# FIBUA and heavy metal



## CyberWar (Sep 18, 2014)

It's Friday evening, and me and my best friend Smot are out to a heavy metal gig.

Smot is a nickname derived from his real name. As the lot of you may have noticed already, I strongly prefer to avoid real names where possible.

Smot and I are former school-mates. Back at high school, we didn't hang out together until somehow meeting up in the local bar years later and finding out that we have a lot of common interests, and a lot to talk about. Although he is good at mathematics and has studied engineering and IT, where I graduated high school with a thorough F in math and studied history, we both are interested in history, Norse mythology, strategy games and many other things. Smot is one of those rare guys which are best described as hybrids of jock and nerd - physically fit and imposing, with an alpha-male attitude, but intelligent at the same time. I sometimes laugh that I probably will never get rid of my inferiority complex if I continue to keep company like him. Being also good at conversation as well as at pretty much everything else he does, Smot is the single object of ladies' attention wherever we go, so I probably don't stand a chance of hooking up on a night out with him around - with his natural charm and my lack thereof, he makes a rather poor wingman. Not that I crave the affections of women much - certainly not the affections of the type that frequents the drinking establishments that we usually go to (mostly out of a lack of better places to frequent in our town). As I always say, I don't need women that I don't like and the ones that I like I will never get, so that pretty much settles the affair of chasing girls for me.

Still, Smot is a good friend who never refuses to help if I ask. His only downside is overconfidence and the habit to brag, especially when he drinks and with ladies to impress around. I've always held to the belief that pride comes before fall, a lesson that he must apparently still learn.

Anyway, me and my friend Smot are out for a heavy metal gig. It takes place in "Black Friday", the only dedicated heavy-metal club in Riga. The place has been visited by metal grands like Sabaton, Amon Amarth, Cannibal Corpse, Morbid Angel, Carach Angren and many more. Obviously, the patrons' all-time favourite is Skyforger, our very own native heavy-metal grand of worldwide renown.

On this night, we expect to be joined by Blondie, Katti, Ice - a former study mate of mine - and his new girlfriend. A friend of Smot's, going by the nickname of Goliath, also considered attending with us, but decided against it later. Folks call him Goliath not because he would be particularly huge and imposing (he's actually a rather mild-looking guy of average height, always well-dressed in a suit and tie), but because he used to always hang around with a friend named David.

Meeting up with Ice is particularly important, since we are gradually preparing for our former faculty's yearly hazing party - we will be assisting in the hazing ritual - so we must discuss how things have been going so far. Although Smot has never studied in the history faculty like me and Ice, he has been invited by us to join the fun.

The hazing rite in our faculty always follows the same traditional protocol - the seniors set up a series of history-themed posts reflecting different ages throughout the forest near the guesthouse where the party itself will take place, and groups of freshmen must navigate through them, enduring various ordeals and performing different tasks in each. The tasks and ordeals are usually reflective of the general theme of the respective post.

While we used to do Iron Age or Early Medieval periods in the past years, this year we've decided a change is in order and have signed up for the modern era instead. This year, we will be playing ISIS terrorists. Ice insists on maximum realism, such as minimal use of Latvian, replaced by English and basic Arabic, maximally-authentic dress and design of the post, complete with a Jihad banner and an old boom-box radio playing Islamist nasheeds. I've been tasked with procuring the necessary uniforms and weapons - high-powered firecrackers that only hunters and members of military and law enforcement are authorized to purchase, airsoft guns that look just like the real thing, and whatever else I can get my hands on.

On our way to Riga, we pick up a hitchiker, a girl who, according to herself, works in a casino and studies in the Academy of Arts. I'm busy eating my sandwich and drinking my beer, so Smot does all the talking with her. We let her off not far from our own destination.

We arrive outside Black Friday just after the official starting time of the gig. Since this is the season's opening gig, there are a whole six bands playing. We know from experience that the first ones are usually not very good, and we must wait for Ice and his lass anyway, so we just park the car, get out, turn on the music and pop open some beers.

