Read pat 4 HERE.

War is hell.  At least in hell you can warm yourself by the fire while you get prodded by pitchforks.

Afghanistan, January 2012.  It was about 2AM and Patrick and I were in the middle  of an endless ocean of snow, sitting atop an Afghani roof, pulling security into what may as well have been a blizzard.  We would later discover that, with wind chill, it was -35.  Every time I blinked, I could feel my eyelashes momentarily freeze shut.  It took little effort to open them again, but the fact that it took any effort at all was troubling.

“Luke.  Tell me something: everyone came from Africa way back when, right?”

“Yeah I think so.  Way back when.”

“Who the hell starts walking east, makes it to the top of these mountains, survives their first winter and says, ‘Oh this would be a cute place to raise a family and settle down?’” We chuckled between shivers.

“Tell you what though,” I said, “I get why we’re going after this guy.  I’d be pissed if I lived up here too.  The Taliban could offer me a one way ticket to literally anywhere else and I’d join up.”

“Dude, if the Taliban offered me a space heater right now, I might turn on you.”