Feb 26

Andrew Michael Dawson, Or, "Drewdog" to his friends and one family member, was hot, sweaty, and not in the mood..it was 115 degrees already, and it was only o eight hundred hours. Despite the rivulets of sweat running down his forehead, chest, and thighs, he was completely 100% focused on a building 100 meters away. His tool was a spotters scope. He found it lying on a parapet earlier in the day, and after verifying it didn't belong to his unit's sniper or spotter, he "took possession of said item" and submitted the appropriate paperwork. That is, he told his battalions quartermaster the serial no. and what not via radio, and put it away...two hours later, he was dam near ass over head in a ditch, staring at a building reported to hide 14 Al Queda resistance fighters, and the indiscriminate sniper fire from teh aforementioned abode convinced him SOMEONE was in their, not friendly, and therefore a target. He'd been scanning the windows and roofline for 20 min. when a glint of metal on the east corner of the building caught his eye. He called his units sniper on the radio "3/1 eye in the sky catcher ready". The aural null earpiece crackled, seemingly inside his head, "go ahead 3, whats the sign?" His reply was a cryptic to anyone else as it was crystal clear to the sniper. "Loomit, I got a high fastball on the east corner of the secondary building, metal shine and a big fat catchers mitt 3 deg. from the corner"...Translated..a headshot was available on a enemy about 3deg on the downwind parapet of the east corner of the building. Loomit was the snipers name. Back to the scintillating radio action."Copy that, fastball, down the pipe, smile pretty for daddy". Drew placed his eyepiece on the cup and focused just in time to see a jerk of the enemys head, and a pink mist explode behind it as the body flew backwards hard enough for Drew to see the enemies feet above the parapet, and clearly watch a battered sandal fall three stories to the street, landing absurdly in a puff of dust that reminded him of the poor coyote in those old cartoons chasing the dam roadrunner off a cliff at least once per episode, only too hold up a sign that said "yikes' then, poof!.."3/1, that is in fact Sir, in the 10ring. Pretty in pink, 18 and life to travel, traveling willburys". "Copy that, they call me the breeze"..chuckling, Drew kept his attention on the building..according to his score sheet, it was the 2nd inning, and the count was 0-1 w/12 more to go. Pretty in pink was the sign for a positive headshot kill.18 and life to travel is a line from an old hairband song, in this case, referring to the snipers confirmed 18th kill this tour. The travelling willburys were a supergroup formed in the 90's and here, means that the sniper oughta move out. The response, they call me the breeze, is self-explanatory. If it's not, ask someone to explain it to you, then go ram your head into a large object twice for being so dam dumb.

"HOW IN THE POSSIBLE FUCK CAN YOU ABSOLUTELY DESTROY NOT ONE,NOT TWO, BUT THREE STRYKERS IN AS MANY DAYS YOU DUMB FUCKIN' BEDROCK IDIOT?" Walking across the row after row of battle scarred armor of all types, the Sgt. laughed to himself and said "Well he's in fine fettle today". Entering the Vietnam Era quonsonet hut that was the temporarily permanent motor pool, he followed the sound of continued bellowing. "I just don't get it Rub. How the hell could you, of all people, find the largest, biggest, baddest IED's out there, and then promptly run over them? AND manage not to kill anyone of your passengers?" The Cpl. being addressed turned his head sideways at the motor pool Gunnery Sgt and said "Sir, I have no idea, but as far as no one dying. Thats the makers of the Strykers doing Sir. Great Vehicle, and if you're done chewing on me, I have to fill that requistion order in your hands, posthaste." His nameplate said "Daddy" but everyone who'd ever heard him talk for more than five minutes called him Vulgar...cause he was...The mans mouth made even septic tank cleaners gag. He could talk "pretty" as he called it, but living his life in the Marine Corp motor pool in every 1/2 assed action his Corp had seen in the past 20 years, he was as untouchable as the Commandant of the Corp himself. He was foul mouthed, un-even tempered, and capable of working miracles and suggesting improvements that made their way to manufacturers who in turn, assured him he would make vast amounts of money when he left the Corp. Most of them didn't realize that they day he signed his DD-214 was the day Vulgar died inside. He missed the fight, but he'd be dammed if he let 'His Marines" ride in anything he hadn't personally signed off on. Its' just the way it was, no questions. "Well, I guess I gotta give ya a brand new one, cause I don't have any others available, but if you destroy this one, I'm gonna personally ban your ass for a month, and and and, you're going back to HtR asshat" Smiling, he got nose to nose with the Cpl and said in a much softer tone "you all right Rubble? you good to go still?" The Cpl looked at the G.Sgt and said "I'm good Chris...my bell was rung and I was a lil goofy, but I'm good now..Sorry Brother". Handing him the ignition and assorted manuals the Sgt. dismissed the Cpl. with a curt "Away to me" and turned to go back to his assorted train wrecks. The Cpl. smiled, got into the Stryker, and left 8 trails of rubber and a cloud of smoke nearly impenetrable on the motor pool pad, making The old Sgt. smile and shake his head "dumbass..."

