In and out again; week after week, the cycle repeats itself, undeniable, immovable. No sane man curses the rising sun, nor the waxing moon; both things, I must add, I played audience to with much interest throughout my time in BMT.

6 days outfield for fieldcamp. A very eventful one, to say the least. It'd be all too easy to romanticize the whole bloody affair, but that doesn't do it justice one bit. I'm running out of time here, so I'll just describe it in a snapshot of moments:

The most pleasant one: Lying down in my shell scrape at night; head resting on my field pack, the utilities pouch on my iLBV pushed up to support my lower back, arms against the side walls. Head tilted towards the sky; admiring the almost full moon poking through the clouds; framed by the skeletal branches of surrounding trees. Insects chirp peacefully; and while I know I share my temporary home with various bugs, they don't bother me much, so I'm at peace. In the early morning, a light drizzle awakens me, it's a little cold, and I shiver, but it's not an unpleasant feeling, very cooling and refreshing, actually, the feeling of water hitting my body, and the iLBV keeps my core warm.

Most intensely horrible one: An Artillery Drill right after I'd "finished" digging the shell scrape, having expended about twice as much energy as you'd think it'd take to displace a shitload of clay from the ground with helmet and iLBV on, not to mention having to chip away; loosen and haul out the ever-present rocks with a hoe. (World Food Programme seems like nothing now~) Loud bangs shattering my brief respite; courtesy of some bang sticks or whatever thrown by our CSM, and shouts of "Arti!Arti!" hurting my ears. Rifle frantically transferred from a back sling to a neck one; right hand fumbling behind for the clip to release it. "Faster, gentlemen! You're all dead! Dead!" Dropping prone on the ground, rifle clutched protectively beneath my body, hands interlaced over my neck; frantically echoing "Incoming! Incoming!" every few seconds, till the command "Arti lifted!" is given. It's quite a draining exercise, you know: Chest compressed by the ground, rifle and iLBV, with my body pressing down upon them, unable to draw breathe, while the weight of the helmet clamped my head to the ground. I could hear my voice; relatively strong at first, gradually - very gradually - falter, till I was reduced to weakly gasping under my breath, spluttering out the words as explosions sounded in the background.

TBC. Because off I go again. Just wanted to get something down before I left, so here it is.