1MAR99 - Day One of Arctic Training/Refresher

01 MARCH 1999 — 0400hrs
COP Charlie, Transylvania, Romania
LRRP Arctic Training / Pre‑Mission Preparation

Some time before 0400, McBride and Thrace start moving through the darkened hooch, boots whispering over cold plywood. Outside, the wind hasn’t let up. It claws at the walls and rattles the lantern hooks. Quietly, without words, they check on their charges. The Yukon stove in the corner is burning low, it's soft buzzing trying to lull the LRRP team back to sleep. Thrace turns it down, but not off. Even so, the steel sides begin their soft ticking as it cools down.

McBride moves among the group of sleeping soldiers just beginning to wake, tapping on the foot, those who haven’t begun moving already. Quietly, but with urgency, he says,
"Alright folks, let’s get up and at it! Chow in 30 mikes. Get your gear on. Come on, everyone is going to need the hot meal. Welcome to the first day of your Arctic Combat Refresher Course!"

McBride wakes the replacements first — quiet, efficient, no bark unless someone needs it.

"Remember to draw your extra rations as you pass through the line. After chow, everyone will have an additional 30 minutes to finalize your individual and shared loadouts. The L.T. and I will then check over the loads. Then we will move as a group to the Ammo Point where anyone still needing an M16 pattern rifle will get one issued and everyone will draw their training loadout for ammunition before we begin movement for this evolution. Skis should be secured to the Ahkios for this movement. Snowshoes should be secured to your individual rucks. Make sure you have your repair kits and extra bindings on your person!"

McBride continues to give helpful tips and comments while everyone is getting ready for chow. LT Thrace also moves through the room, offering help, especially checking the footwear, as everyone is beginning to get their outer gear one. "Make sure you donn your bunny boots correctly. If you have any questions, ask. Embarrassment won’t kill you, but improperly worn gear can!"
By 0420, everyone is layering up: polypro, wool, pile, parka. Gloves warmed near the stove. Goggles defogged. The Arctic Gear Issue from yesterday — "finally packed away" — is now being worn for real. One thing those who have never worn this particular gear is how warm it is.

Once the section is fully dressed, McBride steps toward the door. "Bring all the rest of the gear, your rucks, the Ahkios, everything. It needs to start adjusting to the cold."

Then he steps outside into the predawn murk. The cold hits everyone like a slap as they walk out, dragging their gear. McBride waits, breath steaming, until the whole group forms up in front of Third Herd’s hooch. "Form up here. Line up the sleds by that wall." McBride points to the wall of their hooch.

Thrace emerges behind the last of the troops. She scans each sled and soldier with the same sharp, posture she held during the briefing. She checks straps, cinches, lashings, making sure nothing will come loose once they’re moving through the Carpathian foothills.
Satisfied, she gives McBride a single nod.

"Alright, everybody. Drop your rucks where you stand." He gives them a minute to do so. "Detail—" McBride starts, then lets the word die. No need for parade‑ground theatrics. Not today. Not for this mission.



He gestures instead. "Alright folks… let’s move out and get some chow."

No cadence. No shouting. Just the crunch of boots on frozen ground as the LRRP trainees move organically toward the chow hall — the overheated, steamy building already smelling of coffee and powdered eggs. The wind howls overhead, blowing snow skittering across the compound, but inside there will be warmth, light, and the first step toward the three‑day Arctic evaluation that CPT Adams laid out.

Inside the chow hall, the change is instant and total—a full sensory whiplash after the biting cold outside.

The moment the LRRP section crosses the threshold, the place hits them like a steam room. Not just warm—wet, heavy, enveloping heat that clings to parkas and fogs goggles in seconds. The humidity rolls over them in a wave.

Goggles get pushed up. Parkas unzip. Layers get loosened, opened. Mittens doffed and let dangle from their lanyards like furry pendulums.
Nobody had been out in the cold for long—ten minutes, maybe—still a palpable, physical relief rippled through the group. It’s the kind of relief that makes shoulders drop, breath deepen, and faces relax without anyone consciously deciding to do it.

