American Sniper - Boekje Pienter

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laid them out on the door. That made a semi-comfortable, elevated
bed to lie on while working the gun. A rolled mat gave us a place to
rest the end of our guns on.
We opened the window and were ready to shoot.
We decided we’d work three hours on, three hours off, rotating
back and forth. Ray took the first watch.
I started rummaging through the complex to see if I could find any
cool shit—money, guns, explosives. The only thing I found worth acquisitioning
was a handheld Tiger Woods golf game.
Not that I was authorized to take it, or even did take it, officially. If
I had taken it, I would have played it the rest of the deployment. If I’d
done that, it might explain why I am actually pretty good at the game
now.
If I had taken it.
I got on the .300 Win Mag in late afternoon. The city I was looking out
at was brownish-yellow and gray, almost as if everything was shaded
the light sepia of an old photograph. Many, though not all, of the
buildings were made of bricks or covered with stucco in this same color.
The stones and roadways were gray. A fine mist of desert dust
seemed to hover over the houses. There were trees and other vegetation,
but the overall landscape looked like a collection of dully painted
boxes in the desert.
Most of the buildings were squat houses, two stories high, occasionally
three or four. Minarets or prayer towers poked out of the grayness
at irregular intervals. There were mosque domes scattered
around—here a green egg flanked by a dozen smaller eggs, there a
white turnip glinting white in the sinking sun.