I call Katti but she doesn't pick up at first. She calls me back in a few minutes and informs that she's injured her back in a martial arts training and won't be able to attend - a pity, really. I wish her to get better, since we have an exercise in the battalion tomorrow, and promise to tell her about the gig when we meet the next day if she feels well enough to attend.

I then call Blondie, but she doesn't pick up either. Happens rather often - though I understand she's a very busy woman, it does get annoying at times, considering how we had talked about going to this gig a week before.

Finally, Ice arrives.

"Sieg Heil!" he renders Nazi salute to me. I gleefuly return it and only then do we shake hands - there is, after all, a reason they call me Fascist in the battalion sometimes. It's our way of greeting - though neither one of us considers himself a Nazi, we both are very nationalistic, and both have spent our share of time around skinheads and the likes in our earlier youth, a fact that I personally am not ashamed to admit. I have grown to temper my views considerably since then, especially after learning that for the lot of the self-styled National Socialists, the idea of saving Europe and the White race revolves mainly around getting drunk, spray-painting swastikas on Jewish tombstones, beating up lone Blacks and Gypsies in a gang and generally behaving like loutish degenerates, things that clearly didn't fit with my idea of how real National Socialists and supposed members of a master race should conduct themselves. In my mind, a proper National Socialist was and still is a well-dressed and well-mannered man who fights his fight in parliaments, not in the streets, a likeness of the German officers, gentlemen with a sense of duty and honour, not a drunken boor whose only difference from other drunken boors is a pair of white-laced combat boots and a 14/88 tattoo.

Ice has a similar story, but greeting each other in this manner and telling a lot of mean race jokes that would make any politically-correct liberal fade in horror are the two things we both retain from our old days with the radical right. Not to mention that it's simply amusing as hell to watch how both of these activities upset the more politically-sensitive people around us.

Ice introduces his girlfriend to us. She doesn't leave any particular impression on me. She's the artistic type, according to Ice. We greet each other and with that my interactions with her end for the rest of the evening, save for a few brief exchanges, during one of which she notes my near complete lack of visible emotion.

We go inside and buy tickets just as the first band finishes playing. It takes a while for the next one to set up, a time useful to take a piss and buy a beer.

The next band starts their performance with a tribute to a recently-passed popular musician, a metal cover to one of his most popular songs. Frankly, I like this version even better than the original. This band performs reasonably well. When they are done an hour later, me, Ice and his lass go to the "gas chamber" for a smoke. Smot doesn't smoke, but joins us nonetheless for company.

The "gas chamber", as the name suggests, is Black Friday's smoking room. Due to poor design, it lacks any reasonable ventilation, so things tend to get pretty hazy in there when a lot of smokers are inside. So hazy, in fact, that you can very well get your fix of nicotine by just standing in there without ever lighting up.

We discuss the band's performance at first, until I and Ice move on to discussing strategy games, of which we both are big fans. Smot keeps company for Ice's girlfriend for a while, until they apparently grow tired of waiting on us and pretend to try and sneak away. Apparently motivated by jealousy, Ice promptly decides to follow before his latest trophy is picked away from him right before his eyes - something that Smot could do if he tried, even though I think he's not the kind of asshole that would actually try to steal the affections of a friend's woman.

The next band seems a bit stiff, but plays reasonably well. Ice certainly seems to like their music style, headbanging as much as his short hair allow. Since me and Smot both wear buzz-cuts, there ain't much point for us to headbang.

In the break between this and the next band, I call Blondie again.

"Hey, it's J.," I say, "Are you coming this evening or not?"

"To that gig? I don't know... I'm still at home. Are the bands any good?" Blondie doesn't seem certain.

"Blondie, you get that slender piece of ass of yours out of home, into the car seat and over here!" I grow impatient, "The gig is great, and the best band of the evening is about to play!"

"Aight, I'll be there soon," Blondie agrees, "By the way, I couldn't arrange for you to stay in the battalion overnight. There's a whole bunch of folks going to a shooting competition tomorrow sleeping in there, and the officer of the watch is also a real pain. She started whining about it being against regulations to open the battalion gate after 2200 hours, and didn't seem in the mood to argue. Besides I think you'll agree that our shooters need good rest."

