Me and Mr. Jones (Lovesick or sick of love?)

Together in happier times, camping near the Sahara, Santahamina.

The first few months of new relationships are often referred to as the honeymoon period.

A time when couples are so wrapped up in one another they are oblivious to most else.

In particular, the dumb looking grimaces they wear, public decency and each other’s flaws.

Mr. Jones and I have been no exception.

We have been inseparable since day one, doing even the most of mundane of tasks together.

Like a giddy teenager I get butterflies before our dates to the shooting range each week, where we have been hitting it off in all sorts of positions.

He showers me with gifts, like the very sought-after golden trigger badge.

He is taking me with a holiday, a reward for scoring so well on my shooting exam*.

And recently became a resident in my building to be closer to me … shucks!

It’s certainly been a whirlwind romance.

I hate to admit it but now the two-month period has passed I’m thinking that some of the shine is wearing off.

Because for all the things I love, like the lingering scent of gunpowder, some of his habits are starting to bite.

For one, Mr. Jones is a typical metro, obsessed with his appearance and very high maintenance.

After every outing he insists on being wiped down with cotton wool and sheets to be rid of every speck of dust and dirt.

Once spotless, and I mean spotless, he expects me to oil him from head to toe.

I’m not comfortable with the idea of a man whose beauty regime trumps mine.

Mr. Jones is also clingy, and rarely is he more than three steps from my side.

Whilst flattering, sometimes his presence feels like a weight around my neck, slowing me down.

He is also known to have a temper, and twice now we have butted heads – literally – in the heat of the moment, ouch!

Don’t get me wrong we are still very much one happy couple, it just appears that the honeymoon may have drawn to an end.

Sgt. (standing by her man) Sana

* I was one of three soldiers in the company to earn a day off for excelling on the shooting exam, which tested accuracy from different positions, distances, and with moving targets.

I also earned the afternoon off, while others continued shooting, but spent it at the veksi (doctor) because a tick had made its home on my leg – eewww!

 

 

   

Mr. Jones hanging out with his friends just outside my door.

Mr. Jones and I spend the morning together at the shooting range. Target 150m.

Mr. Jones in pieces baring all.

N-Day.

“I love the smell of Napalm in the morning”…. ‘Apocalypse Now’.

I haven’t seen the Vietnam epic so forgive me if it’s in bad taste to concur, but I too love the smell of Napalm in the morning.

I had my first whiff of the ironically odorless jelly gasoline during a lesson in chemical warfare.

N-day, so I will call it, began with orders to dress in our army-issued fire-retardant khakis, including men’s’ briefs.

I had, up until this point, managed to avoid these ill-fitting undies by making sure my own couldn’t be seen, particularly during our regular and random uniform checks.

I was, however, willing to sacrifice comfort for safety on N-Day given our fiercely flammable weapon of choice.

Shortly after breakfast our company was marched to a secluded area where we had a brief briefing of not much substance on the substance we were about to burn.

Granted though, Napalm is not rocket science.

Instructions:

1: Mix the desired amount together until it is the consistency of honey.

2: Apply to the desired location

3: Ignite, stand clear and watch it burn

Or 4: (In our case) Run straight for the flames …. What the????

We are soldiers so I guess we need to know how to run through fire incase our enemy shoots flamethrowers our way.

So, we were shown the correct way to run through this situation, with faces covered and guns pointing straight ahead.

And told that if we were to catch alight to head straight for one of the “strategically placed” red fire extinguishes.

Mapping out this worst-case scenario in my head I decided I not to opt for the extinguisher that had been sat in front of the large barrels of Napalm.

My plan B was to make a dash for the nearby water’s edge and dive into the ocean.

This brainwave was dampened through a quick demonstration of how Napalm floats and burns on top of water.

Before I had time to consider plan C I was staring down the ten foot tunnel of flames I was required to run through.

My gut instinct was to run in the opposite direction and ‘stop, drop and roll’ – the safety procedure taught to all children from a very young age.

I also wanted to take a deep breath to calm my nerves, but that was not an option given the dark carbon monoxide cloud bellowing into the air above.

I had no choice but to hold my breath and follow my fellow soldier into the black smoky abyss.

Telling myself over and over not to be scared of the fire I stepped into the flames.

Then hurried my way through the burning tunnel being very careful not to trip over in a panic.

A very-long hot and sweaty 10 seconds later I emerged into the daylight in one fire-repelled piece.

The ear had melted away and like a kid at an amusement park high on fairy floss and adrenalin, I was eager to take the ride again.

My next burning obstacle was a burning building frame.

I plotted my route and made a dash through a window frame and out another door.

The final gauntlet was a scaffolding walkway ablaze with burning Napalm dripping in strands of clear honey from above.

I found myself at the front of the line, and momentarily mesmorised by the beauty of the inferno in front of me.

I quickly blocked out the view with my fireproof blanket I gripped tightly above my head and then scuttled my way through.

Napalm is a fuel that doesn’t burn for very long, so along with the flames, our lesson was out well before noon.

I marched back to base with a newfound fondness for Napalm and fire in my eyes.

Hot but not bothered, not even by the boxer shorts riding up my backside.

Sgt. (Smoking) Sana.