I'm like a dad when mortars land
Yesterday, several mortars landed inside our camp. I have a feeling the bad guys were a little upset this time. A couple days ago, we took out four mortarman as they were preparing to attack us. When something like this happens, my first instinct is to check on my people. I had one soldier who had the day off, which meant she had to report to me as soon as possible. She didn't show up, and I was worried. But as soon as I began to get a little nervous, an Iraqi friend came to me and said, "Your soldier. I forget the name, but they said they're ok." In fact, all my troopies and everyone on the camp was OK.
Over the past seven months, I've learned a lot about myself.
For instance, I've learned that I'm like a dad. At least that's what my soldiers call me. Once when a rocket was heading toward my general area, I jumped on top of my soldier walking with me. It didn't explode and no debris was scattered, unless you count the dust clouds caused by us falling to the ground. I make sure they exercise, get home on time and help them with their school work. The only thing I don't do is spank them, but I drop them for stuff like being a smart ass, messing up really badly or not showing up on time. And in those rare moments that somebody is in the front-leaning rest under my command, believe me, I suffer more than he or she pushing.
Boy, I digress. Mortars stink.