This is bad news. I had planned on staying in the battalion after the gig until morning when the exercise begins. Now this means I have to go home with Smot and get up very early to make it on time.

"Hey, Smotty-boy," I turn to my friend, "just called Blondie!"

"What did she say?" he asks. I explain the situation.

"Me and my mother are going to our countryside house tomorrow," he says after a pause to think, "I could give you a lift along the way."

"Works for me. Whatever gets me there on time," I say.

The next band playing is called Urskumug. Sounds like the name of some Orkish warlord from a fantasy book to me. Of all the performers this evening, they are generally the best-known, so the public knows to expect a good show. The lead vocal strongly resembles Till Lindemann, leader of Rammstein, in attire and appearance, apparently a deliberate similiarity. Urskumug puts up a good performance in keeping with their reputation, the enthusiasts in the front forming a mosh-pit and two guys starting a play fight, almost knocking Smot down as they wrestle about.

Blondie shows up just afterwards, asking if she's missed anything, to which I sarcastically respond that she missed half of the gig.

The last two bands seem alright but nothing special to me, but Blondie seems to enjoy them, especially the last band called Green Novice, which is from Latgale and performs songs in their native Lettigallian dialect, distinct from other dialects of Latvian to the point of being considered a separate language although both tongues are mutually intelligible. Personally, I can't understand shit what these Lettigallians say sometimes. Blondie's family is also from that region, having a family farm over there. During our evening's conversations, she invites us over for the potato harvest - here it's a time-honoured tradition for farmers to invite relatives and friends over to help with the harvest in exchange for a bag or two of potatoes and throw a feast afterwards. While I'm whole-heartedly a city boy and not much into farm work, I don't mind the idea - I still get to do something fun with Blondie, I probably get a bag of potatoes for free, and I get to eat and drink homegrown food and homebrewed booze to my heart's content. Knowing Lettigallian hospitality and also their drinking prowess that is only matched by the Russians, a week or so of sore muscles sounds like an adequate price to pay, so I agree.

"Remember that time we got drunk at Katz's?" I ask her, "We should do that again sometime soon. Katti said she'd be in too. Maybe at my place, but I warn you - better take a week off afterwards on time. I take pride in having no friend ever leave my home sober."

"I remember," Blondie smiles, "It took me two days to sober up afterwards. When I woke up late at night I was still so wasted I just wandered the streets aimlessly and couldn't even remember where I parked my car. When I finally found it, I slept for another 12 hours in it before I felt sober enough to risk driving, and my next morning jog turned up very short as I could literally feel the booze still being in my system after a few dozen paces."

"Just one thing," I joke, referring to a certain incident at the French bar, "Next time, don't ask me if I'm gay in front of the guys."

"I asked you that?" she disbelieves, "Really? I must have been very drunk by then, because I don't remember doing that."

"Well, you didn't ask me directly, you commanded me to tell the truth and only truth when the guys asked about it," I quip, "But I certainly enjoyed giving you the answer."

Blondie blushes, now remembering what I'm talking about.

"Thanks for dragging me over her, J.," she says after a while, "This is a really good gig, I'm sorry I missed the beginning."

"Well, I'm not the type to attend shitty gigs, am I?" I say with quite a bit of pride. For some reason, I really like putting smile on Blondie's face.

---

The gig is over. Before we part our ways, I promise to bring Blondie a digital copy of an improvised explosives handbook tomorrow. Blondie says she won't hold it against me if I'm late for tomorrow's exercise. Me, Smot, Ice and his lass go to eat at Lion's House, a bistro that works 24 hours and serves good food at reasonable prices. We then drive Ice and his girlfriend over to her place and proceed on the long way back to our hometown.

Smot drives me to my home, and agrees to pick me up at 700 hours tomorrow when he leaves for his countryside house.

---

It's well past 800 when a phonecall from him wakes me up. Smot is late, having overslept the agreed time, but I don't hold the hour of extra sleep against him. I call Blondie to let her know I'll be late, and Smot drives me to the battalion.