A haze of steam and kitchen humidity roils across the serving line. Snow and ice that had blown onto parkas melted almost instantly. The floor near the entrance already wet from melted snow from boots squeaking as soldiers step inside. The smells are stronger now, no longer carried in broken gusts through the wind. Coffee, sharp and biting, dominates everything. Fried meat, still impossible to identify but undeniably present. Burnt toast, crisp and comforting in its own way. Mămăligă, sweet corn smell, like hot cornbread. Oatmeal, thick and slightly sweet, bubbling in a steel pot. Eggs, warm, familiar.

Thrace pulls her goggles up and exhales, the fog on the lenses clearing slowly. She loosens her parka but doesn’t remove it. McBride unzips his layers halfway, letting the heat soak in but keeping his gear ready to go. The replacements react more visibly. One sighs out loud. Another closes his eyes for a moment, savoring the warmth. A third flexes his fingers, grateful to be out of the wind.

Clattering trays, hissing steam, food sizzling on the griddle, cooks shouting for more plates—the chow hall is loud. but the LRRP section moves through it with a kind of reverent focus. Breakfast isn’t just food; it’s the last guaranteed warmth before three days in the Carpathian cold.

And everyone knows it.

Everyone picks up a tray as they work their way down the line. Silverware, a melmac mug. A cook in what used to be a white apron and cook’s tunic stirs a serving tray of scrambled eggs. He looks up at the group and says, "Next." Shuffling forward, the cook slaps a large spoon of eggs onto the first tray. Another drops a couple of slices of meat that appear to be some kind of sausage.

Continuing down the line, each tray gets a large spoon of oatmeal, some cornmeal mush. A replacement blinks at it.
"What is that?" The cook answers in accented English, not looking up, "Mămăligă. Good for cold. Eat." From the back of the line, McBride calls out, "It’s cornmeal. It’ll stick to your ribs. Don’t complain." A step down the line, he adds, "Calories are calories."
The line continues… two slices of burnt toast. At the end, each person has an option to fill their mug with coffee or goat’s milk or both.

For most, the coffee is the real prize. It’s bitter, burnt, and strong enough to scour rust — but it’s hot. And in this cold, hot is everything.
Thrace takes her mug, wrapping both hands around it. She closes her eyes for half a second — not savoring the taste, but the heat. The warmth seeps into her hands, into her fingers, into her bones. She needs that warmth. She’ll be outside for the next three days.
McBride drinks his coffee like it’s a tactical decision. Slow. Controlled. He doesn’t flinch at the taste. Both eat quickly, but not hurriedly.



The replacements eat fast, shoveling food in like they’re afraid someone will take it away. The eggs are the real surprise. Everyone expected powdered eggs, but they were only half right. One of the cooks had managed to get his hands on a couple dozen real eggs and mixed them with the powdered ones. Once tasted, the eggs disappeared quickly from trays. One tries to drown his oatmeal in coffee. Another stares at his sausage patty like it might stare back.

Having finished her own breakfast, Thrace moves among them, checking how much they’re eating. Not what — how much. Calories matter. Cold kills the underfed. "Eat," she says to one soldier who’s picking at his tray. He nods and forces down a bite.
The room is loud — trays clattering, boots scraping, steam hissing. Breakfast isn’t comfort. It’s fuel. It’s the last hot meal they’ll see until they return. Thrace raises her voice just enough to carry.
"LRRP — form up outside. Ten minutes."
When the section finishes, Thrace stands near the exit, watching each soldier dump their tray, adjust their gear. She checks faces, looking for signs of cold stress, fear, or distraction.

McBride steps beside her. "They ate," he says quietly.
"Good," she replies. "They’ll need it."

Outside, the wind howls against the chow hall walls, reminding everyone what waits beyond the door.
The soldiers move, bellies full, hands warm, nerves tight.

Breakfast is over.

The Combat Outpost’s Armory doesn’t appear to be much. It is similar in size to a small shipping container (seasoned soldiers would say "Conex" (pronounced Conn-x)), but build more like a bank vault. A "weather frame" semi enclosed "porch" has been built around the entrance and issue window. The door is closed when the group first arrives, but three raps on the door and the issuing window opens.

