Outskirts of Fallujah, Iraq. April 2007.

Sergeant Major David Madsen grimaced at the music some sick fuck in the unit was choosing to blast over the comms. As much as music was traditional on these road trips, he wasn't in the mood. He debated putting his ear defence on, before realising that it had comms built in and thus wouldn't get rid of the musical blasphemy. Damn.

He glanced out of the ballistic glass window of the Humvee he was riding shotgun in, its sill coated in the Arab dust and sand. The spring sun was still low in the sky, barely clearing the horizon. As much as David never had an eye for photography- hell, what kind of grunt did?- but the orange-red smudging of the sun as it peeled itself off the terrain would have made for an excellent shot. Close by this part of the route were a number of shanties, complete with corroded tin roofs and a number of children playing in the street.

It almost pained David to look at them sometimes. Every glance at them reminded him of another insurgent whose life he had claimed. As far as he could remember, the youngest life he had snuffed out was maybe eleven years old. He didn't remember the fact because he was proud of it, quite the opposite. He hated the fact that his job, his duty, now involved shooting dead kids. Kids who back stateside would only be mere fifth-graders. He shuddered as his mind attempted to shunt the image to the back of his mind.

He looked further across the landscape. A few burned out hulks of Iraqi MBTs lay in the desert, their light tan frames charred black from the heat and smoke of a few thousand machine gun rounds and several dozen tank shells burning up inside it. David's regiment had missed the opening moves of Iraqi Freedom, but his first tour about three weeks later saw his unit fight some of the Iraqi government forces. They could likely have made the SS look as though they were not fanatics.

He was rudely brought back into the present as the music changed from Springsteen's 'Born in the USA' changed to something which sounded something like their morning wake-up call, thanks to all of the mosques in the locality of the Base sent out their morning commandments to the populace for prayer.

Barra barra, hozd wel boghd ou zawara,

Barra barra, fezd wel lhozd ma bqa amene

Madsen clicked the PTT actuator on his comms before unleashing an agitated barrage. Enough was enough, between his mind playing games with him and everything else he was having to weigh up. The music definitely didn't help.

"Alright, which one of you assholes is blasting that god-damn goat fucker music?"

A snicker followed as the responsible party clicked off the tape. "Lighten up, huh, Chief? We've three weeks left in the tour."

"That you again, Magowski? I swear I'm gonna have you on fuckin' latrine duty every day we're in camp until the end of tour now, dickwad," He growled. "And I do hpe you like the smell of Clorox. I'll give you fuckin' Chief."

A wry smile came to his face at the muttered curses were somewhat audible as the other end of the line cut. The convoy, formed of aroud a dozen Humvees with Ma Deuce mounts were escorting eight or nine FMTV trucks, destined for one of the transports that would be at Camp Al-Istiglal, otherwise known as Baghdad Airbase. The tour had been somewhat peaceful, with only a few minor contacts and only one man in the Company having been severely injured after a multiple-IED hit.

A damnsight better than the last tour. David's mind flicked back to his previous T.O.D., where one contact in particular had been spectacularly brutal. Three of his boys had met their end that day, and not in a pleasant or painless way. No, two had been maimed by an IED, bleeding to death in agony as the remainder of the platoon was pinned down less than five feet away. David still couldn't erase the fading screams of agony, or the look of fear or pain on either soldiers' face, as it turned to one of calm. The calm of death. Nor would the smell of blood be erased, as it geysered from a severed femoral artery. Or, more accurately, the point where the femoral artery of one of the two realised that the leg it was supposed to supply no linger existed. David felt a shudder pass through him at the thought of that again. He doubted it'd ever leave his mind.

Nor would the death of the third soldier that day. The goat-fuckers had gotten themselves a mortar and engaged the Assembly Point. Five seconds later, and David would have been pasted by the shrapnel rather than the corporal that had emerged from behind the Bradleys IFV. David remembered being knocked backwards and lying on the ground screaming, as he could see nothing but red, and only heard a piercing ringing which dulled any other sound as though with a rubber wall between him and it. After a few moments, he realised that the it was not his, but the corporal's blood spattered across his goggles.

As he ripped them from his face and sat up, he saw the scorched ground where the man had stood not ten seconds earlier, with a red smear mixed with black scorching of the ground painting the sand and vehicles in a twenty foot radius. He could almost taste the blood that had ended up in his mouth, despite the incident being eight or nine months earlier.

He was snapped back to the present by the radio chatter, commonplace around this time on any convoy.

"Smokey 6-1, this is Raptor 4. Eyes in the sky report all clear from here to Marker 71, how copy?"

The gruff tones of Captain Markson were somewhat soothing to David. As wierd as that word sounded, even when it was thought rather than said, it was true. Even the mere sound of his voice over the radio or in your face during a firefight had the same effect on you as a lighthouse in a tempest. His voice resonated the sensation inside his men of reassurance, of we're going to be fine. For someone of rank such as a Captain, Markson had almost twice the combat experience of anyone else. His service record even rivalled that of David and a number of the senior NCOs. Desert Storm, Bosnia, Somalia, the War on Terror, now here. He knew virtually every trick in the book, and often threw the official handbook of regulations out the window. Hell, he wasnt even meant to be B.O.G. most of the time, instead intended to command from afar. But that wasn't his style. David had served under him as a Private back all those years ago, when Markson was fresh from West Point and a Platoon rather than Company Commander. His style of command had never changed, and it likely never would. That, David had surmised, was for the better.

"Good copy on your last, Raptor 4. How's the PX looking in Baghdad, over?"

"It's good here, boys. We'll keep a crate on ice for y'all. Raptor 4 out."