When I arrive, it doesn't seem like I have missed much, people just getting warmed up doing various drills. After I change into uniform, I report in to Blondie, who is busy commanding a drill, and she instructs me to report to the watch officer who will issue me a rifle from the armory.

I do that, fetch my tactical vest and helmet already waiting for me in Blondie's office, and go outside where my squad is already doing a drill under tutelage of Sarge.

Today's exercise theme is FIBUA, armyspeak for "Fighting in Built-Up Areas", also known as "urban combat" to laymen. We will be studying the basics of "Jewess" - a set of urban tactics pioneered by Israeli Defense Forces, hence the name. Our first task is to practice going around corners, a critical skill in urban setting.

The right way to go around the corner during an urban battle involves carefully approaching a corner in a pair, the second man aiming over the head of the first, and taking a synchronous peek around the corner on the mark of the pointman, the first of the two. The pointman checks the street, room, hallway or whatever is around the corner, while his partner behind him must look for enemies upwards.

I team up with Hog, the big Lettigallian guy who is more about brawn than brain. Today is his birthday, so he keeps receiving phone calls to congratulate him and tries to pick them up and quickly answer them when the Sarge isn't looking. It annoys me a bit.

"Hey, Hog, if we go to war with the Russians, do you think the Pskov Paratroopers will care whether you have a phone call to answer?" I taunt him, referring to a Russian paratrooper division stationed in the city of Pskov not far from our borders and thus likely among our likeliest opposition in case of war. Hog laughs and agrees that I have a point.

Asides from me and Hog, there's also Katz, S., Roma, Kraut, Corporal D. who is appointed as our squad leader today, and one of the Oldies, the older men of our company in our squad today. S. and Roma, being the mouthiest lads, keep joking and laughing all the time, keeping the spirits up.

When Hog goes as my pointman, I notice he always pops out his head just as he gives the mark, before I'm ready, and remind him of that. He does his best, but still makes the same mistake often. When I'm on point, his usual mistakes are staying too far behind me so he doesn't fully see what's going on when we lean around the corner.

"Come on, Hog, squeeze as close as you can to me," I say, "I know you like girls, so it's not like I'm concerned about you trying to fuck me in the ass!"  The rest of the guys laugh.

"You shouldn't have told that aloud - if there's a homo among us, he might maliciously exploit your trust now!" Sarge remarks, prompting even more laughter.

After practicing the clearing of corners in both directions, going around one of the battalion's utility sheds, we beef up the exercise by doing it in a full squad. The first two are on point, checking corners, followed by a rifleman and the squad leader, then two more riflemen, all of them watching sides and roofs interchangeably, and the final two who cover the rear. The first of these two holds the last man by the belt, pulling him along since he must walk backwards, and telling him of any obstacles ahead or commands given by the squaddie. After each lap around the utility shed, the pointmen go to the rear so that everyone gets a try of every role in this task. Corporal D. occasionally leaves the squad to go ahead of us and see how well we remain concealed behind the corner just before we lean to take a peek, and commends me for staying well-covered.

"Great," S. remarks, "when we get to paintball, we should send these two buffalos ahead of us for cover!" Indeed, me and Hog are the tallest people in our squad.

"Hey, you were bragging about whacking Captain S. just minutes ago," Roma quips at him, "How about you go first instead and use that fat belly of yours as a flak jacket!"

Everybody obviously laughs.

After an hour or so, we get a break to rest, take a piss, refill our flasks and have a smoke. The weather is pretty warm today, so it gets hot pretty quickly and water flasks empty surprisingly quickly. After the break, we proceed across the battalion grounds to a different shed, where a new task awaits us.

We are received by Corporal T., to whom I will take the artistic liberty of assigning the nickname of Price, since he looks very much like Captain Price from Modern Warfare video games. He's an experienced instructor on par with Sarge, albeit more soft-spoken.

"Obviously, today you will be learning just the very basics of the basics. It takes two months of day-to-day training to learn these things properly, doing nothing but exercising this from dusk till dawn with a lunch break in between, so it's obviously impossible to cram everything you will need to know in a single day," he speaks, "So listen carefully and make the best use of your time here."

