Sixth Generation Cowboy And A Third Generation WhoreChapter 3: I’d Rather Make Love Than War free porn video

Before Dawn, 23 March 2004

Forward Operating Base Chosin, Babil Province, Iraq

“But let us forget warfare, again, for a little while. My name is Marcus Randal, and I have been wondering what your name is since I laid eyes on you.” I said.

She looked into my eyes and said, “Marcus Randal. Oh my. I have never fucked a man before I learned his name, even if I forgot it later. I do not think I will ever forget your name. I hope you won’t forget me. I am Lance Corporal Loni Hellström.”

“Your parents named you Lance Corporal? I don’t believe I am likely to forget that,” I said, then smiled and winked.

“Oh! You! If that is your best line, you had best plan on a career in the Army, because you will be a hungry comedian!” Loni said.

“Don’t worry about Me. Little Girl. I Can Make You Laugh!” I said then pinned her down, and began tickling and teasing her until she dissolved into giggles and shrieks!

“No Fair! You’re Not Playing Fair!” Loni exclaimed.

“All’s Fair, in Love and War!” I told her.

Loni gasped, her giggles cut off, and she gave me another pensive look, then said, “w-what?”

“Uh, all is fair during Hot Sex with an Attractive Woman ... Is that better?” I asked.

“Oh – kaaay ... how about we get back to the Sex?” Loni said, her tone shifting from trepidatious to suggestive.

Unsure about her shifting emotions, I changed tactics. I gave her a quick peck on her lips, then kissed down her jaw, to her tender neck. Nuzzling against her pale skin, flushing pink as her breathing quickened, it seemed I had discovered a better alternative to witty banter. My hands caressed her body, as I continued using my lips and tongue to stoke her passion. Loni was muttering insensible nothings, punctuated by occasional gasps.

As I lowered my head to lick her breasts, and then suckle her puckered nipples, my hands drifted down to brush across her abdomen, and caress her flanks. I am disinclined to lick her pussy still filled with my cum. Some guys don’t mind it, a few even enjoy it; but not me. There were no complaints from Loni as brushed my lips across her torso, using my finger to tease her clit. When she hunched her hips to grind against my hand, I slipped a couple fingers into her well lubricated cunt.

She was almost panting now. Loni had fired up quick, but who was I to think that? My cock had grown ridged just as rapidly, eager to plunge into her depths once more. Our fuck would be ‘sloppy seconds’ but as I grew more excited, the extra lubrication would benefit both of us. Few of my previous partners had responded so wantonly during our intimal coupling. Loni seemed to be an extremely desirable partner. Her earlier fierceness had motivated me to animalistic passion during our first mating!

In the shower, and on the dance floor, Loni had been the aggressor; not that I required more than the slightest provocation to be her willing partner! Her sudden passivity seemed a shocking change from her earlier carnal exuberance. Yet, when I paused to verify that she was a willing participant in her ravishing, her eyes brimmed with excitement! Her breath hitched, and she flashed me a grin; I also noticed she was clutching the sheet.

Uncertainty about what she desired overwhelmed me for a moment. From our earlier conversation, Loni was seeking the fulfilment of several different fantasies with me. She stated she was determined to be fucked well and truly tonight; I wondered if the man wielding the cock mattered to her? Yet, she had also told me she sought me out first! Part of it seemed to be her excitement about our interracial taboo. She also reiterated that she sought a “Real Man” virile and mighty, a Soldier, a Champion.

Perhaps sensing my hesitation, Loni persuaded me to act, not think. Arching her back, straining her bosom, while spreading her legs, inviting me to penetrate her center. She whimpered, communicating her need. Wordlessly she seemed to be urging me to dominate her. She really got excited when I had grabbed her ankle, and moved her in to position to be fucked in the shower, and also when I had assertively ended our foreplay, and savagely fucked her brains out.

