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and i'm still up. just lying rigid on my bed and it's very dark because the electricians haven't hard-wired the light fixtures yet.
i get up - using my maglight - navigating past chairs and shoes and electrical wiring that's strewn across the floor.
the beam of light forges a small trail in the quiet night...
...and the Lt. calls the convoy into a herring bone.
we pull off the road in a zig-zag pattern. find micro-terrain and write up a firewatch list.
i get first watch.
my .50 cal is loaded with tungsten rounds. they are silver, pointed mean, and look like aluminum. but they are strong as fuck and have been rumored to tear through several mudhuts before loosing momentum and imbeding themselves in the nearest lump of flesh.
i put on my night-vision goggles.
they suck.
none of this perfect green digital shit you've seen in the movies. but grainy and heavy, leaving their mark on the bridge of your nose.
i scan the area.
hundreds, maybe thousands of humvees and 5-tons line the road as far as these shitty NVGs can see.
tracers move through the sky in slow-motion. seconds later a machine-gun's staccato echoes miles away.
but i scan and see the Marines and Corpsman mull about their vehicles, smoking cigarettes and eating MRE's.
a bright ball of light grows brighter as a Marine takes a drag from his smoke.
it's eerie. especially since it's very quiet. all these men and machines - from texas to cali to new york - move instinctually, like racoons in the night.
muscle memory. hard-wired from our days wandering the African plains - prey to lions and rival clans.
but we are tired. days without sleep. and it comes to me while i'm on watch. my head bobs, droops, then - SPLAT - my forehead lands sqaurely atop the butterfly trigger of the .50.
it hurts, but i don't feel it.
i accept it.
pain.
in fact, i'm glad it happened - my sleep is temporarily staved off, thus keeping me more alert.
suddenly the mexican relieves me - late of course, but whaddya gonna do?
i tell him everything is all clear.
i didn't see shit.
these are my lines of fire.
this is the ammo.
make radio-checks every 20-minutes.
and you are to be relieved by the driver in one hour, but it'll be dawn soon, so keep alert.
this done, i step off the hummer. i don't give a shit what i'm wearing or if i've brushed my teeth or even washed my face.
i want sleep. and that makes me happy - just the thought of it. i know it won't be a long sleep. perhaps a few hours and then we'll push on, but it's sleep nonetheless.
i curl on the hood, use my helmet as a pillow and the cold night does not hinder my intentions.
i fall asleep quick.
then i'm woken up.
it's the Lt.
'we gotta dig a fighting hole,' he says.
i argue, but he's a smart guy, so i follow orders. grab a shovel and start digging. it's very half-assed - again, i just don't care.
i just don't care if artillery rains in and kills me right this very instant.
I NEED SLEEP!
i embrace every second my eyelids cover my eyeballs.
he sees me dig and jumps in and helps. although it's nearly freezing we take off our shirts - the action of digging being very labor intensive. sweat rolls down our faces, beads at the nose, and falls.
we talk. i forget the details, but i remember the sight.
me and the Lt., the moonlight falling over our shoulders, the shovels slicing into the water-table, my shotgun slung over my back, the men and machines - silent as raccoons.
we share a smoke. i can see his eyes when he takes a drag and they're gone. he's in another world. operating on a level only seen in combat or concentration camps.
we dig chest deep and my adrenilin is going and the Lt. tells me to hit the rack.
' roger that, Sir,' i say sotto voce.
this time i take off my boots and the smell emanating from my feet is foul, but the cold air feels good on them, so i endure.
grab my poncho liner and wrap myself in it like a child.
breathing deeply and closing my eyes - but the sleep wasn't there this time.
the boy who cried wolf, i guess.
so i lay still, embrace my shotgun and exhale as the sun rises over the marsh.
