The pack isn’t getting any lighter, and the hayseed it belongs to won’t shut the fuck up.
The redneck drones on and on about God knows what. Derrick had long since tuned him out, especially after he had started hauling the man’s bag for him. If Derrick hadn’t taken it when he did, the entire group would have lost ground, and he had to get them back in time. He spares a moment to glance at his watch. 12:15. Forty five minutes to his promised 1 p.m. conclusion. If they keep up this pace they should make it.
The command post is packed with the junior leadership teams from both Bravo companies.
That’s how the higher ups had decided to match them for the duration of the transition period, by their phonetic alphabet designators. So Alpha Company of this battalion matched with Alpha of that battalion, and so on and so forth, until the entire 1st Cavalry Division and 3rd Infantry Division had counterparts with which they would learn from over the next four weeks.
Four weeks. Incredibly close and impossibly far away. Now is when the nerves reemerge. He can see it, and if he can’t see it he could sense it amongst his men, his fellow platoon leader’s men, everyone who had been on Forward Operating Base War Eagle for the last eleven months. Hell, he felt them. Four weeks left until their one year deployment was over, thirty days and a wake up until they could catch that big, beautiful bitch (also known as a civilian airliner) home to the states. More specifically, home to Texas, the land of Shiner Bock, twelve hour smoked brisket, and all the blonde hair, blue eyed University of Texas co-eds one could hope for packed onto a little strip of debauchery known as Austin’s Sixth Street. He can’t wait to get there, but he also can’t stand the thought of buying the farm now, not when they were so close. It keeps him up almost every night, at least on the nights that sheer exhaustion doesn’t force him asleep. He lies awake praying, no begging God to let the men of Bandit Company, himself included get home alive and unharmed. Just four weeks to go.
A man is on his knees, sitting back on his heels.
Is he even still a man? Somewhere far off he believes he is, once upon a time he knew he was. Now, in this moment, he’s not so sure. There isn’t much to corroborate. It is dark around him, cloudy, with a violent swirling that obscures everything beyond, like being inside a sandstorm. Yet, nothing pelts him, the wind isn’t roaring. There is just silence, strange and disconcerting given what his eyes present. It causes him to cast them down, not for the first time, certainly more so recently, and he knows not for the last.