American Sniper - Boekje Pienter

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“Look, babe, I can’t tell you where I’m going, but I’m going to be
gone for a while,” I said. “Watch the news and you’ll figure it out. I
don’t know when I’m going to be able to talk to you again.”
That was going to have to do for a while.
IT BEGINS
On the evening of November 7, I squeezed into a Marine amtrac with
a dozen Marines and a few SEALs, all keyed up for battle. The big armored
vehicle rumbled to life, and slowly moved toward the head of a
massive procession of armor heading out of camp and north of the
city, into the open desert.
We sat knee to knee on benches facing each other in the barebones
interior. A third row had been squeezed into the middle of the
compartment. The AAV-7A1 wasn’t exactly a stretch limo; you might
try not to crowd out the guys on either side of you, but there was only
so much you could do. Tight wasn’t the word. Thankfully, just about
everyone inside with me had showered recently.
At first, it was cold—this was November, and to a Texas boy it felt
like deep winter—but within a few minutes the heater was choking us
and we had to ask them to crank it down. I put my ruck down on the
floor. With my Mk-11 propped between my legs and my helmet on the
butt, I had a makeshift pillow. I tried to nap as we moved. Close your
eyes, and time moves faster.
I didn’t get all that much sleep. Every so often I glanced toward
the slit windows in the rear door, but I couldn’t see past the guys sitting
there. That wasn’t much of a loss—all they could see was the rest
of the procession, a haze of dust, and a few patches of empty desert.