American Sniper - Boekje Pienter

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Because they flew low and had relatively loud little engines, the
backpack UAVs could be heard on the ground. They had a distinctive
whine, and the Iraqis soon learned that the noise meant we were
watching. They became cautious as soon as they heard it—which defeated
the purpose.
Things got so heavy at some points that we had to take up two different
radio bands, one to communicate with our TOC and one to use
among the platoon. There was so much radio traffic back and forth
that comms from the TOC would overrun us during contact.
When we first started going out, our CO told our top watch to
wake him every time we got into a TIC—a military acronym that
stands for “troops in contact,” or combat. Then we were getting in so
much combat that he revised the order—we were only to notify him if
we’d been in a TIC for an hour.
Then it was, only notify me if someone gets injured.
Shark Base was a haven during this time, a little oasis of rest and recreation.
Not that it was very fancy. It had a stone floor, and the windows
were blocked by sandbags. At first, our cots were practically
touching, and the only homey touch was the banged-up footlockers.
But we didn’t need much. We’d go out for three days, come back for a
day. I’d sleep, then maybe play video games for the rest of the day, talk
on the phone to back home, use the computer. Then it was time to
gear up and go back out.
You had to be careful when you were talking on the phone. Operational
security—OpSec, to use yet another military term—was critical.
You couldn’t say anything to anyone that might give away what we