It is a very strange feeling to be done. But, it's more or less official. We spent the better part of yesterday taking an inventory of all the gear that we had acquired over here, everything from chem-lites, to spare tires, concertina wire, ammo, lots of ammo, gypsy racks, mass casualty bags, power inverters, slave cables, and a handful of humvees. We then took everything on that inventory list and dumped it in the laps of our relief battalion. Suckers.
After that we had to move out of our rooms in South Camp and shuttle back and forth with the new batallion, with them moving into our rooms and us moving our stuff into a giant tent on Mainside. It was official. Done.
But, the Marine Corps has this sick sense of humor, so done maybe wasn't the right word. You see, in their infinite wisdom, the powers that be thought it would be a good idea to wake us up at midnight and tell us to switch back with them. Why? Apparently, even though my platoon is done operating, since not all of them are, we shouldn't be allowed to move. Never mind that the move took 7 hours, they wanted us moved back now. Actually they wanted us moved back the day before, but that wasn't happening.
These next two weeks are supposed to be 'decompression', where they make us sit around and hold hands, singing songs and talking about our feelings. We are supposed to unwind and leave the 'combat mindset' behind. But after this move thing happened I was anything but decompressed. I wanted to Terry Tate Office Linebacker somebody right through a water cooler. Escaping stupid things in the Marine Corps is impossible.