Creative Writing: Meatwagon

It was a prayer interrupted only by the sound of inbound rotor blades beating the air and jet engines roaring into the valley.
“Come on Two Six Romeo, get the hell out of here. Over to the L.Z.,” the Sarge called with a pleased grin on his face.
With ordinances exploding all around, the ISIS fighters disappeared. Choppers on their heels blazed away with heavy automatic fire. The replacement rescue helicopter came down feet from the ground. He wouldn’t set down permitting a speedy peel away if needed.
“Your ride awaits gentlemen,” “Wildman,” called from the cockpit.
“Let’s get the hell out,” repeated Brooks.
The thud of the rotor blades plus the safety of the armor floor signaled relief to grateful soldiers. On the way back to base, they shared the story of

If they don’t like it, tell them I said to stick it up their ass.”
The rest headed for the debriefing room. Often soldiers detest the debriefing process. These veteran warriors were no different. At times, the briefer comes over like a police investigator leaving the soldiers to wonder what side they are on.
For the next 72 hours, they were on stand-down. Most of the time they spent with Meatwagon who will recover quickly. They will ship him out, but he’ll be back on the line in thirty days. They hoped no replacement would come in. Getting used to new blood in the field is dangerous.
Tank had turned in early when a knocking on the door aroused him. Then a voice.
“Sergeant Brooks, you there?”
“Crap,” he whispered to himself. Quickly he put on his shirt.
“Be right there,” he called out opening the door in a way that none could see into his untidy Hooch.
“Sarge, you’re wanted over at Command Ops, ASAP.”
“I’ll be right there, just need to wash my face,” he replied.
Following his meeting with the Colonel, he raced away to find the other team members. He found them at the USO Club.
“Hey fellas, you’re not going to believe this. We’re going