STRYKER SANDWICH |
October 31, 2007
Name: The Usual Suspect
Posting date: 10/31/07
Stationed in: Iraq
Milblog url: theunlikelysoldier.blogspot.com
It was yet another boring horrible mind numbing monotonous nauseating suckfest of a day, repetitive and relentless with more than a dash of dull. I was sitting in the back of the Stryker, looking at my assault pack, holding my radio with a complete and absolute disdain that would melt the face off of any average Hot Topic goth wannabe.
Being that we were undermanned, I was the only one actually sitting down. I contemplated standing in the unoccupied air guard hatch. My friend was in the other. After a careful bout of deliberation (a solid three seconds), I decided no, I would not follow that course of action. I was going to be walking around with that radio on my back all day long, and to be honest, I'm a whiny little baby.
So I slouched on the bench while my ass went steadily numb, and I hooked my hand through one of the straps hanging from the ceiling. It held my wrist like an untightened noose. We slowed or stopped or something, and all this dust started pouring through the hatches.
"Wow, that's a lot of dust," I thought, and was immediately thrown in the direction of the front of the truck.
I stopped, pondered. Felt like I had almost maybe been close to pulling a muscle in my arm, nothing more. So what the hell was that? Did we get blown up? Was I so disoriented that my mind processed the dust before it could grasp the impact or explosion or whatever the hell that was? Can't be, because it wasn't quite like that when we got blown up on top of that house... so what then?
A second impact buried my face in my assault pack again. It was now obvious that motor vehicles of some sort were striking us. But come on, our own trucks? That can't be.
My friend is writhing around inside the truck, apparently in pain. I don't know, I guess it hurts when a massive military vehicle rear-ends you doing 30-40 miles an hour. But that's probably just hearsay.
Everyone's yelling at each other, "Is everyone all right?" and all that other AllState commercial gibberish. I decide that perhaps I should stand up in the hatch, since my compadre is banged up, and I don't feel like being yelled at.
"Whoa, don't drop the ramp," I told the driver. "Our ass end is like... on top of their truck."
What had happened was we were about to cross over a median to the other side of the road, but a separate convoy was oncoming, so we stopped on the median to let them pass. This was a dusty area, and it kicked up a brownout. The other two trucks didn't see us stop, so the second nailed us, and the third managed to slow down before smashing the second up.
A friend of mine from one of the other trucks cut his forehead pretty deep and had to be checked out for concussion and whatnot, but he's fine now, munching on percocet and watching Spongebob or something. The other guy is doing well too, just a bit stiff.
The cages on the trucks took a pretty severe beating, but it was amazing how little damage the Strykers actually took. So uh...thanks for the tax dollars. They seem to be keeping my ass quite safe.