Screwed-up

Bullets cr-cr-cr-crack over our sandbags

at 03:00

again.

We all slept with our gear on,

like every night,

and I'm the first one awake

on my boots.

I'll take care of it,

everyone go back to sleep.

This is getting old.

I haven't seen my family

in months

and most of me complains

about this but there's a quieter part of me

that actually likes

this little slice of hell.

I knew I was screwed-up before I got here.

I stumble out of the tent,

grab my Dragunov,

load the magazine -

reflex now, nothing more.

The helmet with the night vision

we got off a dead ISOF guy in Ramadi

lies at the base of the sandbag wall

and I jam it on my head, pull the stupid thing

over my eye, and try to see shapes far away

that at least look sort of human

to fire at.

They start shooting first, but it

doesn't bother me;

I killed their best sniper last month.

The scope on my rifle is off

and I am too tired, too numb

to feel for wind

or calculate distance,

but this is just what I'm good at:

causing fear and waiting.

Panic seizes men who aren't real fighters

but merely people holding guns -

the fourth dies running away.

Job done, I blink heavily and shuffle back

to my piece of ground in the tent,

use my gun and someone's discarded coat

as a pillow,

and return to the dreams I had about

never going home.