Haditha, Iraq 2006

Moonlight flooded the alley. Ominous shadows loomed ten feet tall. Towering wraiths bolted across fluorescent walls.

“Too bright,” muttered a voice.

“Fuck it,” came the grizzled reply.

Eight men quickened their pace, rushing their target: a compound surrounded by rubble and garbage. Austin hit the wall first, Hunt sliding in close behind him. The rest queued without a word.

Pressed close, stacked together, sweaty and armored, they swiveled their guns and crept towards the door. Gravel crackled under their boots. Tactical gear rustled from their shuffle. Hunt chuckled reading Austin’s new patch: Watch Out for the Idiot Behind Me.

Charges set, the unit commander radioed “Turn steel.” Metal and wood shattered. Blast waves battered helmets and eardrums. Same as the last time, and the countless times before that; another forced entry, another thud to the skull, another blow to the brain. Hunt shook it off and readied his rifle.

Austin dashed through the breach; the best, most aggressive went first. He picked a corner and swept his rifle to the center of the room. He stepped on a blanket and froze like he had stepped on a mine.

Hunt scoured the concrete floor, the cracked walls, the dropped ceiling, searching for wires, switches, any sort of sign. An insurgent fired two rounds. The first round slammed into Austin’s armor, the second tore apart his neck. Blood splattered Hunt’s chin. He whipped his rifle around and eliminated the threat.

Room cleared, Hunt dropped to his knees and helped the others hold Austin down, pinning him to the ground as he thrashed on the floor. They struggled to give him aid. Trachea gone, a gory black hole spat and sputtered. Endless purple waves gushed from deep within. Austin seized Hunt’s hand, his grip strong.

Men worked quickly; coaching, radioing, praying.

“Target secure. Two MAM’s PUC’ed in the back room. No feathers. One eagle down. Status expectant. One EKIA.”

“More pressure. Raise his arm.”

“Circling the drain.”

“We’ll get through this.”

“Come on.”

Gauze. Pressure. Radio. Nothing—nothing could repair that gore.

Austin’s grip loosened. His eyes clouded with fear.

Hunt clasped his hand. Told him to hang on.

Austin smiled. The smile disappeared.

Everyone paused, and everyone listened.

All was quiet, and all was calm.

Hunt squeezed the hand one last time, before setting it carefully on the blood drenched floor. He closed his friend’s eyes, and they cared for the corpse, cleaning and wrapping it before carrying it to the truck. There—over the body still warm—Hunt slid a fresh magazine into his weapon and reentered the house.

Crumpled under a set of broken stairs, Austin’s killer lay lifeless. Blood slithered on the ground from the holes in his head, a death-grin plastered the insurgent’s long crooked face, but there was no laughter, only screams. The blanket by the door squirmed and bulged as something writhed wailing underneath. Hunt craned his neck, aiming his weapon. Cautiously, he raised the fabric. A baby’s hand shot out.

He tossed the blanket aside and scooped the baby girl in his arms. She took one look at him and howled. Flummoxed, he cradled her close and rocked, speaking softly as he tried to calm her. But she screamed and screamed, and the screams pierced his ears as her flailing limbs hit his blood covered cheek. It became too much, cradling innocence surrounded by slaughter. He handed her off. He had a job to finish.

Checking his weapon, he slammed the bolt home, ducked under a low header and entered a side room. Flaking paint covered dilapidated walls. Shadows danced and flickered from a single lightbulb swaying from an electric wire. Video cameras, rusty pliers, and power tools were laid across a picnic table. Remnants of a victim, a hand, a foot, were in a bucket on the floor. Against the wall was a metal shelving unit covered by a plastic tarp. Bomb parts, clean, organized, and neatly labeled, lined the shelves, along with IED manuals, printouts, and three laptops. Next to the shelves, two captured insurgents waited on their knees guarded by Hunt’s teammates. The two teammates understood his silent nod, took the laptops and left.

Wrists tied, heads bowed, the two prisoners prayed. Hunt yanked their hoods from their heads, and the men stared at one another. There was no pleading in this war, no crying. Restrained tears filled unblinking eyes.

He raised his weapon, and fired.

Job done, four rounds spent, Hunt cut the ties, planted a drop gun, and made it as far as the compound’s entrance when nausea swept over him. Weak-kneed and off balance, he wavered and caught himself before falling. The wall steadied him as he stared at the dead insurgent with the crooked smile. He stared a good long while at his handiwork. Back at the FOB, locked in the High Bay, drunk on whiskey and beer, Hunt went outside to piss. There, minutes before dawn, an invisible hand forced him to the ground. He collapsed to his knees and pressed his hands into the dirt, and if he could have gone deeper, he would have gone, but there was nowhere left to go. He cried about his friend and wept outside the earshot of men. Wiping his face, he collected himself, stood in the darkness, and took out his sat-phone, dialing the number he had dialed so many times before.