Price explains us our new task. In addition to clearing corners, we must now also clear the three rooms behind the two doors of the shed. A squad from Infantry company is exercising along with us, so we practice in different rooms. Since there are more in our squad who have done this last year, we take the more difficult side - the door with two rooms behind it, to be approached from the unwieldy left side. As each pair goes in, they change the arrangement of targets that one must spot and shout "BANG" at, so that the next pair does not know where to expect the opponent. Price observes us and tells "You're dead!" to anyone who doesn't notice the target and "bangs" it on time.

"If this was war, we'd all be fucked," I comment, "Why don't we just frag every room before going in?"

"Because fragging every room is an obsolete tactic," Price explains, "In modern wars, there's always the chance that some civvies might be hiding in there along with the enemy, and it takes a hell lot of grenades to frag every suspicious room too. Remember that in a real war, you won't be clearing huts like this one, but large city buildings with a lot of rooms to clear. Besides, as the First Chechen War attested against the Russians, this habit of fragging everything larger than a refrigerator can be used against you. The Chechens would place an unpinned grenade in a glass and leave it in the room, so that when the Russians fragged it, the blast shattered the glass and left an armed grenade rolling on the floor, giving a nasty surprise to the guys barging in, thinking the room is cleared for good."

Price is right. The said trap reminds me of a similar one used by Viet Cong and NVA against Americans, where they would secure a grenade's lever with a rubber band before pulling out the pin and hide it in their bamboo huts that the Yanks had a habit of torching with flamethrowers. With any luck, they would still be around, busy burning down the village, when the heat of fire would burn the rubber band, releasing the lever and sending a shower of flaming razor-sharp bamboo splinters along with conventional fragmentation at the intruders a few seconds later. Price is also right about civilians. Personally I wouldn't give two shits about collateral damage or civilian casualties in an enemy land, but since we are preparing for a defensive war, the said civilians are most likely going to be our own. Not to mention that habitually fragging civvies and later arguing that they should be proud of having had the privilege and honour to give their lives for the Fatherland just wouldn't cut it with the court-martial.

Our next task is aimed more at Corporal D., to teach him how to direct his squad in clearing a building properly. Since we don't have an unlimited supply of buildings in the battalion, and their layout is rather easily memorized, Price erects an improvised "building" by laying boards down on the ground to imitate walls, leaving a space here and there to imitate doorways. We must then clear this imaginary structure by D. assessing the situation from our reports and directing us as necessary.

We go through several different configurations, and Price seems satisfied - as much as he can be satisfied over the minimal amount of things we can learn in such a limited time. Then we are called to lunch.

---

D. assigns me to help with distributing the food, since every squad must delegate one man for the task, and I'm the only one of his guys conveniently nearby. I don't much mind it, since I've never been on mess duty before.

For lunch, we have soup, rice, some salad with lots of mayonaise and peas, cream with dills for sauce and a nice slab of chicken breast, with orange juice to wash it all down. By the time we are done handing out the food, there's not much left for ourselves, but enough to make do.

---

After lunch, we rest briefly and move on to the next exercises.

This time my squad falls under the tutelage of Corporal Vaseline. It is obviously not his formal nickname, but a well-deserved one nonetheless for his habit of brown-nosing to his superiors - evidently, some form of lubrication would be necessary to stick one's head so deep into the asses of one's superiors, figuratively speaking.

Vaseline is a generally unpleasant character - arrogant, authoritarian, glory-hounding, and a sycophant and hypocrite at that, never missing a chance to pull his rank to demonstrate his superiority, often simply to conceal his own incompetence, the kind of guy people in the Guard and Army call a "two-stripe general" and the kind of guy who would likely get a frag tossed under his bunk at night in a real war. Roma and a few other new guys in our company specifically transferred away from Infantry to avoid being under his command. Considering how Roma is constantly wise-cracking and joking while Vaseline takes a rather authoritarian and humorless approach, no wonder they didn't get along. His girlfriend is also a corporal in the Infantry company. She's a rather decent lass and a distant relative of mine at that, so I can't help but wonder what she has found in a prick like Vaseline.

