I originally planned on only posting every 3 days, but I can't seem to hold onto these chapters for very long. I don't consider myself a very good writer, so if these are choppy, I apologize.

I enjoy your feedback. Thanks for taking the time to read.


Anyone who tells you that summer time in Afghanistan is Taliban fighting season is a fucking liar. There is no magical time when the Taliban come out and happen to shoot at coalition forces or decide to blow up a convoy. The fighting is constant and sometimes it's not; there's no allotted time slot, it's not a reservation at a restaurant or calling to make an appointment at a dentist's office.

The platoon is continually told not to become complacent. Complacency kills. And complacency always kicks in the first couple weeks of the deployment because each soldier is trying to adjust to the change and then the last couple weeks before they go home because everyone's so anxious to get home, they forget why they're in Afghanistan in the first place. The platoon sergeant has given the speech so many times; Jane can recite it in her head. If shit goes down, nine times out of ten, it will happen in the first few weeks or the last. Don't become complacent. Complacency kills.

Their first firefight is on their day off.

War is nothing like Jane pictured. In her mind, it's endless firefights and continuous shooting, like in the movies. She expected explosions, people shouting and screaming and generally a shit ton of chaos.

Granted, there was an explosion. One of the newer up-armored Humvees had been hit by an RPG just right outside their base and her squad had rushed out as the quick reaction force to meet up with them. As they rolled out of the gate and neared the downed Humvee, their convoy gets lit up by large caliber rounds from somewhere in the nearby villages.

There's no adrenaline rush in the world like being shot at.

The rounds whizz by her vehicle and Jane's whole body seizes up, because holy fucking shit they're getting shot at, she's getting shot at. Jane hears her Staff Sergeant Korsak's voice, steady and almost bored sounding in her comms, ordering the squad to dismount and return fire. She gathers herself, she picks at the ounce of sanity swallowed by the fear and she whips her head around to Frost in the driver's seat and yells at him to get the fuck out of the truck, get the fuck out, DISMOUNT and pull security. His eyes wide, Frost scrambles out of the vehicle, almost falling flat on his face, almost forgetting his weapon, his fingers fumble over his 249. Jane twists her body and yells up into the gunner's turret and tells her gunner to cover them while they dismount. The second she hears her gunner's .50 cal roll off a couple shots, she wrenches her door open and runs to the driver's side, posting herself on top of the Humvee's hood. Jane winces and ducks her head when she hears the ricochet bounce off the windshield of her vehicle.

"Where is this motherfucker?" Her helmet is digging into her skull and she irritably adjusts it, squinting up at her gunner. Jane's radio crackles and she hears direction of fire. Multiple insurgents, 200 meters at their 4 o'clock.

She looks over at Frost, who still hasn't moved from his spot, his back against the back tire of the Humvee, breathing heavily and leaning on his 249 as if gathering his courage to turn around and face the people shooting at him, people he may have shaken the hands of, people he could have hugged in greeting. A couple more shots snap over their heads and his whole body jerks forward. Jane reaches over and clasps his shoulder and tries to convey with her eyes, it's okay, we're still here, we can do this. He looks at her and something comes over his face, realization maybe? His fear's still there but Jane sees him nod and they both turn and place their weapons on the Humvee and look down their sights.

The whole squad has opened fire by now and Jane has never felt more afraid in her life. She vividly remembers the solid recoil of her rifle against her shoulder and the tinkling sound of her brass hitting the ground next to her. The smell of her freshly fired M4 and the sturdiness of the Humvee beneath her rifle. The thump that Jane imagines in her mind when her bullets hit their mark and the red blotch of blood that spreads across the enemy's bright white clothing and how he just falls to the ground.

She had never been so scared, but she'd never felt more alive in her life.

It only lasted a couple minutes.

Jane doesn't speak all the whole drive back and she only spares a glance at Frost when they're safely back on base. They both stare at each other and they look at their own hands and then their weapons and back at each other and she doesn't remember who started first but eventually they're both laughing and crying and hugging each other.

Jane recalls feeling beyond exhilarated during the firefight, but as soon as it is over, her mouth is bone dry and she desperately needs to use the latrine. Her blouse is completely soaked through with her sweat and her hands won't stop trembling.

They say people shiver when they're in excess of adrenaline.

Her hands are still shaking hours later when Staff Sergeant Korsak comes by to check on her.