Staring into her eyes, I shifted between her widely spread legs, simultaneously using my greater height and reach, I grasped her wrists, and raised them above her head, and pinning her down. Her eyes fluttered, then closed, the flush turning her cheeks bright pink, and spreading across her neck and torso, as her breathing became quick and shallow. Loni’s musk was fueling my passion. Adjusting her slightly so that I could restrain both of her wrists in one hand, I used the other to aim my cock at her nubile nineteen-year-old pussy.

The bulbous head of my cock pressed against the moist lips of her tight pussy; Loni lifted her hips, impaling herself upon the knob of my cock, causing her to gasp. Having gained initial entry, my shaft plunged into her molten depths. Her pussy was so tight, grasping me like a well lubricated fist. Perhaps three quarters of my length had penetrated her, when I reversed direction, s-l-o-w-l-y extracting myself. Deliberately I used the shaft of my cock to caress her clitoris; causing her to sigh passionately.

Restraining her, I prolonged our enjoyment. Allowing our passion to slowly build, our tempo increasing to match. No matter that I was doing most of the “work” Loni’s breath quickened more than my own. Staring into my eyes, she smirked at me before opening her mouth into a perfect O, as our hips churned in unison. Aroma of our passion, and the sounds of my cock plunging repeatedly into her sopping pussy filled our ears. Quicker than I wished, Loni peaked, moaning as she orgasmed! Before I got my release, she spasmed under me twice more, until I ejaculated into her overflowing cunt.

Attempting to roll off her, I was thwarted by her wrapping her arms and legs about me. My muscles seemed weak as a kitten, for I couldn’t resist her; sagging to the side so that at least I didn’t crush her. Snuggling, we dozed for an infinite oasis of bliss. My heart was beating rapidly, not from the past exertion, but panic at the emotions I thought had been banished. We had just met, and were enjoying merely a brief hiatus of the chaos that plagued this war torn land.

Regretfully, I eased myself from her grasp, despite her whimpered protests, telling her, “baby girl, Loni, I have been away from my Squad too long. I wish I could stay with you for ... I must go.”

“Will I see you again?” She asked.

“If you wish ... at least I hope so,” I told her.

Still naked, I first secured my weapon, and verified it was as it should be. Hardening my heart, I tried to ignore her sniffles, as I gathered my clothing and other items. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I snuck out of our love nest, and tried to slink into the latrine trailer unnoticed. Showering, I regretted washing off the scent of Loni; but there would be Hell to Pay if I returned to my Squad reeking of fresh pussy! It seemed our memories ran down the drain. Hastily I toweled off, then donned a PT shirt and shorts, before dashing off. Luckily no one seemed to have noticed my use of the female latrine trailer.

Entering the tent being used as transient quarters, my nose twitched at the stench of Man Funk. I was back in my world. Seemingly no one noticed my belated return. Placing my weapon near at hand, I lay on a plastic coated mattress, and wrapped myself in my poncho liner. I was awoken some hours later, probably just a couple, yet I felt surprisingly well rested. Griping, farting, and joshing, we crawled out of our racks, and prepared for duty.

Fifteen minutes later, garbed in our DCUs (Desert Camouflage Uniforms), we donned our sweat encrusted shells of IBAs (Interceptor Body Armor), and festooned with weapons and ammo, we headed to chow. Trudging through the MKT (Mobile Kitchen Trailer), chow was slopped onto disposable cardboard trays. I grabbed a banana with fewer brown spots; following the crew of my Stryker, we found some seats inside the ad hoc mess hall. Quietly I said grace, then choked down the grub; I was thankful that at least it wasn’t another MRE! Food is Fuel, and we would need the energy do our duties.

We exited the chow hall, and headed over to where our vehicles were parked. “Stetson-1” is an M1127 “Stryker” Reconnaissance Vehicle that was used by First Lieutenant Agar, our Platoon Leader (PL), as his command vehicle. “Stetson-2” an M1126 “Stryker” Infantry Carrier Vehicle, is a replacement for an M1127 RV that had been damaged by an IED more than a month ago; Staff Sergeant Garcia was the “Truck Commander” or TC. “Stetson-3” an M1126 ICV is my current ride; they gave my M1127 to First Platoon to replace one of theirs heavily damaged by an IED six weeks ago. “Stetson-4” another M1127 RV, commanded by our Platoon Sergeant; Sergeant First Class Torrez.