From behind the bars, steel grey eyes and a huge, out-of-regulation mustache stare out. There is a hooded work lamp off to one side with a ‘Ma-Deuce’ in the processed of being stripped down. Eyes narrow and the mustache twitches, then a dim light above the armory door comes on. It’s hooded and only dimly illuminates SGT McBride. Then a dim red light comes on inside the armory. A few blinks later and the face resolves, a stern face, a tapered buzz cut, a nose-straight and narrow with a scar across it.



"Sergeant Rourke," McBride says, greeting the company armorer.

"Sergeant McBride. Top told me to expect you this morning. I’ve got a couple of M16s and a half dozen M4s set aside just for you guys. And as a favor to Top, I’m issuing them on just a hand receipt. I’ll transfer the details to the 3161s later. Not exactly regulation, but field expediences take precedence."

McBride nods, "Sounds good. Only have a few getting weapons. Everyone else already have theirs and no deficiencies have been noted."

It’s Rourke’s turn to nod. "Sounds good, Sergeant. Have the first individual step up and we will get down to business."

The wind outside claws at the weather frame, rattling the corrugated panels. Inside the semi‑enclosed porch, the air smells of gun oil, cold steel, and old canvas — a different kind of warmth than the chow hall’s steam. The red light above the issue window throws long shadows across the snow‑dusted floor.

Rourke’s voice carries that gravelly authority of a man who’s spent too long around weapons and too little around people.
"First one up," he says, sliding a clipboard aside and reaching for a rifle rack just out of sight.

The first LRRP replacement steps forward, boots crunching on the frozen plywood. Rourke disappears for a moment, then reappears with an M16A2, its black finish dull under the red light. He checks the chamber, slaps the forward assist, taps the buttstock on the counter twice and passes it through the bars with practiced precision. Every rifle or carbine he issues goes through the same process.
"Serial number’s on the tag. Sign here."
The soldier signs, hands trembling slightly from the cold.

McBride watches the exchange, noting how Rourke’s movements are economical — no wasted motion, no chatter. Thrace stands just behind the line, eyes scanning faces, making sure everyone’s alert and squared away.
Each rifle comes out of the rack with a faint metallic click, followed by the soft scrape of a magazine being checked. The sound builds into a rhythm — click, scrape, tap, sign, next — the cadence of an armory at work.

When the last weapon is issued, Rourke leans back, wiping his hands on a rag that’s seen better days.

"That’s the lot. Even though I’m the NCOIC, ammo’s kept next door. Tell the ASP boys I said you’re cleared."

McBride nods. "Appreciate it, Sergeant."

Rourke’s mustache twitches — maybe a smile, maybe just habit.
"Keep ’em clean. The cold’ll eat your oil faster than you think."

McBride gives a short nod, then turns to the section.
"Alright, move to the ASP. Same order."
The group pivots, boots crunching again, the sound swallowed by the wind as they step back into the whiteout. Behind them, the red light flickers once and goes dark, leaving the Armory in shadow.

SGT Rourke wasn’t exaggerating. The Ammunition Supply Point is literally right beside his Armory Pod. Command had commandeered a large dairy livestock barn. Originally a two-story affair, the upper floor had been reduced, many years ago, to where it housed only a small office and sleeping area. The stone first story and the small second floor were covered with thatch and, otherwise, seemed ordinary on the outside. That all changes once the Replacements step inside.



Several inside stalls were reinforced with smaller HESCO barriers. Just inside are a couple of desks and a table. Two office chairs and a smattering of aluminum chairs are found in the usual places, at the desks and around the table. A couple of soldiers dressed in level 3 ECWCS fleece, PFC Danny Laramie and PV2 Travis Hensley, are sitting at the table playing cards and drinking coffee.

The outside door opens and the replacements begin to step in, Laramie, looks over to see who’s letting in all the cold air and sees McBride step in first, followed by the rest of the section and finally, LT Thrace. Laramie says, "Mornin’ Sarn’t." That’s followed almost immediately by him calling the room to attention when he sees Thrace walk in and secure the door.

