We have emerged from the wreckage.
Bruised but not broken.
Weak but not worn.
Operation Stomach Influenza commenced Thursday night.
Son #2 woke to the pounding pains of stomach turmoil.
One by one we fell.
For me, I had my first fainting experience.
Over the days and nights of infantry battle, younger troops shouted and cried,
"This is the worst _____ ever." Fill in the blanks here, because it was used many times.
Though we tried hard for days to protect the youngest and perceived weakest in our company, the babe woke from his nap and played happily in his own vomit, Sunday 2100 GMT. The last of our battalion to go.
Now we walk among the wreckage, piles of laundry and linens piled high and low like the forgotten dug trenches of war. Cups, spoons and crusts litter the landscape. Lysol and bleach wipes laugh at our attempts to do damage control.
The worst is over, for now.
As one of the soldiers proclaimed in the heat of battle, "this is the worst night of my life."
All I could tell him was "Oh how I wish it could be."