NCOs, and Officers are supposed to get served chow last, and our drivers were at the head of the line, because they had to perform PMCS. Preventative Maintenance, Checks and Services is a list of a multitude of components of a vehicle that should be inspected, some daily, or anytime you are getting ready to drive. Others are done after you are finished operating the vehicle, or are done weekly, or monthly. When I got to Stetson-3, my Stryker, Corporal Morgan, our Gunner was assisting Specialist Culp, our Driver, close up the engine hatches.

“Fluids, and everything else are topped off. Even though the mechanics at Kalsu told us they fixed it, we still have a Class Two leak on the right side of the transmission. At least that is where the fluid is puddling.” Specialist Culp said.

Corporal Morgan said, “other than that we are Green on fuel, ammo, water, and all the other shit.”

“How about Coms?” I asked.

“we’re up,” Morgan said.

I noticed our “Platoon Daddy” strolling by with his clipboard, so I called out, “Stetson Three is Green, Sergeant Torrez.”

Sergeant First Class Torrez merely grunted, made a mark on his clipboard and continued heading toward Stetson-1; then he called over his shoulder, “Leaders Call in ten, Mission Briefing for everybody in twenty.”

Corporal Rodriguez, the leader of a Fire Team of Marines, was leading his Marines up to my vehicle; they were carrying their RON bags and other gear. They had been attached to our platoon, when our Troop had been detached from our Squadron, and attached to the Marines, whom were responsible for Area of Operations Reaper. Perhaps it had been intended that one Marine would ride in each of our four Strykers; mutually we agreed that it was better for them to operate as an organic Fire Team. We were supposed to have four to six cavalry troopers as dismounts, as well as three crewmen on each Stryker; however, we had taken casualties that had not been replaced.

“Leaders Call in a couple of minutes, the Mission Briefing is in fifteen. Any issues?” I asked.

Corporal Rodríguez responded, “Aye Aye, Staff Sergeant Randall. This Marine has no issues to report!”

I nodded at his report, then shook my head as he and his Marines stowed their gear in my Stryker. Lance Corporal Smith, a powerfully built Black man from Corpus Christi, Texas, and their SAW Gunner noticed, and flashed me a grin. So too did a broadly smiling Private First Class Smith from Ashville, North Carolina, called “Smitty” to avoid confusion; his homely face and Appalachian drawl lulled some into mistaking him for a yokel. PFC Ang maintained his stoical countenance.

Corporal Groosbeek, a K-9 handler, and his partner Harvey, were following their fellow Marines, he asked, “should I attend too?”

Smiling, I said, “Naw, just send Harvey, he’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

Harvey barked, and wagged his tail, and Groosbeek said, “Cool, I’ll stay here and chill in the shade. Okay, Sarge.”

I winked, then turned as some movement caught the corner of my eye. Specialist Lone Tree was leading PFC Wallace, and at least one other dismount from each of the other vehicles in our platoon. Each was carrying a case of MREs, and a bag of ice or two. They split up and stashed their loads inside their respective Strykers. I quirked an eyebrow, because we had stocked up with MREs when we got back to the FOB after our last mission, as per SOP, and the Platoon Sergeant had used a gator to drop off drinks and bags of ice before he began his PCIs.

“It was unsecured and unattended, Sarge,” Lone Tree said.

I said, “I know you have regaled us with tales of woe about how we Pale Faces have been starving you back on the Rez. But you never eat the an MRE, unless you’ve missed a couple of meals?”

Wallace climbed in the back of our Stryker, opened our two coolers, then Specialist Lone Tree passed him the case of MREs; as he said, “I was wondering why they were hauling a couple of cases of MREs to the Tactical Operations Center every day, since the D-Fac is just a couple of hundred meters away. Old MRE cases with Red Bull, Gatorade, Power Bars, beef jerky, chocolate bars, and oranges inside...”

