Ah, the fuzzy blurred years of service to the nation.
All the vile little men with great big hammers smacking the inside of your head.
Both workshop oxy set nozzles jambed up your nose, oxygen cranked open full, pain not recedeing. Eyes bleeding, dry retching. Far too ill to have a cigarette, desperately need nicotine.
And then the BOSS wants to make with the banging, and the shooting, and the bombs, and I wanna go home, my brain hurts.
Is that the one? Sadly, yes, I have many memories of a similar nature, or not. Can't remember which.:p
Shorty.

