Rifleman

The Morning

Distant cracks whistled I'm the cold eastern air, the bone killing silence stole my voice as I desperately crawled out of my pit. The warmth slither of the sun desperately thought it's way through the canvas tent. My sleeping bag dripping wet from the sweat of last night's nightmare still haunts my memory, the thoughts of what to come, of what may happen shoots my heart to near death.

As the cracks whistled closer, I brought the courage to swing my legs out my cosy cocoon and onto the bone shattering sharp stones that layed below my shoddy camp bed. My body aches from my first of many restless nights, fear of the unknown I neatened my bed and zipped open my windowless window.

My black bag still unpacked, uneasily laid in my lockee. Still fresh out of basic I proceed to unpack and neatly organise my locker, civis in a pile from trousers to tops, greens all hung, pressed and clean though starting to pinken on the trousers.

The scoff bell rung for miles, my first instinct were to rush for the door, only to be stopped by the fact I were stood there in nothing but my black boxers and pink slippers, before the RSM saw me I dived under my pit, cutting everywhere in the process. As the Afghan dust settled, I cautiously tried getting up only to get caught in some unsquared away Comms cord.

A brand new, unopened UBAC seemed a perfect match for clothing to be worn in the mess hall. CS95 trousers and broken-in magnum boots, all tied up my dress from the day. My first day in Afghanistan nothing can ruin it, so I paced out my tent, chest out, neck in the back of my collar, and chin up, proud as punch. Nothing could ruin this for me, until the duty Sjt bollocks me for being late to scoff. Fuck...

(Stand by for chapter 2)