Vaseline instructs us in the art of properly turning to face enemy contact while patrolling in a city. It sounds much simpler than it actually is. First, you must always keep your left leg (right in the case of left-handed people) in front of you for stable shooting. As you turn, you must drag your foot along the ground without lifting it to avoid stepping on unstable rubble that could upset your stance as soon as you fire the first shot. You must stand with your knees bent, your feet not too far or close apart, so that a sudden explosion doesn't knock you over while you are ready to jump or drop at any moment while presenting a lower profile to the enemy. You must shove your gun forward with force as you raise it, and slam it into your shoulder as you shoulder it to aim to compress the flak vest and shoulder your gun tightly, or the recoil might compromise your aim after the first shot in an improperly shouldered gun - I tested this firsthand in an identical exercise last year, where we would use live rounds in the end practice, doing rather poorly because of constantly forgetting to slam the rifle-butt into my shoulder.

All these small but important things of proper stance and movement can only be learned in one way - drill, drill and more drill.

We are given a short break after a while, taking shelter in the shadows of trucks in the car park we exercise in. Our next exercise is reaction to contact. We walk in two groups in the space between lines of parked trucks that imitates a street, spread out like we would be on a real patrol. When Vaseline gives command, each of us is supposed to either run up to his partner, who kneels, using him as partial cover, or kneel and be used as cover ourselves, depending on which direction the contact is coming from. Vaseline also orders the kneeling men to try and stand up before giving "all clear" command, to see if their partners remember the instruction to keep them down with force if necessary, a necessary measure against panic in a combat situation.

After another break, Vaseline gives us a new task - the "zipper", our argot for organized retreat from contact.

As he begins to draw the schematic of the task on the ground, Tyomka, the Ukrainian lad from the Infantry company remarks: "We'll be doing the zipper now, right?"  Vaseline, being extremely aware of his authority, perceives this as an interruption and personal affront, and immediately proceeds to berate him.

"Who's in fucking charge here, me or you?! You care to explain the subject to your comrades in my stead?!" he snaps at Tyomka.

"Uh... no, sir!" 

"Then keep your damn mouth shut while I talk! If you have questions or suggestions, I'll give you word when I'm done!" 

While Vaseline is right about Tyomka having spoken out of turn, any other instructor, even the Sarge who is very strict when it comes to training, would have simply reminded him to wait with his questions. I notice that he's drawn a part of the schematic wrong, but since it's Vaseline running the show today, I'm clever enough to keep it to myself.

I don't pay much attention to what Vaseline speaks, since I know the drill, our squad having done it many times before.

The goal of the "zipper" is orderly retreating from contact ahead beyond enemy reach. The patrol walks in a checkerboard formation in two columns, each taking the opposite side of the street. When shots are fired, everyone takes what cover is available, hugging the walls, and the pointman legs it for the rear while the one after him, who would stand a few paces behind and on the opposite side of the street in this formation, lays down suppressive fire. As soon as the first runner is somewhere in the middle, this coverer also stands up and runs, the next behind taking his place in suppression. Others are allowed to shoot at targets of opportunity, but obviously must take care not to hit their own comrades running back. In this manner that resembles the action of a zipper, the entire squad or platoon retreats until safe.

After a few ordinary runs, Vaseline spices up the exercise by having us reload our guns, preferably while on the move. It's challenging at first, though I quickly get a hang of it.

By the next break, word comes from the Sarge that we are to report to the Bunker, an abandoned fallout shelter just outside the battalion that now houses some of the battalion's utilities, where we will have to demonstrate what we have learned today in a paintball match, clearing a number of practice targets and two or three live opponents out of the bunker in 15 minutes.

"So, did your grasp of this improve today?" Vaseline asks.

"I don't know. Will we have to write any tests on this?" Roma, who's been constantly joking and laughing all the while, innocently asks.