On his way back to the FOB, the Cpl thought about nothing. He had that rare ability to just "be" and in fact, was in the beginning stages of shellshock. Six tours had left him a bit rattled, but so far, the shakes and terrors happened only at night, The corpman was able to get him some valiums, but keeping it on the "dl" meant they were precious,and only to be used when the meditation, walk,and obligatory vomiting didn't work. They were getting better. He no longer ever thought of when he'd get out of the Marine's. Since the death of his Wife in a car accident during his fourth tour, he signed up for extended duty in country, committed another 20yrs to the Corp. He had nothing or no one waiting "in the RL" so there was no reason to go anywhere else in his mind. It was one of the last things to go through his mind before a pair of RPG-7's tore through the same place in the Stryker, 4 seconds apart. The 1st RPG exploded on the "fence"or set of metal rails encircling the entire vehicle, designed to defeat the very thing that attacked the vehicle. The second one performed as advertised.The warhead detonated, forming a jet of molten steel that bored through the armor as if it didn't exist. Exiting into the air of the drivers compartment, the metal cooled immediately, forming shrapnel that then tore through the entire compartment, shredding the torso and head of the Cpl and causing shorts as the radios and electric systems were struck and destroyed..The Stryker ground to a halt in the middle of the road, and there it sat until a helicopter of the 1st Armored div. returning to base, noticed it not moving..unable to reach the vehicle by radio, they relayed the information to a army unit two blocks away who went to investigate. His remains were sent to the States two days later, where they remained in the care of the Marines, unclaimed,for five years before they were buried, with his brethren like him, dead and unclaimed, in a full military honors burial at Arlington National Cemetary. He got his final wish "to reside among his fellow warriors, until the final bugle call is sounded to announce the battle of good and evil, and the halls of Valhalla are filled with soldiers of all types, ready to fight once again" The Cpl attended his own funeral, pleased that he got the honors he felt a man who died in combat deserved...he then strode into the mist surrounding the rolling hills of graves of the warriors of the United States, got into a typically non-descript black, gov't issue, one, black sedan, and drove out of the cemetary and made a phone call "NOW I'm good to go V. C u in da pubz" and hanging up his phone, pointed the car westward.

Checking his VM, Chris got the message he waited to hear for it seemed an eternity. The Sgt,sitting next to him said, "Nice to know the last piece is in place and we can finally get to work". Chris nodded and said "I've had deaddrop msgs from him and all that but to finally hear the sonofabitches voice and know for sure he made it..wonder where he's been?". In fact, the Cpl had been in Sierra Leone for four years. After exiting the Stryker through the rear hatch, he performed his own "Mogadishu Mile" extraction. Four days, three carjackings, and three cold ass nights in the desert, he made his way to Saudi Arabia and using papers provided by some guy named Anon, he flew to France and without Fanfare, Recruit Pierre Montiseau was welcomed into the French Foreign Legion. Like deserters, criminals, and thrill seekers before him for time nearly untold, he served his time honorably, as he had done so before, now with a glint in his eye, for he now had a reason to live. A life waiting for him..A goal. The emptiness and vast cold he'd felt since his Wife had died was replaced with a new feeling. Rage. The chance to visit upon others what had been brought to him. He smiled as his new identity was handed to him and he walked out the door into the bright sunlight of a wonderful Paris spring day. Headed off to America to watch himself laid to rest. "See you when you get here, btw, you owe me for flowers" Chris hung up the phone and laughed "thats just wrong, making the man pay for his own funeral flowers"He then hit "Clifford, the big red bong" put on his headphones and said into the microphone "jea bitches, daddys back"