A/N: I have recently been playing a lot of Call of Duty: World at War, so this chapter might be a bit combat-centric. Then again, I may forget to go back and finish this Author's Note after I finish the chapter. Right now (about 12:45, Monday May 31), I honestly don't know where I'm going to take this story. But whatever. Let's let this baby roll.
I wrote two paragraphs of this before totally losing my drive. It's June 6 now. Epic fail. Military slang and terms are at the bottom.
ALSO. I realize that I made a few mistakes in the last chapter—I forgot to put in "Afghanistan" instead of "Iraq" when I decided to make it current. I will fix that. I'm trying to get a sense of the war right now, but there's so little information on the war itself—i.e. reason for the war in Afghanistan, what we want there, the like. In addition, I am now aware that Afghanistan does indeed have more than just bare desert for the expanse of its country, but I'm trying to have this make sense so I'll look for some desert cities and stuff.
Don't complain about the OCs. There aren't enough people in Death Note for me to make a realistic platoon, squad, anything. And strangely enough, I listened to "Tradition" from Fiddler on the Roof for a good ¼ of this chapter. Weird.
I'm not afraid of death. I don't really have much to live for, anyway. I face death every day. If anything, I risk it more than these good-for-nothing privates I got stuck with. They're wet-behind-the-ears and stupid as stupid can be, but I'm the one they look to for orders. I'm always at the front, the first target those damn snipers see. I'm a talented sniper myself, so usually I break off from the squad with two other sergeants and leave my men in charge of the one guy I'd trust with them: Corporal Gevanni. The guy's older than me, but he just got a promotion. He's still two ranks below me, but I trust him to keep the squad safe.
Of course, just because I don't have much to live for doesn't mean I want to die. Hell, I love life. It's a sweet ride. You never know what's coming next.
I definitely didn't when my CO, Anthony Rester, called me and several other sergeants in to talk to us. Our squads and fireteams were being assigned a new member each. They were bomb technicians, hackers, and/or computer genii. Some of the others were apprehensive and combative about the decision, but I didn't really care. We were dismissed after that, and told that our respective freaks would be waiting at our tents. Hey, I wasn't going to whine about it, but that didn't mean I would think of these techies as normal Marines. They were the lab rats.
I returned to my squad's tent and lifted the flap, ducking my head to enter my cramped, fabric-walled domain. I scowled as I saw the unclaimed top bunk in the tent had been made cradle to a duffel bag. Incidentally, that top bunk was the one over my bed—the bed I had picked solely because I wouldn't have to share. Flipping my hair, I walked over to my bunk bed that I now shared and grunted, taking my desert camouflage hat off and throwing it onto my bed. I raised my feet, standing semi-tiptoe as I peered over the railing of the top bed. No techie. I looked around the tent, a single hand resting on my hip. He wasn't here, that was for sure.
I walked over to the washbasin, pouring some water into the bowl from the canteen. I splashed some water onto my face, wiping it off with my hand before rubbing my hands together in the shallow puddle, ridding my fingers of the Afghan desert's grime and grit. I drained the water from the basin back into the container and returned to my bed, sitting down with my legs apart slightly. My elbows rested on my knees and I glared at the entrance to the tent. I was well aware that the techie who had stolen my sleeping setup's isolation would most likely not enter the tent within the next two minutes, but I glared anyway.
Grunting, I decided to spend my time doing something a little more productive than waiting around for some nerd who probably wouldn't be here for a while anyway. I stood up, kneeling down and retrieving my military boots from under my bed. I tugged my M16 rifle from its perch—hanging by the strap off the metal of the top bunk's side railing—and set it on my bed. I stood facing my bed, my foot up on the edge of the metal framework. After tying up my boots, I grabbed my helmet, my M16, my bulletproof vest and my M110 sniper rifle and trotted outside to the practice range.
Luckily for me, my squad was doing some drills, but I wasn't interested. I spotted Gevanni lying down in the sniper area of the range, the one with targets meters behind the other ones. Instead of dummies and drawn targets, though, the sniper's area has small objects to shoot. I walked over to the dark-haired man and proned beside him, joining him. I grunted a greeting and set up my bipod, looking through my rifle's telescope.
Gevanni began to salute, but I grumbled, "Just speak freely, Corporal. I'm cranky, let's not push it today."
He simply nodded. We both shot some objects before he set his rifle down and took a short breath. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"
I rolled my eyes. Just what I needed, Gevanni on my case about something I almost certainly wouldn't want to hear from him. Despite my evident lack of enthusiasm, I knew it was rude to ignore him, so I bark shortly after taking out four more objects, "Permission granted, Corporal."
He was quiet for a moment. I suppose he was deciding how to say whatever it was he was going to say. Finally, I just sat up and tossed my hair irritably. "What is it, Corporal?"
Gevanni's eyes widened and he stiffened before saying quickly, "I hear we've a new addition to the squad?"
"Hardly." I scoffed. "Some bomb technician. Probably never handled a gun before in his life. Fuckin' shit brick, I tell you. He'll just be a fucking hassle." I returned to my gun, shooting a few more targets.
Gevanni said quietly, "He could save our lives, though, right?"
"We've gotten on fine without him so far," I snapped, venom in my tone. I turned to glare at Gevanni. "If you talk about it anymore, I'll give you full custody and responsibility of him, Corporal. So shut your suck and get drilling." Cocking my rifle, I loaded one last bullet before taking out a twentieth target. The shell popped up and onto the sand, and I frowned while I packed up my rifle. "I'm sick and tired of this damn sandbox," I spat, glancing vehemently at the expanses of tan grains. "Corporal, dinner is in an hour. I suggest you finish up here."
I wanted to introduce Matt in this chapter, but I have plans for that in chapter three. So sorry!
Marines terminology:
Sandbox: Desert area (usually referring to Iraq)
Shit brick: Useless or stupid/ignorant person
Shut your suck: Shut your mouth
Prone: To lie on one's stomach
If you have any information about what the Marines are doing in Afghanistan right now, could you contact me? It's really hard to get information.
