Chapter Eight – The rude awakening…
It wakes you like a punch to the gut. One moment you are asleep and the world is the steady drum of rain on tin; the next, the sky explodes and the compound becomes a thing of splinters and noise. Mortar rounds. The air tasted of wet dirt and metal the instant they started, like the jungle had been sliced open.
The first one hits short, right outside the hut. It throws up a wall of mud and water that slams into the rafters and makes the whole place shudder. I was up before I had properly understood, hands moving like they had been wired already. Boots on. Webbing clipped. Helmet on. The old reflexes that the sergeant had hammered into us in the rain did their job before my brain caught up.
“Contact! Contact front!” someone bellowed. The voice, half shout, half animal, came from outside, a hundred men’s worth of fear in each syllable.
I shoved my feet into soggy boots, grabbed my SLR where it leaned against the bunk. The metal was cold and slick; rainwater dripped from the barrel. My hands knew what to do: load, check, prepare. Training came back in a blink, as sharp as any whistle.
Check the magazine, fingers fumbling only for a second, insert. Pull bolt to the rear. Let it slam forward. Safety catch, to SAFE. Click. Then, instinctively, when you are running out into the noise, you do not want the safety on; but you do not want the rifle going off until you know where you are pointing. A whispered rule from basic: do not be the one who shoots when you should not. Flip the safety to FIRE only when you are settled and have a target.
My hands moved through the drill, magazine seated, cheek to the comb, front sight lined up in the rain. The weapon must point naturally at the target; your position and grip must support the weight. You can’t fight a rifle; you must marry it. The sight picture must be correct: front sight crisp, rear aperture framing it, target just in front of the post. Breathe. Hold. Squeeze. Follow through. I could hear it in my head like a sermon. I did not have time for sermons, but the motions were bone deep.
Outside the hut the world was a hell of sparks and shadow. Tracers stitched the air in pale threads. There were flashes in the tree line, muzzle flashes, the staccato signatures of weapons secondary to one another. Somebody screamed. Somebody shouted back. Mud spattered my face. My heart was a drumbeat in my throat.
To find out what happens you’ll need to read the full story available now on Amazon.
ryanmayodaily 
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