The pound of the wheels turning and mashing in my head, the gears that need a little greasing along with some much deserved rest, are starting to slow, crack, and fall apart. The machine is off track. Time is ticking away. The only sanity to fill the void, the light at the end of the tunnel. One month. The one month that is close enough in the end of the tunnel to allow that little sliver of light to shown through. No matter the shadows that try and block it out, and the insanity, the meshing of gears that slow the machines process down, the turn of the wheels is slowing, but reaching for that light, so far, and so close.
It couldn't have come at a better time, the light at the end of the tunnel. It's the dive up the middle on fourth and one for pay dirt. It's the double play inducing ground ball. It's the only thing that can be a positive out of so much negative. The light that shows through, salvation. You just hope it's not a train. But it wouldn't surprise you would it? The anti-d's are gone. No more, and their coat of armor had been a savior to the sharp arrows that could not penetrate it. Now they just hit the heart, the brain. Twisting and turning themselves, furthering your agony. Don't pull out the burs though. You are only asking for the worst pain if you are to do that. Don't challenge the pain, no matter how stupid it is, just take the arrows and drive on.
It's not the war that's the stressful part. That is the easy part. Do what you have to, to survive. You play all the common sense cards, and fold the stupid ones. It's what you know, what you've trained for. The manner in the way we have to operate is still confusing, and along that discard pile you made earlier, but like smelling the bullshit long enough, you stop smelling it after awhile. So why can't I stop smelling all of it?
The quick answer, you don't deserve it that clean. That's the easy route, one I can't take, and one I won't give you the option to. If you want to go down this path with me, this isn't the meadow, flower littered, sunshine filled path two the left in the fork of the road, this is the dark, circular, muddy, path that's closed in by darkness and dead trees. That's the path I'm on, and now you are too. Walking down this path, no ones going to hold your hand, or dry your tears. It's my private hell, and I share it with you here.
The masking of smells is an art. You can adapt to one cows shit or even an entire herds smell, but imagine every different type of livestock crapping all over your boots, and the crapping on you when you try and clean them. The smell is pungent, overwhelming, disgusting and furthermore, grotesque. So many different herds have shat upon us, that at least for the clean, it's hard not to block out the smell. I fail as a masking of smells artist. A bullshit adapter. At least to some degree, I'm good, but past that, the gears fight to turn, to think and prove to myself, make me believe that people are better than this, that they aren't this selfish, this ignorant, this apathetic. That I should still have faith in men. But the bullshit piles up, and fills every void between the gears, slowing the turning, breaking the machine, breaking me. The light in the tunnel, the only hope, the only reminder that all things must end. Oh shit, it's a fucking train.
We are in Iraq. This is not a safe place. Sure the number of people dying, US forces is way down. That because we don't leave our bases anymore. It doesn't mean that this place has turned into Disneyland. There is still a threat, and it is very real. The enemy doesn't care that we are almost out of here, that our time is almost up here. That we are leaving, he's still going to try and kill us. But it's only 1500 meters. That's the excuse they use, the selfish excuse they use to put us in harms way so that they can sleep in their own beds. 1500 meters. It's the same goddamn route, every time, at the same time. Not to hard to figure out. Not too mention there have been times when we have been attacked right outside where we enter and exit our base at! But it's only 1500 meters. I know why you want to sleep in your room, so you can enjoy your jacuzzi.
It's amazing that people can have such accommodations, and such luxuries in a war zone, while others starve, and sweat, and die. It's amazing that an individual can sleep in the size of a room that could incorporate the entire COP 763, where a whole company of soldier live. I understand that the front line soldiers are not going to have the same luxuries that supply bases are going to have. But these are not more than a 15 minute drive away from each other. And yet, cold drinks, plenty of food, and jacuzzi's are all part of the scene. The good life, the flagpole life.
Priorities continue to be in line though we see. Endanger your own troops lives for selfish motives. Check. Spend tons of money, time, and resources into making your room more comfortable than that of a stay at a Suite in Caesar's Palace. Check. Starve, and sweat those who have worked hard and lost comrades for no good reason. Check. Run six miles in a formation at midnight, as a punishment with no backing laurels, and as complete endangerment to the lives of many. Check. I think we can consider that hazing. So you can put a check next to the priority of being hypocritical. What are we missing here? Is it, figure out at least a month prior when all your guys will be on the ground back in the states? Is it, figure out where the likes of the 'Misfits' are going to be in a week, two weeks, a month? Is it perhaps worrying about, and giving every asset available to the guys on the ground in a not just to look good for myself, but to help protect the guys who are serving under me? No, that can wait. Oh yea, I remember, next thing on the list, the Battalion Ball. Yes, the Battalion Ball. A Ball, like the one Cinde-Fuckin-Rella went to. Only no pumpkin or glass slipper.
Yes, we are not out of Iraq, we have no idea what's going on today, tomorrow, next week, or the week after, but sure as shit the Battalion Ball, an event that will not take place probably till the first week in December (there is already a date set, but I care not to waste my time looking up when they've planned it), is planned backward and forward. Ashamed, I never thought I would be of such an illustrious unit, with so much history and even going back to the deployment of 06-07 in Samarra, had done such a stellar job. It's job at Katrina the year before, excellent. And this deployment... I wish I could say that I am proud of the job this battalion has done here, but I can't imagine ever saying that. I have no unit pride. I know my platoon has done an excellent job here, and I can take pride in AT4, the 'Misfits.'
The grinding continues, the smoke rises, the ashes fall. The confusion spreads. The shocking becomes less and less shocking. That train runs over you, and you see the light again hopefully. Your face, bruised and battered, eyes swelling shut. Hold on for just a little longer. Prop your eye lids open, and see that sliver of light at the end of this tunnel. The verge of frenzy, feeding on the stupidity, the inhumanity, the arrogance. Don't blink, that candle light might extinguish. No more light, pitch black. The darkest hour is upon you, so please don't blink.
They found out some of the Federal Police counterparts are 'corrupt' ....NO SHIT SHERLOCK. CARRY THE ONE DOUCHE BAG!
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