Back From the War
The weather was pretty nice, but not that sparkling-clear sunshine of a perfect June day. A little bit of high-high haze was in the air, dust floating as well, giving everything a slightly golden-brown sheen, an almost old-timey patina, a little bit of bronze on all surfaces. It was warm, but not hot, not a bit of wind.
The entire unit had already redeployed, so happy to head home. We were done with our work, and it had been hard and costly. Every element of the unit had been hit, and everyone had their own pains and scars to deal with. We'd all been bloodied, but we'd fought hard and non-stop like the no-shit soldiers we were, never letting up, never giving the enemey a chance, and ultimately we were victorious. There was never any doubt with us that we wouldn't be, just a question of how long it would take. It was a little longer than we'd conceived of, but now it was time to head home, to the rest and relaxation and relief to which we were entitled.
There were only about six of us left, the rear detachment of the unit. Everyone else was already on their way, many of them already home by now. Me, I was happy to have sent them on ahead, heroes all who had earned their trips home, earned their time with friends and family, who had earned a triumphant return. I was happy that I'd taken care of them, given them the respect they deserved, that the troops were taken care of first, and I as a senior leader, would follow once the mission was completely finished. Let the troops receive the glory and the pleasure first; they deserve it more than I do.
So, it was time to trudge up the hill to the station. It wasn't far, maybe about 500 yards, visible through the completely deserted village. There was no rubble, no clear destruction. No fire and no smoke, but what had happened here and in the other places where we'd been sent was no joke, and our arrival had left a mark. The enemy certainly regretted taking the actions that brought us here, and now it was time for us to go home.
My gear was surprisingly light, and I figured most of that was just the elation of heading home. A pack is always heavier when you begin the journey, lightening as you near the destination.
As I looked down as I walked through the dust, I saw that I was wearing my rugby gear. The boots, the socks, the black shorts and gray/red jersey, the whole bit. And it was clear I'd been playing in it. I wondered if I'd been fighting or if I'd been playing, and if there really was a difference between the two here. The victory was sure, but I wondered what the contest had been. I could've been in either, my joints and knees and elbows felt the pain of both operations and scrimmaging.
Up to the station, and it was about 1309, with the train arriving spot-on at 1315, just as I knew it would. No questions in my mind how the trains could run so perfectly in such a messed-up place, but they did.
The train was a spanking new thing, totally European, everything automated and both padded and carpeted, like a moving Star Trek set. So comfortable, the smell of brand-new carpet and plastic overwhelming. Maybe it was French; they were selfish bastards, sure, but they sure do know design and layout.
I wanted so badly to take a nap, to sink into the soft bunk. But I had so many connections to make at various stations, and I couldn't afford to sleep through even one.
The entire unit had already redeployed, so happy to head home. We were done with our work, and it had been hard and costly. Every element of the unit had been hit, and everyone had their own pains and scars to deal with. We'd all been bloodied, but we'd fought hard and non-stop like the no-shit soldiers we were, never letting up, never giving the enemey a chance, and ultimately we were victorious. There was never any doubt with us that we wouldn't be, just a question of how long it would take. It was a little longer than we'd conceived of, but now it was time to head home, to the rest and relaxation and relief to which we were entitled.
There were only about six of us left, the rear detachment of the unit. Everyone else was already on their way, many of them already home by now. Me, I was happy to have sent them on ahead, heroes all who had earned their trips home, earned their time with friends and family, who had earned a triumphant return. I was happy that I'd taken care of them, given them the respect they deserved, that the troops were taken care of first, and I as a senior leader, would follow once the mission was completely finished. Let the troops receive the glory and the pleasure first; they deserve it more than I do.
So, it was time to trudge up the hill to the station. It wasn't far, maybe about 500 yards, visible through the completely deserted village. There was no rubble, no clear destruction. No fire and no smoke, but what had happened here and in the other places where we'd been sent was no joke, and our arrival had left a mark. The enemy certainly regretted taking the actions that brought us here, and now it was time for us to go home.
My gear was surprisingly light, and I figured most of that was just the elation of heading home. A pack is always heavier when you begin the journey, lightening as you near the destination.
As I looked down as I walked through the dust, I saw that I was wearing my rugby gear. The boots, the socks, the black shorts and gray/red jersey, the whole bit. And it was clear I'd been playing in it. I wondered if I'd been fighting or if I'd been playing, and if there really was a difference between the two here. The victory was sure, but I wondered what the contest had been. I could've been in either, my joints and knees and elbows felt the pain of both operations and scrimmaging.
Up to the station, and it was about 1309, with the train arriving spot-on at 1315, just as I knew it would. No questions in my mind how the trains could run so perfectly in such a messed-up place, but they did.
The train was a spanking new thing, totally European, everything automated and both padded and carpeted, like a moving Star Trek set. So comfortable, the smell of brand-new carpet and plastic overwhelming. Maybe it was French; they were selfish bastards, sure, but they sure do know design and layout.
I wanted so badly to take a nap, to sink into the soft bunk. But I had so many connections to make at various stations, and I couldn't afford to sleep through even one.
posted by Scrumpox at 3:41 PM
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