(no subject)
*
By now, Nate’s been in more firefights than he can remember, but only one stands out. Surprisingly, it’s not his Matrix dance outside of Muwaffaqiyah. In the light of day, Muwaffaqiyah feels like a dream or maybe a Hollywood movie; the memories are hazy as though they’re not his own.
When Nate thinks of artillery fire, he thinks of Al Gharaf. The morning was cold to go along with the lonely silence of the half-abandoned town. It was perfectly still before the shooting began.
He remembers the sour bite of fear mixed with the relief of calmness. He hadn’t panicked; he relaxed into the familiar muscle memory of hefting his gun and returned fire.
In the back of his mind, a voice was telling him: The bullets can't hit you, you're already dead. It's crap advice, but he went with it. He thought at least it should be in Schwetje’s voice or maybe Godfather's. Instead, it was his mother's, soft and confident like a lullaby.
*
After all the hostile towns, it’s Alpha’s shots outside of Baqubah that scares Brad the most.
In the laziness of departure, he thinks about it. He remembers the scent of the field they were scooting, the way the stillness seemed to deepen before the shots, the rustle of humvees that said Marines before the cackle of M16 fire.
Most Iraqi solders weren’t well trained. Few of them bothered to aim their gun before firing. Some weren’t even Iraqi.
But Alpha was Recon. They all knew their way around a gun. Their fire came in precise, planned out bursts.
Brad could have died in that glade. Generally, anywhere in Iraq is an easy place to die at, but there, the cognition of danger was immediate, paramount. Against the sound of his panting, he felt the crushing weight of his own mortality.
It’s a memory he holds close. He’s glad he has it, this unavoidable human fear of dying.
*
By now, Nate’s been in more firefights than he can remember, but only one stands out. Surprisingly, it’s not his Matrix dance outside of Muwaffaqiyah. In the light of day, Muwaffaqiyah feels like a dream or maybe a Hollywood movie; the memories are hazy as though they’re not his own.
When Nate thinks of artillery fire, he thinks of Al Gharaf. The morning was cold to go along with the lonely silence of the half-abandoned town. It was perfectly still before the shooting began.
He remembers the sour bite of fear mixed with the relief of calmness. He hadn’t panicked; he relaxed into the familiar muscle memory of hefting his gun and returned fire.
In the back of his mind, a voice was telling him: The bullets can't hit you, you're already dead. It's crap advice, but he went with it. He thought at least it should be in Schwetje’s voice or maybe Godfather's. Instead, it was his mother's, soft and confident like a lullaby.
*
After all the hostile towns, it’s Alpha’s shots outside of Baqubah that scares Brad the most.
In the laziness of departure, he thinks about it. He remembers the scent of the field they were scooting, the way the stillness seemed to deepen before the shots, the rustle of humvees that said Marines before the cackle of M16 fire.
Most Iraqi solders weren’t well trained. Few of them bothered to aim their gun before firing. Some weren’t even Iraqi.
But Alpha was Recon. They all knew their way around a gun. Their fire came in precise, planned out bursts.
Brad could have died in that glade. Generally, anywhere in Iraq is an easy place to die at, but there, the cognition of danger was immediate, paramount. Against the sound of his panting, he felt the crushing weight of his own mortality.
It’s a memory he holds close. He’s glad he has it, this unavoidable human fear of dying.
*