"Yeah, you will. You can start yours by dropping down and giving me 20, wise guy!" Vaseline says venomously, apparently holding some private grudge against Roma beyond his mouthing off, "Go on, take off your hat and vest so you don't get too hot, put your rifle on your palms..."

As Roma goes down with a sheepish grin to do his 20, Vaseline adds: "Rifle on your palms, I said! 20 more to improve your memory."

---

After having a smoke, attending the toilet and filling up our flasks with water, we are told to proceed to the Bunker. We debate what roles should we take in the coming exercise.

"You and Hog should go first," Roma remarks, "You seemed to do well with the corners!"

"Sure, we'll go ahead and be the heroes," I say with sarcasm, "Just remember, you ain't gonna become a hero in a real war standing in the rear, it's gonna be guys like us who lead the charge and get all the medals afterwards. Posthumously."

"No thanks, my life is quite an adequate decoration to get away with," Roma says.

"Look at it on the bright side - the first one to die will be able to warm up seats in Valhalla for the rest! Think of it - an eternity of drinking, partying and loving pretty girls whose very purpose of existence is being screwed by brave heroes every night," I speak.

"I think I'll pass, there's quite enough booze, parties and pretty girls for me right here in this world," Roma says, "Frankly I don't get why the hell would you or anyone want to die for any reason."

"Hey, I don't want to die anymore than you or any other guy, but the Bony Lady never walks away empty-handed anyway, so why be concerned over it and at least not enter her embrace for a real good reason, upright and fighting," I say.

"Wow, you guys really know how to pick a positive subject," Corporal D. comments on our conversation. By now we have reached the Bunker. Captain S. and a few instructors are there, supervising the exercise, while several squads wait outside for their turn.

We sit down and do nothing for a while, joking and goofing off as we usually do. This leads to us coming to the conclusion that our company emblem shouldn't be a boar, but a clown, since the Russians would probably laugh all their way to Atlantic Coast after seeing us. A psychotic clown with an evil grin, so that it looks at least a little bit intimidating and maybe even put a little scare in small children and old ladies.

Katz asks me for my headscarf that I promised to give him before to protect his neck, since the paintball masks leaves the lower parts unprotected. I have a shemagh around my neck, so that is no worry for me. Roma and S. discuss how to protect their balls from painful paintball strikes, proposing silly solutions like putting a flattened juice pack in their pants.

"It's going to fall right down your breeches," I propose in jest, "How about you just put that warm cover for the flasks over your balls and pecker like a jock strap instead!" 

Everyone, already laughing, laughs even more hysterically when Roma counter-proposes to just stick one's pecker inside the flask, provided it fits through, although getting a hard-on from the friction would obviously be a drawback. The squad of rooks from the Infantry sitting next to us laughs hysterically as well.

"You guys really should change your emblem to a clown," one of them remarks.

After a while, I come to think that reviewing our strategy for the last time would be a good idea and bring this up with D.

"Maybe we shouldn't just sit around here goofing off like idiots but discuss the plan, so there are no sudden fuck-ups afterwards," I speak, having noticed how Captain S. berated the last squad that made serious mistakes inside the bunker.

D. agrees and gets everyone around, drawing up a rough plan of the bunker's layout. We discuss whom to leave behind to guard the key points, in what order to clear the rooms and hallways. Blondie comes by and explains us more about the task, which we also take note of.

---

Finally, it is our turn. We are issued face masks and paintball guns, we fill them up and test-fire them at nearby concrete slabs. Much to my chagrin, Waldja has left a few hours early, meaning I won't be able to exact my little revenge on him here and today. S. is more disappointed that Captain S. will not be in the opposition - apparently suspecting someone harboring a grudge against him, he has assumed the role of the supervisor today, going in with a green vest and minimal protection to ensure that nobody shoots at him.

The mask is tight and I have trouble fitting on my head. I'm more concerned about the condensate though - Gypsy still remembers what happened to his hand the last time I had trouble seeing anything. Since there aren't enough flashlights and most of us haven't brought our own, not knowing for certain what the exercise will be, we have to make do with two per squad. I assume my position behind Hog and wait for the go signal.