The earlier music being blasted through the comms was replaced by something a little more fitting, and far more tasteful in the eyes of most of the convoy's members.

Back in black, I hit the sack, It's been too long I'm glad to be back, yes I'm cut loose, from the noose, that's kept me hanging around

Another smirk came over David's face at the whoops of joy and general behaviour of the other soldiers, gunner especially, in his Humvee. Amazing what a simple change of music could do. More amazing was that Magowski appeared to have some tiny inkling of musical taste.

Perhaps he's right, maybe I should lighten up. After all, I can get out after this tour, I've done more than enough for my country.

With that, David kicked back as best he could in the cramped confines of his vehicle and got some shut-eye before the convoy reached its destination.

His mind wandered again during his sleep, back to some of what he'd seen in Bosnia, after NATO had taken charge. One site they'd been tasked with securing was where some of the worse atrocities had taken place, the ethnic cleansing. The stench hit each man like a wall as they opened the doors of their vehicles. A number of men were overpowered, both soldiers and ICRC representatives who had came to verify the allegations of the unspeakable crimes committed.

They sure as hell got their proof.

The majority of David's squad were still recovering from their stomachs turning inside out, reducing their evening's fuel from the mess hall to an unceremonious splatter on the ground. The headlights of the numerous vehicles cast shadows everywhere, which played on the minds of everyone there. Madsen and his second-in-command staggered somewhat to the nearest obvious hole in the ground highlighted by the shadows from the lights behind them, all the while fighting the urge to vomit as the stench became ever more powerful as they approached the precipice.

A click of a maglite revealed the true extent of the horrors and the source of the stench, at least in part. Bodies with limbs missing, or at angles that were unimaginable for a live human. Flesh tainted green and black by the processes of the afterlife. Eyes that looked to be made of glass- those eyes which the crows had not yet touched, that is- and black, concealed blood coating numerous bullet or blade wounds to many.

David jolted slightly as the driver of his Humvee gave him a hard tap on the side of the shoulder, once again dragging his mind kicking and screaming back into 2007 rather than 1997.

"You usually like being awake around now Dave. You alright?"

David looked at him in a somewhat bleary way, a way which many would come to know David for doing in years to come.

"Yeah. Just Bosnia repeating on me. How far out are we?"

"Six minutes or so. We're going through the rough zone, so eyes up I guess."

David's brow furrowed slightly, as he noted a spike in radio traffic on the convoy battlenet. It wasn't normal at all, even by the standards of Iraqi Freedom and suchlike. Something didn't seem quite right, and his subconscious knew it. The streets, at this time of day usually crammed with locals, were deserted. Vehicles were abandoned everywhere. The rooftops had a few figures flitting about on them.

It dawned on him, just as the scream of his driver indicated it was too late.

"RPG!"

The driver slammed o the brakes as the warhead slammed into the side of the rear axle of the FMTV ahead of them, lifting it several feet off the ground in a massive shower of smoke and shrapnel.

The battlenet lit up with fear and confusion.

"WHERE DID THAT SOME FROM?"

"RIGHT SIDE, RIG-AAGH"

"SNIPER, LEFT SIDE ROOFTOP!"

The gunner above David swung his Ma Deuce left, raking the rooftop adjacent to them- now lined with insurgents- with fire. A split second later, another dull thud erupted below the Humvee, lifting it several feet into the air and flipping it onto its side. David was thrown against the driver, as he recovered from being dazed as his head clipped part of the gunner's station on the way across. The windscreen, normally capable of shrugging off small-arms, was shattered, with only a few fragments still in the frame. Madsen grabbed his rifle, now lying against the right door, secured his helmet strap and clambered through the gap in the windscreen, falling onto the dusty tarmac. As he got to his feet, taking cover against the side of his upturned and mangled vehicle, he caught a glimpse of the gunner, what was left of him. David couldn't tell how exactly it had happened- nor did he wish to know the fine points- but his legs were still in the station. His torso and upper body was lying in the road. Rounds were flying in every direction, as the FMTV next to David which had taken the inital hit now sat aflame. The chatter on the radio was barely audible to him, as his mind was clouded by an impenetrable ringing. An insurgent rounded the corner of the burning truck, rifle raised, in a demi-victorious pose. David's mind cleared in an instant, the ringing and sound of the raging firefight faded to a ghostly silence, as he drew on his sidearm and squeezed the trigger. The 9mm round tore through the centre of the boy's chest, killing him in an instant. His face a picture of shock, surprise, as he collapsed onto the ground, blood oozing out from beneath him.

He took up his rifle and begun moving along the street in an attempt to find someone else alive amid the mayhem. He did his best to drown out the sight of a number of corpses lying in the street, friendly and enemy, toward the centre of the mayhem. A punching sensation spun him round, knocking him to the ground. He glanced down ad his chest, seeing a red stain seeping out from a small hole in his vest, about two inches above his hip. He felt his body numbing somewhat, as more adrenaline kicked in to keep the likely agony of the wound from affecting him. In an alley to his left, a group of insurgents were marching along in a mob, weapons brandished to the sky, firing wildly. He spun his rifle across, clicking the safety to Burst and squeezing the trigger in a slick motion. a spray of bullets found their mark, taking out three insurgents in a moment. David sat up, repeating the process until the insurgents were either lying in the gutter dead, or running in the other direction. His muzzle dropped onto the ground as he collapsed backward, the blood loss from his earlier hit and a subsequent ricochet taking their toll. He stared at the blackened sky, as his vision dimmed, before the world went black, and David was no longer aware of his surroundings. Not the gunfire, the turboshaft engines and whirring minguns above, not the shouts of commands or screams for medics.