Chapter 2

In Peace and War

Garson missed peacetime, not really for moral reasons, but for more practical ones instead. You did not fight wars in peacetime, the main reason why Garson preferred peace. But even in peace he engaged in combat operations. The difference between operating in time of peace and in time of war was measured in stress. Most, if not all, of the missions he participated in during peacetime lasted no more than a few days. Those missions were usually extracting Americans in tight spots or performing reconnaissance. And when he wasn't out on a mission, he was either training foreign soldiers or training with his team. Garson did have to admit however, that training could and did take a toll on him. But it sure as hell beat being on the battlefield. At Dam Neck, the targets don't shoot back.

Whenever Garson needed to think things through he went to the weight room. Sometimes he would work out by himself, but Mendez decided to work out as well. The extra company was a good thing Garson figured. At least I'll have someone to put up with my bitchin', he smirked.

"You think we gonna get one more?" Garson asked grabbing two fifty-pound weights.

"One more what?" Mendez asked picking up a medicine ball. "Mission?"

"Yup." Garson grunted.

"Well." Mendez paused. "We finished the evac, don't see any reason to go back."

"Home it is then." Garson took a break.

Mendez shrugged. "I couldn't imagine any other place to go. Heard we're steaming back to Greece for rotation. But you know how they like to surprise us here."

"I hate it when they do that. Wonder if they'll rotate us back stateside and let some other platoon take over."

"I don't think so. They'll probably want all of us operating here, just to keep the boys and girls back at home happy."

"Sending information back to people who won't do a damn thing with it."

"Tough shit, huh?"

"Guess so. We'll guess we'll be back here for another tour of duty."

Mendez had not really thought about coming here a second time. By default he was a person that took things one day at a time. Mendez hadn't really mastered the technique of planning for things weeks in advance. His mother had told him that was a bad habit that would eventually catch up to him. But Mendez never paid much attention to the innocent threat. Whatever works, he often laughed to himself. Still, Garson's words on coming back lingered. Holding on to them briefly made him doubt his strategy for life. Should he have considered death as an end for him or was such a consideration just the musings of someone who was overanalyzing? For a moment Mendez thought of his head getting blown apart. Surprised he felt a shiver run down his spine. Death never managed to scare him like this. What's going on hombre? Shaking his head he began a series of stretches.

There was not a thing to look forward to. Garson knew he'd be headed to Greece for a time. But after no more than a week he would be right back where he started; in combat, in hell. Feeling a little frustrated he increased the pace of his curling routine. Forcing a grunt, his body reminded him to slow down. Stubbornly, he ignored and continued. Where is my break? Coming from a difficult past, relief was something Garson rarely experienced. Anger started to flood his thoughts once more. His family, teachers, bosses, and even fellow sailors beckoned him to explode. They never stopped talking and they never let him breathe. Demons of insult and derision suffocated his soul. When would he be allowed to gasp for air? Unable to take the silence Garson had to speak.

"When the hell is someone gonna do things right around here?" He nearly shouted.

"Do what?" Mendez asked rather confused.

"I don't know. Just something… Something that would make a difference in this thing."

"At the rate things are going now. I don't think there's a thing anyone can do. For all I know they'll probably throw us a few shit missions here and there and makes us feel important."

"They're usin' us man!" Garson hammered. "That's all we're good for. And they'll never stop treating us like this 'til we die."

"Wish it wasn't so." Mendez managed. "But you ain't the only pawn on this ship. I'm a pawn, LT's a pawn … Even those marines are pawns. You ain't in this alone and you sure as hell ain't the only angry one either."

"It just angers me that we put our asses on the line while some fat asshole in DC stacks his cash. I tell you, wars are only fought to make money Mendez, all for the money."

"Well in case you forgot that's all war has ever been. All that stuff about freedom, defending interests, and just war is just a bunch of bullshit to get people on the bandwagon. Once you're on the bandwagon they got ya by the balls."

"Got all of us by the balls." Garson sighed, "Wish it wasn't so. But like they care anyway."

"They don't care. But hey that's just how life is."

