Every breath I take is visible in the cold winter air.
I reach for my neck gaiter and pull it over my face. Fogged glasses are still better than frozen cheeks. For some reason, this cold New York air always makes my cheeks and ear lobes raw, painful. I stick my gloved hands inside my soft-shell jacket and step from one foot to the other, hoping to warm up. Behind me, Lupo coughs. He's been fighting this cold for the past two weeks and being out on the range isn't helping. The tip of his nose is raw from blowing it into his disgusting cloth handkerchief every five minutes. He snorts every time he tries to suck the snot back into his nose. He's a one-man concert of human sickness sounds.
Across the range road furrowed with frozen ruts like so many scars in the hard ground, the soldiers of Delta Company are set up with the 240-Golfs, shooting at targets from a sitting position. All of the gun mounts had to be weighted down with sand bags because the ground is so frozen. Everything seems f