“Just sitting around, unsecured and unattended? And the Ice hadn’t melted?” I asked.

“Yup. Just sitting there, on the backside of the refer trailer ... Nobody to see,” Lone Tree stated.

“Coincidence?” I asked.

“Maybe a ‘Fobbit’ acquired one of those Russian style helmets I shot a hole through, then left out in the sun with a bit of cow’s brains and blood to make ‘em look gruesome...” Lone Tree said casually.

“Don’t get Complacent. You know that Lieutenant Agar is a West Pointer, and Sergeant Torrez won’t be happy if the Thirty Second Infantry’s Sergeant Major get’s up his Ass!” I warned.

“They’ve got Plenty! I won’t do it every day, and I’ll make sure we liberate some of the reserve, and not what is supposed to go to the TOC that day. This was a target of opportunity. Besides, there’s a bunch of Marines who are hanging around the D-Fac, so we’ve got plausible deniability.” Specialist Lone True assured me.

“once that stuff is stowed in the coolers, Wallace and you grab your RON bags, and other gear. Pre Combat Inspections will be conducted before the mission briefing in about ten minutes.” I said.

Specialist Lone Tree nodded. I went into our temporary quarters, grabbed my Remain Over-Night Bag, verifying it was packed as it should be. A quick visual survey confirmed that no sensitive items, nor other necessary gear had been left in the tent. Going back out, I stowed my gear on Stetson-3, conducted a few spot checks. What gets inspected is what gets done! Before heading to the leaders briefing, I told Corporal Morgan and Specialist Lone Tree where, Corporals Rodriguez, Groosbeek, and I would be. Then the three of us range walked to where the ROE are posted, and where we usually conduct our briefings.

We weren’t the first to arrive, nor the last. Most of our fellow NCOs appeared to be relaxed. They were joshing, and joking while our Lieutenant stood off to one side, writing something in his notebook. We had more than forty minutes, almost forty five minutes until our SP Time. We had enjoyed almost 24 hours of downtime; during which we had conducted maintenance on our vehicles, weapons, and other gear. We hadn’t been called out as a QRF, so we caught up on sleep, and had opportunities to use the MWR for 15 minutes on the phone, or (very s-l-o-w) internet.

Specialist Stevens, a broad shouldered, muscular Black soldier, who had been my gunner during pre-deployment training, eased over, and quietly asked me, “we lost the Fill. Would you help us with our Coms?”

“Not enough time, now. After the Briefing, ask Technical Sergeant Campbell to help you. He is a Combat Controller. Radios are in his wheelhouse.” I told Stevens.

“Uh, okay...” Stevens said.

I gave him a smile, and said, “if it takes him more than ten, I’ll see what I can do.”

Specialist Stevens was uncommonly mature for his age of twenty three. He had been born in Tacoma, Washington, but his family had moved all over the country. He was raised by a single mother, and was the oldest child. He had been attending some arts academy in New York City, and working part time for UPS on September 11th 2001. He is smarter than average, and his recruiter suggested the Cavalry, when Stevens wanted to sign up for the Infantry.

Blacks are underrepresented in the Cavalry. None of the NCOs on Stetson-1, including the USAF CCTs are Black, in fact, all but one are White. Corporal Morgan is the best Gunner in the Troop, but for some reason Lieutenant Agar and him were oil and water. Morgan is a “Break Glass In Case Of War” Soldier, but too often has issues in garrison. Lieutenant Agar is hard, but fair, he didn’t blame Morgan for their incompatibility. I was more than a little surprised that Agar chose Stevens for his gunner.

For “Stetson-1” Specialist Stevens, the Gunner was generally responsible for the duties that would normally be handled by the TC, because our PL has other duties. Staff Sergeant Tyree is in charge of the Dismounts, Cavalry Troopers who rode around in back of the armored vehicle; performing most of their duties on foot. Lieutenant Agar would sometimes have Sergeant Tyree, or Sergeant Corcoran the assistant team leader and grenadier stay mounted, and in command of the vehicle so that he, the PL, could dismount.