---

Milloy received a very harrowing lesson on self-preservation yesterday. War, he learned, had a simple rule, kill or be killed. Regardless of how clichéd the phrase may have been, it was true. Taking the life of someone else, in order to save your own is the basic nature of combat. Though, in war the primal struggle to live is thought to apply only to soldiers. But, to define conflict on these terms, leaves many questions unanswered. Some of those questions pertain to the innocent. Do their deaths result in the preservation of other lives? Or, to put it more bluntly does the death of one innocent person prevent the death of another?

From what Milloy could remember, he hadn't seen or shot any civilians during those hectic moments. He really had no problem with killing another soldier. That was a given he could accept. Yet, the helpless plight of the innocent bothered him. Christ Milloy, you're a SEAL, you're not suppose to give a damn. SEALs were indifferent warriors. They were professional killers and in being professional they neither felt joy, nor anger, nor sorrow for the departed. Death was a part of war to these snake eaters, and if the innocent got caught in the middle, that was just too bad. It was not because they were inhuman. It was because they were bred for combat. They were trained to fight effectively and in order to do that they had to detach themselves from human emotion. And Milloy had to be reminded a few times, that that's how it worked. At times he accepted the facts and at other times he loathed them. Perfection had a price. If only he knew this before he became a SEAL. He hated having second thoughts.Speaking of second thoughts, Milloy was having a hard time, deciding on what to eat. There really wasn't much of a choice though. Only steak and French Fries and a sorry excuse for clam chowder were on the menu for today. Both selections were not terribly appealing, but Milloy took a bowl of chowder instead. May not be New England, but I'm hungry as hell.

"Milloy!" A voice called out. "Over here!"

Recognizing the voice, Milloy gathered his tray and motioned towards one of the tables.

"Ahmed." Milloy grinned, "What kind of shit you get yourself into this time?"

"Nothing as bad as the shit you got on your tray." Ahmed countered, "The hell is that anyway?"

"Clam chowder." Milloy sighed.

"Aw man." Ahmed groaned. "They ran out of pig slop?" He asked sarcastically.

"Porky kept callin' the Navy. Said he was gonna shoot someone if he didn't get his food back." Milloy joked.

"Well tell Porky to shut the hell up." He laughed. "Else he's gonna end up being my breakfast."

"Don't even think they got bacon anymore."

"Not unless you consider the mush piles to be different."

"You mean use my imagination?"

"Yeah, use your imagination." Ahmed said with a sly grin.

"Sorry man." Milloy said wiping his mouth, "Don't think that's such a good idea."

"You mean like trying to be superman yesterday? Heard the choppers had to wait for you three."

"If only it weren't for such a prompt arrival." Milloy complained. "Overdue by ten minutes."

"Hey give the flyboys a break. They had to come all the way from Al-Suq, back to here, then to you guys."

"Shit." Milloy replied. "That's like seventy clicks all together."

"I know." Ahmed sighed. "But mission assignments and time tables are all screwed up."

"Who's in charge of the air tasking then?" He asked. "'Cause he sure as hell ain't doing a good job."

"Well you see, they got a replacement for the guy they originally had. Nervous ass wreck. Can't make a decision to save his life."

"What happened to him?"

"Who? The last guy?" Ahmed briefly swallowed some of his food. "Died in a crash."

"Marine?"

"Yessir. Died volunteering to fill in for a banged up Osprey driver. Heard some lucky son a bitch nails his helo with a Stinger. Killed a lot of people."

"Don't think I heard about it."

"Nobody really hears about the crashes. So many casualties in this war, and we start to lose count." Ahmed lamented looking down at his plate.

"Wait. Hold up. I think I do remember." Milloy suddenly realized. "Was it that helo that Lazzare was on?"

"Come to think if it, I think it was." Ahmed remembered. "Crazy that he survived."

"Sure is," Milloy agreed. "Especially if you hear how he explains how it all went down."

"Any injuries?"

"A sprained ankle and a sprained wrist." He chuckled in disbelief.

"Wasn't the wrist on his shootin' hand was it?"

"C'mon Ahmed. You know the guy's ambidextrous." Milloy guffawed.

Ahmed let out a brief roar of laughter. "His shootin' hand. Jeeze I crack myself up."

"You always had a way with words didn't ya?"

"Hey, just callin' it like I see it." Ahmed grinned.

"Wish I could see this war as clear as you see things."

