"I'm so damn tired of this, I just want to go home."

"It's not exactly home, but we're headed to a place that’s kind of like it, aren’t we, Sergeant?"

"It’s not home, it’s a battlefield, damn it. How the hell is that even remotely similar?"

The USS Palouza, an America-class amphibious assault ship, part of the 51st Marine Expeditionary Brigade under Task Force 51/5 of the U.S. 5th Fleet, was crossing the Atlantic with thousands aboard, heading toward a mission zone.

The North Atlantic in late January was unforgiving. The sea was cold, and all that could be seen in every direction was billions of tons of water and several other ships. This sight had been ongoing for four months now.

The deck was filled with cold ocean wind, and the Marines working on it looked exhausted. Their faces showed the deep fatigue and despair that had settled in like tar, and yet, they tried to drown it out with humor.

And it couldn’t have been any other way.