Incoming.

Surreal. When the absurd is the norm.

"When during a mortar attack and the staff has left, please do not go behind the counter and server yourself."

-sign posted inside the FOB Rustamiyah Dining Facility

WHOMP WHOMP WHOMP - - INCOMING INCOMING -- WHOMP WHOMP WHOMP -- INCOMING INCOMING

Lying in bed, my heart stops mid-beat in order that my ears hear better. Am I in danger? No. Are my men in danger, true concern. GET INSIDE. GET DOWN. BOOM. (DON'T DIE. PLEASE DON'T DIE) And here's the flop. BOOM. Where will the 107mm rocket hit? Who/what will it choose? What impressions will it make?

I pass PVT M's face, peeking from a doorway - I see fear. PFC A's stutter searching to explain - I hear fear. My own heart strains - I feel fear. Its been awhile since that dread. I respect its power and I worship the instinct for survival it burns in me. 

Who is hurt, where are they? Can I get to them? What would I do if I did "get to them?"

GET IN. GET IN. GET IN, FUCKER (to PVT C) BOOM. Ear drum pops, heat on face. Close, maybe 50 meters. Fuck. 7 men in a 10x10 room. Never met, never will again.

Running with my men around a corner towards an undetermined safety. All are screaming/yelling, some just from the adrenaline. Myself now, for the hell of it. What a fucking rush.