Personal Narrative: The United States Air Force

It was hot. I stood on the side of a dusty gravel road of southeast Texas feeling the sun press down on my neck and back. Underneath my helmet, sweat was slowly collecting on my forehead and moving down my cheeks as if to escape from the sweltering heat. The sweat left streaks in the camouflage paint that covered my face. From a distance, I thought my face must look like river tributaries, such as those seen from space. Braced across my back were a forty-pound duffle bag and my M-16 rifle that had been my kindred friend throughout the last seventy-two hours. Only six miles separated me from the relief of the relentless September sun. It was black-flag weather, too hot for any kind of outdoor activity, but for the United States Air Force, September 9th, 1999 was an exception to the rule.

The game was simple: defend our barracks against the cadre and stop them from learning our call signs and victory would be ours. It seemed simple enough, but the experience quickly turned into the cadre toying with us and picking each airman off with remarkable ease, just like a cat toys with a mouse before sending it to its untimely grave. We were the mice, and there was no chance of real victory against the bully-like