7:36. We'll be up until
1:00 a.m or so. Will want
to sleep then. Details and guarding
while rest train tactically.
I was off code for march. On
code for tactical. Another
warning sign that not all is
well with my life--bad timing.
Leg feeling good deal better
but still not good. Knees
acting up again. I want out
of this bivouac. No use now
that I can't train. 20 to go.
I was depressed on sick call code. Leaving the walking wounded to guard the camp and complete chores while the able-bodied are out fighting is time honored. But I didn't like it.
I believe that this night was when our company had a live fire exercise where live ammunition was fired over our heads while we low-crawled under barbed wire entanglements. But the group of sick call code trainees sat in a building listening to the fire outside as the rest of the company did that.
The drugs were masking my groin pain but it was clear my legs were not capable of full functioning. Bivouac could have been interesting, and fun even, but I seemed to have the pleasure of living in a small tent without the ability to participate fully.
I tried to keep my spirits up nonetheless. I remember walking by the water buffalo in our camp and seeing two trainees walk by dressed in Russian helmets and carrying AK-47s (my memory of the latter is fuzzier but I think they had at least mock Soviet rifles). They were heading out to ambush the patrols being run from the base in the forest. I recall enthusiastically greeting them--in Russian--"Hello Soviet soldiers!" as they emerged from behing the tall trailer. What I didn't see was our captain trailing behind them, who instructed me to "Shut the fuck up!"
"Yes, sir." In English, of course.
I did have the presence of mind to toss off a sniper check (which is what saluting an officer in the field is called).
I might have greeted them as "Russian" soldiers or possibly "comrade" soldiers. Again, that memory is fuzzy.
But at least I had less than three weeks to go.
