Seven years after returning from Afghanistan, Steven shares his war experiences.
Standing in a room making small talk with the others, I adjusted the coyote tan plate carrier hugging my torso and fitted a green tactical belt around my waist loaded with small pouches and a bayonet sheath. We were authorized to bring personal rifle magazines in lieu of the flimsier issued ones, if we so desired. I would happily bring my sturdy, reliable PMags and leave those rattly lightweight aluminum pieces of shit behind. With a small measure of nihilistic despair but mostly adrenaline-fueled enthusiasm I gleefully announced to the others in the room, “This might be our last day alive! ” Later that night I was abruptly informed that my K-9 would be swapped out for a different one I never certified with or even handled. Wait…what?
I woke up on the couch with my cat nudging my shoulder. I felt a…
View original post 3,257 more words