American Sniper - Boekje Pienter

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want to let those people down. I didn’t want to fail in their eyes—or in
mine.
That’s the line of thinking that’s beaten into us: We’re the best of
the best. We’re invincible.
I don’t know if I’m the best of the best. But I did know that if I
quit, I wouldn’t be.
And I certainly did feel invincible. I had to be: I’d made it through
all sorts of shit without getting killed . . . so far.
Thanksgiving shot past while we were in the middle of the battle.
I remember getting my Thanksgiving meal. They halted the assault
for a little bit—maybe a half-hour—and brought up food to us on
the rooftop where we’d set up.
Turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, green beans for ten—all in a
large box.
Together. No separate boxes, no compartments. All in one pile.
Also no plates, no forks, no knives, no spoons.
We dipped our hands in and ate with our fingers. That was
Thanksgiving.
Compared to the MREs we’d been eating, it was awesome.
ATTACKING THE MARSH
I stayed with Lima for roughly a week, then went back to Kilo. It was
terrible to hear who’d been hit and who they’d lost in the time I’d been
gone.