"Don't we all?" The pilot asked rhetorically. "And you woulda thought that we learned to fight a war without casualties by now."

"Would be nice if it was like that. But doesn't look like this war thing's gonna change its attitude anytime soon."

"Well, I look at it like this. War's just a real messed up version of Frankenstein. Man created a monster that has managed to kill hundreds of millions throughout history. It goes with the saying, you reap what you sew."

"Humanity as a mad scientist?" Milloy mused. "Never quite looked at it that way before."

"Hey why not call us mad?" Ahmed beckoned. "Humanity commits genocide, they rape, they exploit, they murder, they kill. Need I say more?"

"Man does like to test things."

"Don't we? I mean, just look at the list. We got slavery, colonization, racism, and man's favorite habit, genocide. Man is always trying to find proof about how one of 'em is more superior compared to someone else."

"And it ain't too hard to see where war fits in to all of this. My Dad, an officer in Nam, always used to tell me, y'know Jake, this whole war thing, ain't nuthin but ah pissin' contest. Just two guys comparin' dick sizes and makin' a God damned mess all over the place."

"Don't mean to insult your pops. But I don't think that Plato ever said anything like that." Ahmed teased.

Milloy laughed, "Okay, okay. I know that. But for us here simple folks, makes a hell'uva lot of sense."

"Hey I'm not disagreeing with ya, buddy. Probably couldn't have said it any better myself."

"But." Milloy said standing up. "Does it always have to be that way?"

Ahmed looked up, "A part of me says yes and a part of me says no. But either way, there's not a damn thing we can do about it."

"No one asked me to like wars, I just fight 'em."

"And I'm just the toll man on the highway to hell."

Milloy laughed. "Whatever man. I'll see you later." He said walking away.

Ahmed Jaffer remained in the cafeteria finishing the last bit of his water. Being the first in his family to go to college, the son of Iranian immigrants, his steep climb to being an officer and helicopter pilot in the Navy taught him a lot about life. It taught him that it was cruel, indifferent, cold, and yet hopeful. To him, life contained both the dark and bright ends of the spectrum. He knew what it was like to be low and he knew what it was like to be happy. What he experienced in life was not the best of things. But, ironically, he felt blessed to have suffered for a time. Jaffer learned how precious life was and how hard it was too. The advice he could give, from hours reflecting on his past, was helpful to many. Some people joked that he was an angel that was just pretending to be a human. That was a great compliment, but Jaffer wasn't an angel. He was just someone who knew a lot about life. In a war as bad as this, having someone around like himself was a blessing to many, not just in the fact that he rescued marines now and then, but because he was just a good person.

---

A bullet is not prejudice. A bullet does not care. A bullet does not distinguish. Bullets only embark on a one-way journey into human flesh. They are violent by design, their intent, to kill. Bullets are blind and indiscriminate. These rapidly moving projectiles cannot tell the difference between a child, a mother, a father, a friend, or a soldier. All a bullet knows is targets, nothing more and nothing less.

Conceived from the squeeze of a trigger, a bullet enters the world through the barrel of a gun. Its lifespan is short, lasting only a few moments. As a bullet dies, someone usually dies alongside it. Bullets are not living creatures and are not meant to be loved. Their only purpose is to be used and despised. And for a man like Michiko using bullets was all he ever did.

Three targets were positioned on the absolute aft of the ship. Michiko lay prone near the opposite end of the ship. Looking into the rangefinder he noted that the targets were 600 feet away. Most people would have told him to use the metric system. But Michiko liked to do things his way.

Using his rucksack to anchor his rifle, Michiko slightly shifted his position until he felt steady and comfortable. Tucking the stock of the rifle into the soft skin between his right shoulder and right arm he looked into the scope and began focusing on one of the targets. As he was trained, he automatically began to perfect his breathing. Inhaling deeply he took in all the air he could hold, subsequently pushing all the air out of his lungs. Michiko did this three more times until the rifle rose up and down in a rhythmic manner. Satisfied with the fact that he could predict the rise and fall of the rifle, he began to focus on the targets once more.