The moment Thrace secures the door behind her, the temperature shift is immediate. The barn‑turned‑ASP isn’t warm — not like the chow hall — but compared to the blizzard outside, the interior feels almost civilized. The stone walls hold just enough residual heat to take the bite out of the air, and the smell inside is unmistakable: gun oil, cold metal, old hay, and coffee.

Laramie snaps to attention so fast his chair skids backward and bumps a HESCO barrier. Hensley follows a half‑second later, nearly spilling his coffee in the process.

"Mornin’, ma’am," Laramie adds quickly, voice cracking just a little.
Thrace gives a curt nod, her expression unreadable. She steps forward, boots crunching on the thin layer of grit and old straw that still clings to the stone floor. McBride moves in beside her, scanning the room the way he always does — quietly, thoroughly, without seeming to move his eyes.

The reinforced stalls give the place a strange, bunker‑like feel. Each HESCO‑lined bay holds neatly stacked crates of ammunition: 5.56mm, 7.62mm, .50 cal cans, mortar rounds sealed in waxed cardboard, even a few wooden crates stenciled in Cyrillic — captured stock, repurposed.
A single overhead bulb casts a dim yellow cone of light over the desks. The rest of the barn is lit by small red lamps mounted above each stall, giving the interior a faint, almost submarine glow.

Laramie clears his throat. "ASP is ready for issue, Sergeant."

McBride nods once. "Good. We’ll keep it simple. Standard LRRP load."

Hensley steps forward, grabbing a clipboard from the desk. He’s young — too young for the frostbite scars on his knuckles — but he moves with the practiced efficiency of someone who’s been doing this for months.

"Alright, folks," Laramie says, voice steadier now. "Step up one at a time. We’ll get you your basic load."

He gestures toward the first stall. Inside, rows of bandoliers hang neatly from hooks, each one tagged and dated. Beneath them, ammo cans sit stacked three high. The first replacement steps forward. Hensley hands him a bandolier, then an ammo can.

"Two hundred rounds ball, forty tracer," Hensley says. "Magazines are in the can. Managed to get the first three mags loaded for everyone. Don’t lose the damn spoon or you’ll end up having to load every round by hand" (of course, he is speaking about the stripper clip guide that attaches to the top of the magazine. If anyone needs a picture for reference, just say so and I’ll post one in the equipment thread.)

Unlike the Armory, every member of the team has to cycle through this process.
The soldier nods, clutching the load awkwardly.

Thrace steps in, adjusting the soldier’s grip. "Carry it like you mean it," she says quietly. "You’ll be loading mags in a whiteout before noon."

The soldier swallows hard and nods again.

One by one, the replacements move through the line. The rhythm becomes steady:
Step up.
Bandolier.
Ammo can.
Tracer.
Next.

McBride watches each soldier, noting who handles the weight well and who fumbles. He doesn’t say anything — not yet — but he files it away for later. Laramie moves to the next stall, pulling down a crate lid. Inside are neatly packed smoke grenades, frags, and illumination rounds.
"Squad leaders only," he says, handing McBride a small pouch. "Top said you’d know what to do with these."

McBride takes the pouch without comment.

Thrace moves toward the back of the barn, checking the last stall. Inside are boxes of batteries, radio handsets, and cold‑weather lubricant — the kind that doesn’t freeze solid at −30°C. She picks up a bottle, checks the seal, and hands it to one of the replacements. "Your weapon will seize without this. Use it sparingly."

The soldier nods.

When the last of the section has received their load, Hensley closes his clipboard and exhales.
"That’s everyone, Sergeant."
McBride nods. "Appreciate it."

Thrace steps forward, her voice carrying just enough authority to cut through the barn’s stillness. "LRRP — stow your ammo and form up outside. Five minutes."

The replacements move quickly, the urgency settling into their bones. Outside, the wind howls against the barn walls, reminding everyone what waits beyond the door.

McBride looks at Thrace.
She looks back.
No words needed.
The real task is still ahead.