American Sniper - Boekje Pienter

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“I’m on an op, Dad. I don’t want them to know where I’m at.”
“Oh,” he answered, a little shaken.
I doubt I was actually close enough for the enemy to hear anything,
but my father swears that a few seconds later, there were gunshots
in the background.
“Gotta go,” I said, before he had a chance to find out what the
sound was. “I’ll get back to you.”
According to my father, I called back two days later to apologize
for hanging up so abruptly. When he asked if he had overheard the
start of a firefight, I changed the subject.
BUILDING MY REP
My knees were still hurting from being pinned under rubble back in
Fallujah. I tried to get cortisone shots but couldn’t. I didn’t want to
push too hard: I was afraid of getting pulled out because of my injury.
Every once in a while, I took some Motrin and iced them down;
that was about it. In battle, of course, I was fine—when your adrenaline
is pumped, you don’t feel anything.
Even with the pain, I loved what I was doing. Maybe war isn’t
really fun, but I certainly was enjoying it. It suited me.
By this time, I had a bit of a reputation as a sniper. I’d had a lot of
confirmed kills. It was now a very good number for such a short period—or
any period, really.
Except for the Team guys, people didn’t really know my name and
face. But there were rumors around, and my stay here added to my
reputation, such as it was.