Despite the trust that Lieutenant Agar demonstrated he had for Specialist Stevens; Stevens wasn’t comfortable bringing problems to the Lieutenant. Few lower ranking enlisted men are comfortable doing that. Agar and Stevens made a good team in training, and in combat. Both seemed to be quiet men, disinclined to chatter, and more serious than most of the other members of the platoon. On occasion Specialist Stevens would come to me for assistance. Both Lieutenant Agar and Sergeant First Class Torrez were aware of it; but neither had mentioned it, since we didn’t cross the ill-defined line.

Lieutenant Agar took a step forward, and cleared this throat, causing us to stop jabbering, and pay attention when he said, “there are no significant changes to our tentative plan from yesterday. So, I have nothing to put out until the mission briefing. Anything I should know?”

Sergeant First Class Torrez, the Platoon Sergeant, said, “nothing serious, but you should be aware that it seems the transmission fluid leak on Stetson Three appears to have worsened a bit, and is now a Class Two. We’ll keep tabs on it, but it would be good if we could get an opportunity to have some mechanics more familiar with Strykers take a look at it. They should probably pull the pack to get a better assessment.”

Torrez continued, “Private Lee requested to go to Sick Call this morning. I sent Corporal Schneider to keep tabs on him. Some fragments were working their way out of his left forearm. The Surgeon plucked a few bits out, then had a medic apply some ointment and a clean dressing. They gave him some Motrin, and his sick slip certifies he is fit for duty.”

Sergeant Corcoran said, “mebbe that’ll learn ‘im to keep unda cover when EOD is blow’n up an IED, ‘stead of tak’n a fucking photograph! That Boy is as dull as a rubber knife.”

Most of the NCOs chuckled, even Lieutenant Agar flashed a tight smile.

As the chuckles faded, Specialist Stevens glanced at me, before looking back at our Platoon Leader and saying, “we lost the Fill on Stetson One. I ensured we were in Standby mode before Specialist Beck started the engine during PMCS. We seem to be having more problems with the coms since we got rattled by that IED ‘bout nine days ago. Staff Sergeant Randall suggested that mebbe Technical Sergeant Campbell could assist me in getting our communications back up, and reloading the Com-Sec Fill.”

Lieutenant Agar appeared displeased, glanced at his watch, and said, “its forty two minutes until we are supposed to SP at the ECP. I need to know in twenty-seven minutes or Less if we cannot maintain reliable communications. We are Not mission capable without communications. My track in particular must have reliable communications!”

“Can do, Sir. With your permission, Specialist Stevens and I will get right on it,” said Technical Sergeant Campbell, a US Air Force Combat Control Technician from the Special Tactics detachment assigned to this Area of Operations.

Lieutenant Agar nodded, and the two hustled off; Agar addressed the rest of us, saying, “Risk. Calculated Risk, is our duty. Complacency, or taking foolish risks have cost us. We have had seventeen troopers wounded, or injured. We have received three replacements, and five of our people have returned to duty. Our platoon is nine personnel under strength. We are unlikely to get any more replacements. Perhaps one or two of our personnel might return to duty.”

The lieutenant paused, then continued, “our attachments have contributed significantly to our mission capability, since we have been transferred to AO Reaper. However, we cannot depend on their continued presence. Not all of our casualties were predictable. Some were. As Leaders, it is Our Responsibility is to prevent complacency.”

We NCOs didn’t say anything, but there was some shuffling around. We know that we are responsible for looking out for the welfare of our men, and preventing complacency. We knew what our duties were, however, we have been in combat since we crossed the border between Kuwait and Iraq during the initial invasion of Iraq a year and three days ago. Before the invasion kicked off, we had to deploy to the region, then the typical “Hurry Up and Wait” as diplomats tried to put off the war yet again. Not to mention our intensive pre-deployment training.

