The top stair.

Recovery day, we have been running for almost a month on five hours a sleep a night. Every day a new challenge, a skill to be learned, practiced and tested on. The body gets in the groove. Then the recovery day hits. Wake up at 0600, formation at 0800. Like running up a set of stairs and thinking there is one more. The higher the rank the worse the shock. If I am getting five hours of sleep then SFC Big Daddy is getting four. Half the Platoon Sergeants have gone down with some sort of creeping awful flu.

SFC Big Daddy has been hit by the flu, worked through it and now paces the barracks like a caged lion. Like a cadged lion with a tooth ache. Worse, a cadged lion with a tooth ache and a sense of humor, and someone left the door to the cadge open. He prowls, paces and teases. In true military fashion he begins with the squad leaders. Then he paces down the bay looking for a team leader of opportunity. Then he paces back to the squad leaders.

I have seen cases where this behavior has caused soldiers to find things to do to get out of sight repeated vehicle maintenance, or long classes in how to move tactically. It says something about Big Daddy that the NCOs smile, and respond then he moves on. SFC Big Daddy isn’t the only one having trouble adjusting to recovery. The squad leaders go down stairs, and check on the enlisted. Weapon inspections and accountability stuff.

I wonder how the other platoons are doing. The army in its infinite wisdom has provided a day for us to get caught up on sleep, clean our gear and do laundry. After days the stretched from 0500 to 2300 it is a god send. I pick up my boom stick and pat myself down for required items. Orders, MEDEVAC card and casualty feeder report card in the left shoulder pocket along with my teams sensitive item serial numbers? Check. Reflective belt that is required wear between 1900 and 0700 in left ankle pocket? Check. Wallet? Check. Pack of cigarettes in the right ankle pocket? Check. Spare pack in right shoulder pocket? Check. I wander down stairs and suggest that PFC Mighty Mouse and newly promoted SPC Diabetes (a silent killer) go and do laundry. Then out the door I roll.

Smokers are the back channel communication of the modern army. Exiled to porches or, in some cases roped off areas at the edge of the living area the swap lies and tell tales. I roll up to the first one, bum a light, loan a smoke and listen to the griping. I immediately feel even better than my platoon. Sure they are cleaning weapons and squaring away gear. But the are cleaning weapons to a turn in standard. There is normal clean, free from carbon and lightly oiled. Then there is armory inspection clean. No carbon or oil anywhere on the weapon. Thousands of bore patches and pipe cleaners are sacrificed on the alter of an armory inspection. The M16 series has dozens of nooks and crannies where carbon hides.

I finish the smoke and get the roll on again. Mighty Mouse and Diabetes walk by with bags of laundry. Good troops, they took the hint. As a side note all they had to do was wipe down their weapons, they cleaned them a piece at a time every night since we last fired. The biggest gift a leader can have is competent subordinates.

I keep the roll on, stopping by, smoking and joking listening, learning. Then head back to the cadge with the Lion. The grass is not always greener, sometimes it is the red of poison oak. I get back in time for SFC Big daddy to call a formation just to see how long it takes. The troops don’t grumble, it takes five minutes and they are back to cleaning and watching movies on the ubiquitous lap top.