Michiko was now one with his rifle. It moved with his breathing. All he had to do now was time his shot correctly. One shot, one kill, he reminded himself. This certainly wasn't combat, but he treated it like it was. If he were to miss in combat, he would be a dead man, or in the current situation, a real frustrated one. Carefully he moved his rifle until the center of the crosshairs was aimed slightly down and left of the target's head, to compensate for range, wind, and the expected recoil.

Patiently he waited for the perfect moment. Focus on inhale, fire on exhale. The breathing process continued for only a couple of more seconds. On the beginning of the third exhale he squeezed the trigger, seeing the giant piece of fruit splatter a quarter of a second later. Good… Bye.

"I don't know whether to feel sorry for the bullet or the watermelon." He heard a voice say.

Michiko looked up. "I've kinda had it out for watermelon, sir." He squinted with a grin. "Always used to make me throw up."

"That's fair." Dillon replied. "So heard you saw a lot yesterday."

"Sure did." Michiko stood up. "Just wish we coulda done something y'know?"

"So do I. But even us SEALs got our limits, sailor. Don't think taking out a bunch of tanks without support is the smartest thing to do."

"Too bad the stooges didn't hear that. You heard what they did right?" Michiko asked.

Dillon chuckled. "Sure did. Nearly got themselves killed. But they took out three of those monsters."

"Bet those marines are more than grateful. 'Cause I sure as hell would be."

"You can count on that. Heard some of them still talking about it."

"So how was your adventure yesterday?" Michiko wanted to know.

"Took a crazy trip with a few marines. Got shot at until a pilot, who I owe a beer still, picked us up."

"What you guys do that was so bad?"

"Well, the guys I was with were telling me about these hit and runs as they liked to call 'em, which is basically taking a single vehicle, and driving into the shittiest part of the battlefield, picking up stragglers caught in the damn mess, and then leave the area like a bat out of hell."

"Pick anyone up?"

"Hell no!" Dillon laughed. "As soon as we reached Sana'A our friends were just pushing in. Took some heavy fire for a few minutes, until an overhead helo spotted our lone humvee and decided to pick us up."

"That was nice of him." Michiko smirked.

"Her." Dillon corrected. "Best damn pilot I've met yet. Well, second to Ahmed."

"Lucky a hardcore feminist didn't hear that."

Dillon coughed at the sudden humor, "Jesus." He laughed.

"And damn, sir. Don't ya got an ole lady back at home? That's just sad." Michiko kidded.

"Slip of the tongue, sailor." The lieutenant tried to counter.

Dillon took a moment to pause, observing the setting of a bright orange sun. Gray clouds mysteriously masked the heavenly body, a metaphor for the pain and regret he hid deep within his soul. Recurring memories of past wrongs suddenly sank the beauty of the natural world around him. As in all moments of quiet, his mind began to fall once more into the endless abyss of despair and regret. His mind began to recreate the horrible visions of past arguments, broken promises, and plenty of tears. No one would have believed that the most hardened of warriors cried, but Dillon did. But he did not cry on the surface. His tears were internal, the outlet of frustration from a raging soul. Letting others know of his continuously festering failure, as a husband, was not an option. Something told him that he should tell someone of his problems, but the pshrinks on this ship were booked enough as it was. Even if Dillon had the chance to see a psychiatrist, he would have never done so. He never did when his wife asked him to, so why should he have here? Divorce rates were high among this elite group of sailors. A considerable number of Dillon's comrades had traveled down that road, their wives claming infidelity as the cause for separation. Life was very cruel, but only if you made it that way. Being in the Navy, while being married, from what Dillon could gather, could have probably been one of the worst mistakes of his life. The thought of divorce had crossed his mind as it had certainly crossed his wife's. And there was a reason for Dillon's consideration of a divorce. He knew he was hurting his wife by breaking his promises to retire from the Navy. Maybe divorcing her would make things better, for the both of them. But no, he remembered. Adding children to the equation of a shaky marriage, complicated matters even further. Dillon was a man whose father walked out on him and his mother at an early age. Not wanting to be anything like that man, Dillon vowed to be active in the life of his, no, their child. No doubt did Dillon and his wife still love each other. Under the strain of broken promises and a drawn out war, the future of this already fragile marriage was left floating in a sea of unknown.

