7, 2016
Bishop watched the clear drop of perspiration fall from his nose, the bead landing on the side of his weapon. Accelerated by gravity, the small bubble trickled down the trigger guard, past the grip, and then hesitated at the cliff-edge of the carbine. Don’t do it , he mentally warned the droplet, it’s suicide .
Ignoring his plea, it fell to the sandy earth between his boots, joining several of its brethren already gathered there, a small circle of damp soil evidence of their collaborative journey.
Better sweat than blood , he thought, studying the miniature battle taking place between his feet. The liquid generated to cool his body was in a desperate struggle down there – a campaign to hold a tiny beachhead of discolored West Texas desert. The fluid was losing, evaporation overwhelming the invader, absorption mopping up the wounded.
There was just no way the sweat can win , he observed. The sun was too hot, the soil too vast and dry. Ever fighting for the underdog, he adjusted his exhausted body, covering the damp spot with his shadow, probably providing false hope for the soon to be routed forces below. It wouldn’t make any difference in the long run.
Bored with the one-sided conflict, Bishop raised his gaze and studied the ragtag group of men scattered around him. He couldn’t help but draw the analogy, likening his comrades to the perspiration, about to face an enormously superior force. Don’t do it , he wanted to warn his friends, it’s suicide .
War drums were sounding on the horizon, his tribe preparing for a conflict that they had little hope of winning. It’s suicide , he wanted to scream at the top of his lungs. Thousands are going to die on both sides, and in the end, we can’t win.
Knowing they wouldn’t listen, Bishop held his consul.
The thirty men surrounding him had been hiking all morning, gradually gaining altitude as they progressed through the Davis Mountains of West Texas. The combination of thin air, a hot day, and the heavy, backbreaking loads carried in their packs was taking a toll.
Nick’s booming voice interrupted Bishop’s thoughts. “Two minutes, ladies,” the big ex-operator warned. “We’ll do another three miles and then break for chow. Wine will not be served.”
Bishop watched as his dear friend, their instructor for the day, sauntered over and took a knee. “You doing okay, buddy?” Nick asked.
“Yeah. I’m holding my own,” Bishop replied.
“It’s only been five months since you died on the operating table, brother. That was one nasty-ass wound you took, and I don’t want to see you overdo it. Besides, Terri will kick my butt if I carry you off this mountain suffering from a relapse.”
Bishop ignored the reference to his overprotective wife, instead motioning to the other men with his head. “They’re not soldiers, Nick. They’re shopkeepers and farmers. They barely exercise proper muzzle discipline, much less realize the importance of things like noise control or bounding in an advance. I’m worried they will come out of this class thinking they can actually engage the military, and we both know that overconfidence can be deadly. In a way, that little episode with the convoy may come back and bite us.”
Nodding his head and then lowering his voice, Nick replied, “I know, but what choice do we have? I ask myself every day if the Minutemen had the same doubts when they were facing the British during the Revolutionary War.”
“If the US Army comes rolling out of Fort Bliss with 300 Abrams battle tanks, we’ll be in a lot worse shape than those guys ever were. The British didn’t have helicopter gunships and thermal imaging.”
“No, but the Afghans held out against the Russians and us, despite all of our advanced weapons. It can be done,” Nick countered.
“I know it can… but at what cost? The Mujahidin had 1600 years of warfare under their belts and were tough as iron spikes. They still fell by the tens of thousands,
Bishop watched the clear drop of perspiration fall from his nose, the bead landing on the side of his weapon. Accelerated by gravity, the small bubble trickled down the trigger guard, past the grip, and then hesitated at the cliff-edge of the carbine. Don’t do it , he mentally warned the droplet, it’s suicide .
Ignoring his plea, it fell to the sandy earth between his boots, joining several of its brethren already gathered there, a small circle of damp soil evidence of their collaborative journey.
Better sweat than blood , he thought, studying the miniature battle taking place between his feet. The liquid generated to cool his body was in a desperate struggle down there – a campaign to hold a tiny beachhead of discolored West Texas desert. The fluid was losing, evaporation overwhelming the invader, absorption mopping up the wounded.
There was just no way the sweat can win , he observed. The sun was too hot, the soil too vast and dry. Ever fighting for the underdog, he adjusted his exhausted body, covering the damp spot with his shadow, probably providing false hope for the soon to be routed forces below. It wouldn’t make any difference in the long run.
Bored with the one-sided conflict, Bishop raised his gaze and studied the ragtag group of men scattered around him. He couldn’t help but draw the analogy, likening his comrades to the perspiration, about to face an enormously superior force. Don’t do it , he wanted to warn his friends, it’s suicide .
War drums were sounding on the horizon, his tribe preparing for a conflict that they had little hope of winning. It’s suicide , he wanted to scream at the top of his lungs. Thousands are going to die on both sides, and in the end, we can’t win.
Knowing they wouldn’t listen, Bishop held his consul.
The thirty men surrounding him had been hiking all morning, gradually gaining altitude as they progressed through the Davis Mountains of West Texas. The combination of thin air, a hot day, and the heavy, backbreaking loads carried in their packs was taking a toll.
Nick’s booming voice interrupted Bishop’s thoughts. “Two minutes, ladies,” the big ex-operator warned. “We’ll do another three miles and then break for chow. Wine will not be served.”
Bishop watched as his dear friend, their instructor for the day, sauntered over and took a knee. “You doing okay, buddy?” Nick asked.
“Yeah. I’m holding my own,” Bishop replied.
“It’s only been five months since you died on the operating table, brother. That was one nasty-ass wound you took, and I don’t want to see you overdo it. Besides, Terri will kick my butt if I carry you off this mountain suffering from a relapse.”
Bishop ignored the reference to his overprotective wife, instead motioning to the other men with his head. “They’re not soldiers, Nick. They’re shopkeepers and farmers. They barely exercise proper muzzle discipline, much less realize the importance of things like noise control or bounding in an advance. I’m worried they will come out of this class thinking they can actually engage the military, and we both know that overconfidence can be deadly. In a way, that little episode with the convoy may come back and bite us.”
Nodding his head and then lowering his voice, Nick replied, “I know, but what choice do we have? I ask myself every day if the Minutemen had the same doubts when they were facing the British during the Revolutionary War.”
“If the US Army comes rolling out of Fort Bliss with 300 Abrams battle tanks, we’ll be in a lot worse shape than those guys ever were. The British didn’t have helicopter gunships and thermal imaging.”
“No, but the Afghans held out against the Russians and us, despite all of our advanced weapons. It can be done,” Nick countered.
“I know it can… but at what cost? The Mujahidin had 1600 years of warfare under their belts and were tough as iron spikes. They still fell by the tens of thousands,
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