 27, 2011
10 Strikes
1923 November 26, 2011: Standing on the back step-up of the MRAP smoking a cigarette staring into the setting sun. Or just to the right of it, actually. Two Afghani National Army soldiers 75 meters away cuddling with each other under a poncho liner. They are huddled together against the rear right tire of their uparmored Ford Ranger. It’s not cold out yet.
1950 November 26, 2011: Crackling over the radio. The Skipper. Buttoning up for the nautical twilight. This is when shit gets squirrely. I yell over to the two faggots. They are giggling and I don’t see any hands. I get their attention. Try to motion them into their vehicle. They don’t go.
2046 November 26, 2011: The first mortar drops in. I hear the whistling and the hairs on my arms stand straight up like needles. I feel the overpressure from the explosion before I hear the blast. Terrifying. Nothing scares me like mortars. Sounded about 75 meters to the North of our MRAP. Then the rain comes pouring in. Mortars.
2102 November 26, 2011: I run, faster than I ever have run in my life, to our COC MRAP a hundred meters to our South. Mortars are dropping all around. I explode through the back hatch and dive into the rear of the vehicle landing across L’s and V’s laps. We are staring at an ISR video feed of the scumbnag motherfuckers dropping the rounds. They are about 500 meters away and protected from direct fire by a small defilade.
2112 November 26, 2011: Artillary and close air support was denied by Major C, our taskforce commander. We have video evidence of the three HVIs running splash on us. Major C says they are planting turnips. He’s a fucking goddamned pussy. I hope that he gets killed. If we die out here, our blood is on his soul. We wait.
2347 November 26, 2011: Silence. I hear an MRAP hatch creak open in the night. Then water hitting the hard, packed earth. Somone is pissing out the back of their truck. L is sleeping. V is still glued to the ISR. Now he’s watching video feeds from a couple of villages over. A shepherd is fucking a sheep outside of his home while his family is in the walled in yard on the opposite side. I light a cigarette and walk back to my truck. New topography.
0700 November 27, 2011: I awaken at the sound of an explosion. Afghani faggot number 1's pink mist is still settling to the ground as I look outside to see what happened. Goddamned IED. Vaporized. If you’ve never seen a body vaporized, it’s pink mist. I sit up in the turret and watch the usual bullshit unfold. Open an MRE and eat breakfast. Spaghetti. Fitting.
1140 November 27, 2011: We fire up the trucks.
1142 November 27, 2011: Flash of light! Silence. Eternity. I’m running through cornfields and my father is chasing me. I’m giggling. He’s grinning. I’m 8. I can smell the wet, dark earth crumbling beneith my feet as I run. It must have just rained. Then, kaBOOOOOOM!!! I fly straight up and smash into the ceiling of my MRAP. But it’s not the ceiling, it’s the floor. We must have flipped and I can’t move my body. I’m pinned down and can’t breathe and I can’t see and something’s on fire and I’m so tired I can’t keep my eyes open. And I sleep.
They call me 10 Strikes.
