We had a barely verbal agreement between the squad leaders and I. They did the hand wavin', artillery callin', honorable duties befitting a virtuous 20-year-old Corporal. I bore the burdens of the ilk of machine gun, RPG, thermal camera, scope, AT mine, long gun. The glorious leaders never had the time to stimulate our targets at war games, so I was always welcome to commandeer their ammo as I perform the troglodytic duties of the Support Gunner.

Until I wasn't, apparently.

-

Our squad was crammed into a pair of junker cars on a tiny forest road. The road passed through a tiny valley, with eroded sandy banks and pine trees. Maybe 100 meters from bank to bank. I was hunching over in the right side rear seat, with the assistant squad leader CPL in the left rear seat. I could see a tiny sliver of the blue sky through the windshield, framed by stunted subarctic pines.

In the blink of an eye, the blue turned earthy brown as our instructors detonated a 5 kg charge of TNT ahead of us, simulating an ambush. Contact left, as aluminium plates start popping up and down the ridge. I yank the door handle and half fall, half dive out of the tiny 80's sedan. Our chauffeur can already be heard gleefully dumping his pistol into the nearest plates. Dirt is floating from the heavens. Pivoting around and behind the emotional support "cover" provided by the car's trunk, I flip the Sako to Full Fun. Sprinkling short bursts of 7.62x39 onto each foxhole, I put the fear of God into those Mephistophelic plates of bastard soft metal.

By the time venerable CPL finally births himself out of the shitbox, I dump the last 4-6 rounds into the nearest foxhole and let Sir CPL take over my bastion. I go to yank a mag off his plate carrier as usual.

"Ya, get the ashes while you're at it! fucker!"* He slaps me off like the mom of a snackish 4-year-old and, get this, commands me to evac duty for the instantly decimated 90-something-kg driver. Both legs, of course. Ugh, get a load of this guy, what's his major malfunction?

-

Well, to get his side of the story out there. When I began my righteous sermon of copper-clad lead, the already cracked to hell Nissan rear window blew out. And collapsed onto the poor CPL crawling his way out of the junker. The Sako RK95 rifle has this nifty compensator type muzzle device which redirects all gas to the sides and up (there's a slow mo youtube video which illustrates this quite well, I can link in comments if mods think it is OK). A dozen blasts right on the busted glass were apparently enough to make it croak and collapse into a thousand pieces.

Likely concussed from the muzzle blasts and covered in glass, our glorious leader drags himself out. Only to get 4-6 hot casings in the face, force-fed by my grande finale. Stumbling into position to cover the dried-up dumb-ass trigger happy mongoloid of a private, he feels a groping hand thrust in, foraging for his magazines. No, you already had a snack, go help your buddy. Yeah, both legs. Don't give me that tone, suck it up. ... Hey! Leave his ammo alone! That's it, we're leaving. ... Yes I'll call CASEVAC and fires, just pick him up and haul ass. Charlie covering. Hey! Hey! BOTH legs! Pick him up properly!

-

Sorry, moms.

Sincerely, lazy fucks of privates.

P.S. can we take a smoke break?

-

\(free translation of a Finnish idiom, vie tuhkatkin pesästä. "Take the ashes from the fireplace too while you're at it [taking my stuff]")*