The Helmet’s Mimosa

So I’m in the middle of some ulu jungle training ground in Singapore that I’ve never heard of or been to in my life. I’m lying face down in a bed of razor sharp thorns with a bed sheet of rain-soaked mud, surrounded by a bed curtain of chest-high lalang. I’ve been doing that for ages in meditative silence, waiting for some rumoured aggressor force to come my way.

And I’m still nauseated as a bloated pig from inhaling the gunpowder cloud of 120 blanks.

My hands and my rifle (that annoyingly burdensome piece of shit) are coated green either by the blood of the grass I’ve just crushed or the globules of camo cream-stained sweat drizzling from every pore in my body. Unfortunately (or fortunately with regards to fucking mosquitoes), every other pore except those on my fingers and head is covered by layers of oven-like green fatigues, green load-bearing material, green body armour, green magazine and grenade pouches, green army paraphernalia. It’s a bloody fucking world of green.

I glance across a dirt path to my right and there’s my section mate prone on the ground like me, covering my 3 o’clock:

With a certain whimsical grace, he stealthily slices the stalk of a pink mimosa flower from the mud with his SOG and affixes it onto his helmet.

That would be his deserved ration of common humanity.

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