Lying in my cot in the morning I used to wait until the Sun had just illuminated the sky a pale blue. It was always a rush to use the multitude of porto potties. Of course they called them porto Johns in the Marines, which made me smile because my Mom always called the facilities a John.
It was hard enough using them in the dark with your headlamp. But at least you could tell which ones were occupied, the ceiling inside glowing like a mushroom. There was no chance of opening the door on someone.
It was cold out. The cold slapped you on your face; so there was no chance of you getting back into your snuggly sleeping bag to catch a little more sleep.
As I lay there in the quiet of my hootch I would hear the Afghan's morning call to prayer. There was a mosque in the village about 1 mile south, by way of the sun. The call was the first reminder that I was in a foreign country.
It takes awhile to adjust to where you are just as it takes awhile to adjust to being home.