Meanwhile, Michiko let his mind ponder on something that had been on his mind lately. He would occasionally wonder about the type of man he could have been if only he had parents that would have actually acted like parents. Would he be as cold as he was, would he have ever been the killer that he was? For a man that had a mother addicted to sleeping pills and a drowning alcoholic as a father, Michiko never had the chance to receive the priceless familial advice treasured by so many children of loving parents. Initially his parents were real loving, celebrating a few birthdays, and a few excursions to summer carnivals. But then things started to spiral out of control relatively early into Michiko's childhood. At the time, Michiko had no idea why his father suddenly turned to alcohol and began beating his mother. Children never concern themselves with the reasons behind such blatant digression and violence. As time wore on however, it became clear why his father had turned into the man that he did. He learned from his constantly crying mother that his father had lost control of his auto body business. In anger and disgust his father tried to find solace in the bottle, a poison that Michiko detested with every once of blood in his veins. Alcoholics were absolute failures in his mind. His dislike for alcoholics was so bad he mercilessly beat up a drunk that said something about him, earning the young sailor a light assault charge. But Michiko felt the price was worth it, considering that he wasn't drunk and the one getting his ass kicked.

Michiko's mother, tried to hold on for as long as she could. Before giving up, she and Michiko were the one's bringing income into the household. But the combination of an unemployed, violent, alcoholic husband and a stressful job did not mix with her too well. Confliction described how Michiko thought of his mother. On one hand the downfall towards addiction was not her fault. The conditions she had to endure were the kind that no woman should have had to put up with. She needed a way out. But Michiko also felt angry. He could not understand why his mother continuously insisted on staying with an abusive husband. Could she have not done what other responsible mothers would have done and just leave? His mother was not a real courageous woman and for that reason he never forgave her. Even though her husband brought about her downward spiral, Michiko believed she should have done a better job at raising her son.

"I'm gonna get some grub." Michiko broke the silence.

"Good idea." Anything to get my mind off divore. Dillon didn't say. "Besides, I need to repay the pilot that rescued me the other day.

"Should make up for that sexist comment of yours." Michiko teased, motioning towards the lower decks.

Dillon laughed as he followed Michiko. "Yeah. Maybe it will."

---

Delaney learned one thing about being a corpsman. Bullets can kill, but so does the paper work. Bureaucracy was like an immortal being that had not quite learned to die and all this paper work served to reiterate that realization. Don't they already know who died, he wondered. Staring at the yellow form in front of him he paused when it asked for the victim's name. When trying to save a man's life, a doctor has no time to search for a dog tag. "God damn." He fumed, realizing he would have to seek out the team leader, if he was even alive, or if not him, whoever the hell else was next on the chain of command. How the hell am I suppose to know who the guy is and where do I find him? Not interested in frustrating himself any longer, the corpsman sighed moving on to the next section of the form. Whoever the guy was, Delaney would find him later.

Things were only getting more irritating. The next section asked him to describe, in detail, the procedures used to try and resuscitate the individual. He is a dead man for Christ's sake. What the hell does it matter? Its not like we don't know what killed him. Delaney clicked his pen rapidly in an attempt to stem off some of the building irritation. He tried to write a word but was unable to put anything down. His mind and body were thoroughly exhausted from just having tried to save twenty men, thirteen of which had died. Getting this whole process done was going to take a while.In peacetime, Delaney would have been doing none of this. Even if he had to fill out just one form, the stress he levels pressed upon him then would be nowhere near as high as they were now. But Delaney was not going to waste his time coming up with a uniquely different report for each individual that died. He could explain his way out of the generic responses he gave, if anyone asked of course. Who scrutinizes these damned things in the first place? BUD/S never prepared him for this kind of work. Well, maybe it did. Most of BUD/S training was a mental experience, not a physical one. Did filing out medical reports count as a mental exercise? From the looks of it, Delaney believed it damn well did.

Death was just one of those things that was never meant to be scrutinized. Except for cases of murder or something along the lines of heart failure. Such exceptions were fair since it was natural for a family to find out exactly how their loved ones died. But in war, things are a little different. Usually, if not always, the cause of death on the battlefield was from a bullet. There was not really much to analyze. Whether you died from a shot to the head or were wounded in the chest, you were dead either way. Those shot in the head where the lucky ones. At least their deaths were quick and painless.

