He was running in an attempt to close the distance between the porta-shitter and the safety of the bunker when his ankle twisted in the gravel. Pain shot up his leg like a lightning bolt from the booted joint. The sound of gravel spraying and rattling against gravel could be heard during his collision with the ground, but only when the mortars weren’t exploding.

In the heartbeat that he spent on the ground, he could smell that unmistakable scent of chemical, piss, and shit combined that would surely linger on his uniform for hours. He had sweated his DCU’s through in the enclosed heat of the plastic shitter, but could not manage to conquer constipation. Frustrated, he was right in the middle of pulling his pants back up when the mortars began to fall. Now he was sprawled across the rocks, panting in terror, as his squad waved him towards the bunker.

A mortar struck the shitter, flinging blue tinted shit across the area. He got up. He ran into the bunker and everyone could smell his constipation was cured.