Brothers in Arms
#1 of Brothers In Arms
Tim unlaced his boots, "I hate this, the sand, the heat, the endless patrolling." He picked up his boot and tapped it on the side of the chair he was sitting on, prompting a shower of sand to fall beside him. He looked up at his squad, his friends, his family.
"The thing that gets me is trying to get it out of my fur, I mean, once it's in, it never comes out." Pte. George 'Tank' Faraday moaned, scratching at his chest. The Husky was seven foot nothing, and built like a tank, thus his nickname.
The fire team was part of Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry, 3rd Brigade, Mechanized infantry, 2nd Platoon, Charlie squad, fire team 3. Based out of Kandahar, their job's patrolling the area in and around the afflicted regions, making sure the area is safe for the citizens. So far, they hadn't seen anything even worthy of their presence, but they heard all the stories of the other battalions, so they kept their eyes open.
Cpl. Robert 'Lewis' Spall, the gun nut of fireteam 3, was sitting at the only table in the tent, with the dis-assembled weapons of the fireteam in front of him, cleaning and oiling them. "I'm not going to say it," The 6'3" Ferret grumbled as his fingers manipulated the bolt release on his C7. " it was old the first time, now it's just pathetic. Slamming a fresh magazine into Tims' C7 he tossed it across the tent, where the Skunk caught it in his off hand, then leaned it against his cot.
"That's what she said!" the rest of the fireteam chorused, in a joke as old as their platoon. There probably wasn't a more murderous Ferret in the entire Canadian Army at that point. Lewis turned around and whipped a casing at the snoozing Master Corporal.
It bounced off his helmet and rolled down his shirt, prompting MCpl. Hank 'Bomber' Shroud to jump up and dance trying to get the spent brass out of his shirt. "COLD, COLD, COLD!" He shouted, jumping around the tent. Tank at this point was rolling around on the floor laughing hysterically. Sgt Tim 'Napoleon' Moreau was simply leaning back on his chair, trying to read his book.
At that point, the Platoon Leader burst in and shouted something that would make an Irishman blush. "GET YOUR BLOODY EXCUSE OF A FIRETEAM UNDER CONTROL SARGEANT OR I WILL PERSONALLY RIP YOUR TESTICLES OFF AND FEED THEM TO YOU THROUGH YOUR NOSTRILS!" This outburst simply made the Husky laugh harder, prompting a kick in the head from Moreau.
"Sorry Boss, he missed his meds again." Napolean said. "It wont happen again... Soon." The exasperated Platoon leader, a decorated veteran of the Gulf War, just shook his head and left the tent. A moment later, Tank burst out laughing again, seemingly impervious to the blunt force trauma Tim was applying to his skull with a boot. "SHUT UP YOU INBRED COCKAMONY!" Tim mocked the Platoon leaders voice, which just made the Husky laugh harder.
Hank just leaned back into his cot, trying to catch up on some much needed sleep. Hs rest was promptly interrupted by a flying 870MCS 12 gauge shotgun he traded an American soldier for. The three kilo weapon made an audible 'smack!' as it hit the black cat in the gut. "You know, throwing loaded weapons around a tent like this is a gross breach of conduct" he wheezed.
"What are you going to do, sue me?" Spall intoned, as he finished assembling the fireteams LMG, an FN Minimi, too heavy to throw, he simply dropped it onto the still laughing Faraday. "And last but certainly heaviest", he said as he dropped it.
"Come on guys, we got patrol in the morning, we're going to need the rest." The Skunk said, getting into his own cot. "You know the drill, we get up at?" he asked.
"O' dark and stupid" The squad shot back. It was certainly going to be an interesting day tomorrow, Tim thought as he drifted into dreams of his wife back home and their unborn son.