In the end, did all this writing have any real use? The families would never get the medical report. And even if they did, what parent would frame a document stating, cause of death from severe hemorrhaging of cranial matter, aggravated from contusion of a bullet wound to the head. Receiving a simple, we regret to inform you letter along with arrangements for a military funeral was more than enough to bear. Why worsen the burden with gruesome details? They weren't going to raise the dead.

So why was he writing? Because it was the way this whole process worked. You watch a man die and write up a report about the departure of his soul. How Delaney was supposed to do that, he had no idea. The soul was not a tangible object and to try and explain why it left a dead body was rather crazy to Delaney. Well, he could say, because so and so died. But that was much too simple an explanation for those people who read these reports. Thoroughness was what they asked for, not simplicity. That would have been possible, but watching a man a die stays with you. A doctor just wants to forget about death, especially when some dies at their care. Why torture one with the memories of a life they could not save? It made no sense to Delaney. A dead man was a dead man and that was that.

Who where the people that actually sat down to read these things? Probably some office puke, state side who just skims over the documents, and places 'em amongst thousands of other medical documents never to be looked at again. Sometimes Delaney wished he wasn't a corpsman. If that were the case then all he would have to worry about was killing people, and killing people was always much easier than saving them. Live and let die? But that wouldn't be nice of him. Saving lives was a good thing. Yeah, Delaney sighed, minus the paperwork.

---

Sometimes a man just needs a quiet place to sit and think such as a peaceful garden or a calm lonely beach. However large the Iwo Jima was, it had no room for such appealing amenities. To make up for the lack of accommodations, many of the ship's occupants retreated to the quiet recesses of the restrooms to contemplate life's burning questions or to simply relieve themselves.

Lazzare could remember his mother telling him to not let his eyes get bigger than his stomach. If only he recalled those words when he decided to eat two bowls of salad, two servings of scalloped potatoes and a half-pound hamburger. He knew a meal such as this was the kind his that his BUD/S instructors would have frowned upon. But after walking twenty miles on a sprained ankle, indulgence didn't seem like such a bad idea. In retrospect though, Lazzare wished he exercised a little more discipline in his diet. His stomach certainly would have appreciated it.

Meanwhile, Kaufman was on his way to the bathroom to finish up a novel he'd been reading. The library would have been a nice place to do that. But reading in there was not as comfortable as reading in the bathroom. Kaufman really didn't think about it. After all, it was just a matter of habit.

"Lazzare, buddy. How goes it?" Kaufman asked sitting down in the stall next to Lazzare.

"A O K." Lazzare grunted. "How'd you know it was me?"

"After seeing you run out of the armory that fast. I'd figured I'd find ya in here."

"Nice of you to drop in."

"No problem. Besides gets kinda lonely in these places y'know." Kaufman jokingly advised.

"Glad to have a friend that's so concerned." Lazzare chided.

"Not really. Just came in here to finish reading this book." Kaufman joked.

"Y'know you actually had me going there." Trying to sound disappointed.

"What? You want me to give a hug?"

"No thanks. I'll decline." Lazzare smirked.

"Well damn." Suddenly acting appalled. "You're no fun."

"And neither was that helo crash."

"Ouch. Heard that was one hell'uva roller coaster ride. Think I should try it sometime."

"Yeah." Lazzare took a pause. "If you want to end up on the other side of hell that is."

"Um, yeah, hell doesn't seem so fun." Kaufman admitted. "So how's that ankle of yours?"

"I can still walk, if that's what you mean."

"Well that was kinda a dumb question. I mean you did practically run to the bathroom."

"Guess I did didn't I?" Lazzare agreed. "So how'd it feel to blow stuff up again?"

"Like celebrating the fourth of July, 'cept without the grill and a few Bud Lites."

"That fun, huh?"

"Yeah, especially when they started shootin' at us!"

"You guys didn't go into that city did you?" Lazzare asked unbelievably.

"Y'know, intel is a sometimey kinda bitch ain't she?"

Both men laughed. "That she is. Guess you boys woulda found another way if intel was right this time."

"Hell yes, buddy." Kaufman managed enthusiastically. "We got lucky. Guys shot at us from every corner, rooftop, you name it. Even a Saudi Bradley chased us a bit. All this crazy shit. Barely made it to the university."