There's kind of a stale stench that hits Jane when she walks into the hospital, almost similar to when you open the door to a closet that hasn't seen the light of day in a long time. Jane grimaces and thinks about the dozens of people in this hospital and wonders if they ever get used to the stench and if they leave smelling like the hospital. She shakes the thought from her mind and holds the door open for the interpreter behind her and she smiles at him when he nods his thanks.

Haroon was the first linguist that Jane rolled out with when she started her missions eight months ago and she hasn't trusted anyone else since the day he'd fiercely told off some Afghan National Police for leering and cat-calling her at a local police department. He'd surprised her by apologizing for their behavior afterwards, telling her that they may be his people, but they are not if they act like "the sons their mothers would be ashamed of". Haroon always shows her pictures of his wife and child, candid photos, always in different outfits befitting a photo shoot and Jane shows him photo after photo of Maura and Jo Friday on her phone.

They were on one of the larger French bases in Afghanistan. It was actually the airfield their unit had flown in on and it just happened to be the nearest NATO hospital when the little Afghan had gotten run over.

When her squad had arrived at the scene, it was chaos. The Czechoslovakians were frantic, yelling at each other and into their radios and kneeling over the little girl's body. Jane's immediate thought was that the little girl was dead, but then she saw the tiny chest rise and Jane couldn't help but let out a sharp breath of relief. A large crowd of Afghans had gathered around the area and Jane could hear Sergeant Korsak yelling at the ANP to keep the crowd back and under control as their medic assessed the situation.

The platoon's medic was a skinny kid, maybe 20, 21 years old. Jane remembers him being really obnoxious and a braggart, but from her experience, he was knowledgeable and got serious real quick when it counted and really, that was all that mattered. She adjusts her rifle to the low ready position and watches the crowd, searching for any faces that might indicate hostile intent.

The medic calls out multiple rib fractures, a broken leg, possibly a concussion and a whole shit ton of medical jargon that Jane can only recall as "totally fucked up". Her team ends up loading the Afghan girl into their truck and Jane distinctly remembers joking about this being the only way Frost could get a girl in his car, but the words die in her throat when she realizes that it isn't Frost sitting next to her. Her new driver looks at her curiously, but Jane just snaps her mouth shut and gruffly tells him to follow the lead truck to the nearest Afghan hospital.

The Afghan hospital is no help. They tell her, they can't help her, they will keep her here but all they can give her is saline and nothing else. The Afghan doctors tell her, a child is not as important as a man; certainly not a female child, and that she will never walk again. Jane rips her sunglasses off her face and seizes the doctor by the front of his shirt, snarling at him, her anger and disbelief clearly showing on her face. Sergeant Korsak has to pull her back by her plate carrier, give her a stern look of warning, and tells her to walk it off outside. She storms back out to her truck and slams both her fists on the Humvee's hood, breathing heavily. Korsak joins her a couple minutes later.

They work it out. They end up taking the girl and get her to the hospital Jane is currently standing in. She stares at the bed in front of her and watches the girl's chest rise and fall slowly, but steadily. The French doctors had done well. The little girl would be walking; granted, with crutches, back into her home next month.

The girl stirs, instinctively feeling someone else's presence in the room. When her eyes open, Jane smiles and lifts her hand to show the girl the bag of goodies she's carrying.

"Chi tor hasti?" Jane's Dari vocabulary is basic, but she knows the words for asking someone how they're doing.

The child smiles and reaches for Jane's empty hand, whispering something that makes Jane look at Haroon for a translation.

"She is tired, because the doctors keep waking her up to run tests, but she is happy to see you."

The group converses for a little while, the little girl telling Jane about the past couple months. They break open the bags of chips and cartons of chocolate and share them amongst themselves.

Jane's haji phone buzzes as she's lifting a piece of chocolate to her mouth and she reads the text message from Korsak. Suicide bomber near base, rtb in 15.

"Ask her if she needs or wants anything." Jane speaks to Haroon, but she looks at the girl. Haroon translates and when he listens to the girl's reply, he hesitates to tell Jane. She arches an eyebrow at him, willing him to go on.

"She says, 'I am not in want of anything, but I am sorry for my blood spilling in your car.'"

Jane doesn't know what to say so she just pats the child's hand and shakes her head. This little girl gets run over by coalition forces and she apologizes for bleeding in their vehicle?

It's not right.


"There are causes worth dying for, but none worth killing for."
― Albert Camus