trunks. They stacked their bags against a section of wall so the GMVs could pass through and then the buses backed out, navigated the switchbacks in reverse, and sped off.
âWalk it out,â their CO called out. âBriefing roomâs got a green ChemLight, war room blue, phones and computers yellow. Tents are red. Anything without a light is a shitter. Iâll check on the chow. Briefing room at 0530.â
Their CO was tall and dark-haired. He had a sharp face with angles that could cut a hand. His mind was tireless and quick, and he didnât sleep much. He couldnât stand still or grow a beard the way he wanted, so he grew the hair on his head to his shoulders and kept his face shaved close. Never one to comb his hair, he embraced the mad-scientist look but was handsome enough to be in a boy band. He never doubted his menâs decisions or let anyone else take the fall for a fuckup. The men loved him and would do anything he asked.
It was 0500 hours when the buses had offloaded the men, and their bags and the sun had already begun softening the dark. The men didnât need headlamps since they could see by the sun preparing to jump from beneath the horizon. Shaw grabbed his hop bag and ruck and followed Hagan and Massey down a wooden walkway to the last tent with a red ChemLight taped to the door handle. Four tin shacks without lights sat opposite the four tents with red ChemLights. A bathroom opposite each tentâfour ribs on either side of the wooden walkway sternum. Cooke got to the door of the tent first. He opened the handle and stepped into a fridge. The tents were air-conditioned and running full blast. Years ago theyâd land somewhere and have to carve out living quarters in rock or dirt and sleep in the holes theyâd dug. Their beds were mounds of dirt and sweat-stained rock. Now they had climate-controlled tents. They were certainly winning the war of comfort.
Hagan danced the length of the tent with his hop bag cradled around his shoulder like a girl heâd decided to fireman-carry. He moved his feet gracefully over the wood floors and each step kicked up a small cloud of dust that vanished in the dark of the tent. He threw his bag on the top bunk of a set in the right corner and Massey took the bed next to Shaw, and Dalonna and Cooke spread out along the opposite wall. The men put their hop bags on the top bunks and unrolled sleeping bags and blankets on the bottoms.
âLetâs find some bottles,â Hagan shouted.
Pissing outside when the temperatures would stay above the century mark for another few weeks was frowned upon. The sun would bake the tin-shack shitters into ovens, so the men used empty bottles. Empty Gatorade ones were a favorite for the large mouth. Bowel movements demanded tolerance for the shit ovens or well-timed breaks during the dark hours.
âThatâs fine,â Dalonna said. âBut take that shit outside every morning. Last hop I grabbed for some water and drank someone elseâs dip spit or piss. I donât want to know which it was.â The guys laughed and Dalonna turned around to a whiteboard nailed to the door of the tent. It had black lines taped in a grid pattern. âIâm serious. It was sick.â
Dalonna wrote their names in the empty column on the left with a marker tied to the board with a white string. Theyâd mark an
x
under the column where they were at all times. Shitters. War room. Briefing room. Gym. Chow hall. Phones. The range.
Shaw grabbed his baseball glove from his hop bag and threw it on his bed. It was ashy black and beautiful, the gloss faded from a decade of sun and dirt and being broken in under the tires of Humvees. It fit like a surgical glove. The ball practically hit his bare palm. Massey threw his on his bed, too. It was a ratty brown, dried-up nightmare. Shawâs fingers nearly bled just looking at the sharp edges and frayed straps around the mitt.
âDid your dad
âWalk it out,â their CO called out. âBriefing roomâs got a green ChemLight, war room blue, phones and computers yellow. Tents are red. Anything without a light is a shitter. Iâll check on the chow. Briefing room at 0530.â
Their CO was tall and dark-haired. He had a sharp face with angles that could cut a hand. His mind was tireless and quick, and he didnât sleep much. He couldnât stand still or grow a beard the way he wanted, so he grew the hair on his head to his shoulders and kept his face shaved close. Never one to comb his hair, he embraced the mad-scientist look but was handsome enough to be in a boy band. He never doubted his menâs decisions or let anyone else take the fall for a fuckup. The men loved him and would do anything he asked.
It was 0500 hours when the buses had offloaded the men, and their bags and the sun had already begun softening the dark. The men didnât need headlamps since they could see by the sun preparing to jump from beneath the horizon. Shaw grabbed his hop bag and ruck and followed Hagan and Massey down a wooden walkway to the last tent with a red ChemLight taped to the door handle. Four tin shacks without lights sat opposite the four tents with red ChemLights. A bathroom opposite each tentâfour ribs on either side of the wooden walkway sternum. Cooke got to the door of the tent first. He opened the handle and stepped into a fridge. The tents were air-conditioned and running full blast. Years ago theyâd land somewhere and have to carve out living quarters in rock or dirt and sleep in the holes theyâd dug. Their beds were mounds of dirt and sweat-stained rock. Now they had climate-controlled tents. They were certainly winning the war of comfort.
Hagan danced the length of the tent with his hop bag cradled around his shoulder like a girl heâd decided to fireman-carry. He moved his feet gracefully over the wood floors and each step kicked up a small cloud of dust that vanished in the dark of the tent. He threw his bag on the top bunk of a set in the right corner and Massey took the bed next to Shaw, and Dalonna and Cooke spread out along the opposite wall. The men put their hop bags on the top bunks and unrolled sleeping bags and blankets on the bottoms.
âLetâs find some bottles,â Hagan shouted.
Pissing outside when the temperatures would stay above the century mark for another few weeks was frowned upon. The sun would bake the tin-shack shitters into ovens, so the men used empty bottles. Empty Gatorade ones were a favorite for the large mouth. Bowel movements demanded tolerance for the shit ovens or well-timed breaks during the dark hours.
âThatâs fine,â Dalonna said. âBut take that shit outside every morning. Last hop I grabbed for some water and drank someone elseâs dip spit or piss. I donât want to know which it was.â The guys laughed and Dalonna turned around to a whiteboard nailed to the door of the tent. It had black lines taped in a grid pattern. âIâm serious. It was sick.â
Dalonna wrote their names in the empty column on the left with a marker tied to the board with a white string. Theyâd mark an
x
under the column where they were at all times. Shitters. War room. Briefing room. Gym. Chow hall. Phones. The range.
Shaw grabbed his baseball glove from his hop bag and threw it on his bed. It was ashy black and beautiful, the gloss faded from a decade of sun and dirt and being broken in under the tires of Humvees. It fit like a surgical glove. The ball practically hit his bare palm. Massey threw his on his bed, too. It was a ratty brown, dried-up nightmare. Shawâs fingers nearly bled just looking at the sharp edges and frayed straps around the mitt.
âDid your dad
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