A Tribute to Troop 31815
I never got used to sweating at night. Middle of the day, under the blaze of the Iraqi desert sun, helmet and body armor a primitive dutch oven, sure, it made sense. But to have your t-shirt and underwear wet and stuck to your skin at two in the morning, somehow that was worse. Laden with gear and ruck sack, standing in a line of Marines waiting on a deafening tarmac to board a C-130, sweat in rivulets over my eyebrows and down my cheeks and tickling the tip of my nose, I admit it, I was miserable.