I try to banish this image by thinking about what will happen to me in a month or two – with a short haircut, suntanned, with flaky skin on my face and my hands dirty from cheap machine oil. I will be sitting on a stool near a tent, watching the new arrivals. I might even be spitting from time to time. My new uniform will fade into a light ochre color, my combat boots will be permanently gray from dust, my feet will become calloused. Ahead of me there will be new trials, my regiment called to active duty, probably to war. I may even be maimed or killed... but at this point I am so new, I smell
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