"Makes us even then?"

"I sure as hell think so."

Not that they were in any real competition. These men fought for a living. If they got shot at, they got shot at. If they got wounded, they got wounded. And if they died, well, they died too. But death was something the two of them never spent much time dwelling on. Combat was scary enough, and compounding those fears with thoughts of death just made their lives difficult. Why do things the hard way when you can avoid them?

"Anymore helo rides for ya?" Kaufman asked.

"Don't think I have much of a choice do I? We are at war in case you forgot and that means doing what has to be done, whether we like it or not."

"Too the point. I'm impressed." Kaufman chuckled. "But humor aside, doesn't really look like there's really a way outta here. Anytime soon that is."

"The toilet seat or the war?" Lazzare kidded.

"Well now that you mentioned it, I think I'm glued to the seat." The demolitions expert laughed.

"But a ring around your ass ain't as bad as this war man."

"As least the ring on your ass fades. This war thing on the other hand doesn't quite go away so easily."

"Kinda stays with you. And after a while you stay in it so long you lose sight of who you are. We are trained killers, I know that. But sometimes you just feel your soul dying. Not really a physical feeling, its something different. It's that feeling we have when we squeeze a trigger or watch a man die. Nothing. Our feelings are simply a lack thereof. Can't really describe how a soul dies. But I think you feel it dying when you don't feel anything."

"They surely don't pay us to be human. We're trained killers. That's all we are and you know this as well as I do. No one expects us to care and I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but people would probably just laugh in your face for saying something like that."

"But you can't say this conflict hasn't gotten to you. We've all seen how bad it is out there and have had to be in the middle of it many times before. Our minds are gonna to want to say something about all the crazy shit our eyes have seen. Maybe not when the bullets are flying past our heads, but instead during the quiet moments such as sitting on the crapper."

Kaufman laughed lightheartedly, "I agree with you on that. And I will say that it is only natural for our minds to question what we do. I was never too big on philosophy, but we are the lesser of two evils. Look at it like this man. They can either send in a whole damn battalion of troops to destroy a base and kill anything that stands on two feet. Or they could send in eight men. Kill only a few people, and destroy what needs to be destroyed. The likelihood of casualties are reduced and many more people live to tuck their children in or kiss their wives good night."

"Still, that's not what we're really doing out here. I mean, sure we've done some surgical attacks here and there. But most of the time we end up being jumbled in the fray with everyone else shooting anyone who comes at us."

"Question is, do we actually hit anybody? We shoot but you know the routine. Suppress the enemy, keep their heads down. Doesn't mean you actually kill anybody. They pop up like gophers, take a couple of potshots and likewise, we return the favor. It goes on like this all day until either of us runs out of ammo or realizes we can't win that particular battle and decides to turn in for the night. The summary of war for ya."

"Well, maybe we aren't mowing down the masses. It's probably a combination of constantly firing your weapon and seeing both friendlies and enemies drop dead all around ya. Seeing that over and over again gets on your damn nerves, well mines at least."

"Shit happens man, and if some guy dies, that's too bad. You can pray for his soul if that's the kind of person you are. But for me, it's kinda hard to mourn for somebody I don't even know. Especially when you still have bullets moving by like a plague of locusts. Some things are just beyond our control. We all have to ignore our conscience every now and then."

"I guess." Lazzare replied dejectedly.

"C'mon buddy. We're not rapists, we're not racists, we're not child molesters, we're not serial killers. I could go on and on. There are plenty of ugly fuckers on this lonely rock that do unspeakable things. We kill and see hell like seven year olds watch Saturday morning cartoons. But are we monsters like the people I just mentioned? Last time I checked, nope. So lighten up on yourself and just be lucky that killing a few enemy soldiers is all we do. There's a reason why some people call us heroes."

"Why, because we kill people?"

"Could be. And I'd debate that topic with ya too. But my ass is getting kinda sore from sitting on this seat. I'm gonna get outta here and I'd advise you to do the same. Lest you wanna take that toilet seat with you."

"I'll take you up on that."

And with the flush of a toilet both men got rid of some bodily clutter and some very complicated thoughts.