"Let's show our captain how it's done! Ha-ooh!" I exclaim, pumping my fist in the air as we go in. I say so because Blondie is coming with us as a supervisor, taking note of our mistakes for later review.

---

The first few rooms are empty, until a burst of paintballs from one cuts our advance short. I and Hog take cover behind corners and fire blindly around them to suppress the enemy. When no further shots come out even as we peek around the corner, it seems safe enough to give "clear". This bunker has a hallway around it's circumference, and we are restricted to operating only in the inner hallways and rooms, while our opponents can freely travel around beyond our reach and emerge in almost any room, constantly keeping us on guard.

As expected, condensation sets in quickly, clouding my view so I am soon completely blind. The fact that we only have two flashlights and there's no power in much of the bunker doesn't make things any better, so I ask whoever is behind me at the moment to hold on and cover me while I take off my mask to wipe the condensate away. Constantly expecting a paintball to my temple or face doesn't make things any more comfortable.

We clear our designated area without much further incident, whacking a few paper targets, the enemy giving no further sign of themselves after two brief contacts. That changes just before the exit, when a well-aimed burst hits Hog in the side, forcing us into cover, blind-firing in attempt to suppress.

Our opponent, who later turns out to be Vaseline, has chosen this spot well. There's a low board wall in the middle of the room, behind which he can safely hide and fire over it with a certainty of hitting whoever strays in front of the door, adjusting his aim by peeking between the boards. We, on the other hand, are crammed into a narrow hallway - even with me and Hog on both sides of the door trying vainly to suppress, there's just no way anyone can squeeze past us quickly enough to avoid the streams of paintballs flying at them. Still, we try, the wet slaps of paintballs and exclamations of profanities marking direct hits. After everyone is through, I must go last. As I attempt a quick dodge across the deadly gap, I feel the impact on my side, the yellow dye splashed on my sleeve signifying a hit.

Outside, we compare our wounds. Everyone has been hit at least once. I have taken a hit on my right side just above the magazine pouch.

"Had this been a real bullet, the bastard would have hogged up my liver," I remark, "That would mean no more drinking for sure..."

"Looks like they also shot you a new one!" S. starts laughing, pointing at my backside. Other guys take a look and join in the fun.

"Really? Did they get me in the ass? I didn't feel a thing..." I say. It must indeed have been a grazing impact or ricochet.

"Nope, it sure looks like a direct hit," Katz examines my other "wound", "They got you straight in the ass, right between the cheeks!"

"Oh well," I say, "at least I wouldn't be having any constipation problems with another butthole!"

---

Blondie comes to us to discuss our mistakes and seems content. Generally speaking, we did everything by the book, save for the very end where an opponent got us all in a choke-point near the exit. We proceed to the battalion to clean and turn in our rifles that have been waiting for us outside while we cleared the bunker. Smot calls me and offers me a ride home, since he just happens to be driving back from his country house.

An hour later, I'm sitting in his car, tired but happy and with another good story to tell.


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## Elvenswordsman (Sep 23, 2014)

I suppose it's non-fiction, but you tend to tell your stories like a male.

"This. That. This. That." - very factual (I suppose that's what non-fic is), but it seems to keep my brain from getting immersed in the story.

Check this link out, kind of a funny way of looking at it.

I like the format of the piece, and I'm happy you've used enough description in your writing. Also, you're using lots of different speech describers, which is greatly enjoyed.

Keep writing, and thanks for sharing.


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## CyberWar (Sep 23, 2014)

Thanks for the feedback. I figure a straighforward to-the-point writing style kind of belongs with non-fictional accounts of actual events. 

 Nice story in that link you provided - illustrates how things are very accurately. I remember reading an article a while ago that compared male and female shopping habits, comparing men to cheetahs who go in with the goal to fetch something particular, get their prey and get out, and women to boars that take their time to eat their fill and dig around to see if there's more of something delicious to be found.


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## Elvenswordsman (Sep 23, 2014)

It's funny to note the differences between males and females, especially when they're something contentious.


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