“It’s time for the Mission Briefing,” said Lieutenant Agar.

Using his leather lungs, Sergeant First Class Torrez bellowed, “Boots ‘n Saddles, Troopers! Git Yourselves Aquí!”

The rest of our platoon, and our attachments assembled. We didn’t stand in formation. As per SOP, we gathered in a loose semicircle around the posted Rules of Engagement, and the map board, where the lieutenant had posted a map and overlay. All the NCOs accounted for their men. Staff Sergeant Tyree reported Stetson-1 was present, excepting Specialist Stevens and Technical Sergeant Campbell, who were accounted for. Staff Sergeant Garcia and I both gave thumbs up; everyone from Stetson-2 and Stetson-3 were present. Platoon Sergeant Torrez nodded at the Lieutenant.

Lieutenant Agar stated, “We are heading up Route Cleveland. We’ll continue past FOB Kalsu approximately ten kilometers, then turn off on a side road. Stetson Two, and Stetson Three will set up hasty TCPs approximately three hundred meters apart...”

Suddenly, Sergeant First Class Torrez thundered, “Pendajo! Git them earbuds outta your brain holes! Put yer Damn Walkman Back inna Tent!”

“But Sarge—” Private Lee started to say.

“Shad-ap! Git Yer Ass Move’n! Corporal Schneider, escort Private Lee, ensure he Complies. Vámonos!” Sergeant Torrez spat out.

“Any more of you Genio listen’ng to music I swear I smash the Damn thing! Pardon me, Sir.” Sergeant First Class Torrez said.

Lieutenant Agar nodded his head at the Platoon Sergeant, then resumed, “We will conduct a hasty Traffic Control Point for an hour to ninety minutes. Be alert for any vehicles appearing to ride low, or have blacked out rear windows, or other signs of a possible VBIED. If you spot a possible Improvised Explosive Device, notify your comrades, and your NCOs. We are supposed to notify EOD. They will try to disarm it so they can study them.”

“We will then head over to Route San Juan, and patrol that all the way to FOB Dogwood. There are multiple logistics convoys expected, so the roads will be congested.” Lieutenant Agar said.

Our lieutenant paused, took a drink of water, then said, “Stay Hydrated! We are the primary Quick Reaction Force. The Hostiles are deploying more effective IEDs, and the ad hoc armor is not sufficient in too many cases. They are getting more ‘Up Armor’ kits for the Humvees shipped to theater. Until then, our Strykers are the best protected vehicles either Tenth Mountain Division, or the Marines have in Babil Province. Most of the Tanks, LAVs, and other AFVs the Marines have are over in Al Anbar Province. So, we’re it! The Hostiles know it too. We are a Primary Target! Stay Sharp!”

Lieutenant Agar took a couple of moments to look each of us in the eyes, as he asked, “Any Questions?”

No one said anything, so the lieutenant turned to the Platoon Sergeant, and said, “Sergeant Torrez?”

The Platoon Sergeant Said, “Be Happy Drink Water, Drink Water, Be Happy! And not just Red Bull an’ Gatorade, neither! I mean Water! Keep your heads on a Swivel, and no stationary turrets! Keep Scanning Your Sector! If you Think you see something, Tell an NCO! Keep Alert, in particular for any Carcass of a Horse, or Donkey, or even a large dog. Haji is putt’n IEDs in ‘em! Remember, Check yer Five and Twenty Five before dismounting.”

We recited the ROE, starting with NOTHING IN THESE RULES OF ENGAGEMENT PREVENTS YOU FROM USING DEADLY FORCE TO PROTECT YOURSELF OR OTHER COALITION FORCES! Those words were repeated three more times during the following paragraphs, and were the final words too. NCOs verified that every soldier had their copy of the ROE, their Casualty Feeder Card, and several other documents in a plastic pouch, carried in their left shoulder pocket.

Lieutenant Agar said, “conduct your final PCCs and PCIs, and another communications check, then Mount Up.”

My crew, dismounts, and attachments got back to Stetson-3, and we conducted (self) Pre Combat Checks, and buddy checks. Then Corporal Rodriguez and I conducted Pre Combat Inspections upon our men. We clambered aboard, laden with our helmets, body armor, weapons, ammo, camelbaks, and other accoutrements. Verifying that everything was secured by tiedown straps, 550 cord, or zip-strips; so that cans of ammo, the tool kit, cases of MREs, etc. would not become projectiles if we rolled over, or got hit by an IED. We were prepared for our patrol.

Upon the call of “Guide-Ons” I set our radios to Stand-By Mode, and on the silent count of three, all of our drivers started our vehicles; at which time Lieutenant Agar said on the radio net, “All Stetsons, sound off in order.”

“Stetson Two, Up.”

“Stetson Three, Up,” I said.

“Stetson Four. Up.”

“Stetsons Ho-oooo!” Lieutenant Agar commanded, as he often did at the beginning of a mission.

Standing tall in the commander’s hatch, the lieutenant swept his arm forward in the prescribed Hand and Arm Signal for Mounted Troops to begin movement. On the FOB we could ride around with all of our hatches open and enjoy a bit of a breeze. This was one of the few times of the year that the weather was actually pleasant. Winter in Iraq was colder than most people expect. In the high hills they call mountains, north of Mosul they even get snow. Today the sky was crystal clear Columbine Blue, reminding me of the flowers on my Grandfather’s ranch. Temperature was in the low seventies.

We drove at a sedate ten to fifteen miles per hour, followed by the Command Sergeant major of the First Battalion of the Thirty Second Infantry, who watched us like a hawk, ensuring we complied with the posted speed limit. My two dismounts, as well as the five Marines stood in the troop hatches, enjoying the day, chatting quietly. Even Harvey had his front paws on the hatch, his tongue lolling, and nose twitching. We were in a Warzone, and once we emerged from the ECP the danger would increase tenfold; yet I felt Exhilarated!

We halted three hundred meters from the ECP; it was seven minutes until our SP Time. We kept the engines running, but opened the rear hatches. Most everyone dismounted, range walked over to a sandbag wall where there was a jerry-rigged urinal. We expelled some of the water we had been drinking since we woke up. Specialist, “Doc” Goldstein, our Medic, ensured everyone used the handwashing station. Last minute checks of straps, and other gear, then we climbed back aboard. Some guys began drinking another bottle of water.

Thirty seconds before our start time, Stetson One began rolling forward. On the dot, Lieutenant Agar notified the Tactical Operations Center that Stetson was crossing the Start Point Line; Thirty-Eight Souls on the Manifest. We cleared the Entry Control Point, and then each vehicle paused at the Clearing Pit; each individual fired three rounds from their M4 carbine of M16A4 rifle. SAW gunners fired a short burst. The drivers closed their hatches, and the rest of us lowered ourselves to “nametape defilade” before the gunners fired a short burst from their machineguns.

There were no misfires, nor stoppages. Once they had conducted their test fires, Stetson One began rolling, slowly not more than ten miles per hour, until Stetson Four called “Rolling.” We quickly increased speed to about thirty-five to forty miles per hour. Corporal Morgan was already scanning his sector from “One-o-clock to Five-o-clock” to the right side of our patrol. To establish our sectors, we imagine a clock face, Twelve is the front of the vehicle, and Six is the back.

The GIBs, or “Guys In Back” watched to our Three, Six, and Nine; Right, Rear, and Left. My head and shoulders were above the rim of the commander’s hatch, my head on a swivel. If I still had my M1127 RV version of the Stryker, I might have relied more on the enhanced optics. Maybe not; being able to observe directly provides a perspective not yet obtainable with electronic systems. Mostly I scanned to our front, vigilant for IEDs and other threats; but also keeping track of Stetson-2 and Stetson-1. Every fifteen to thirty seconds I would glance back to check on Stetson-4, and my GIBs.