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The air became hot and sticky as the day wore on. The horrific fumes of above ground sewage had a hint of rancid sweetness that set a sting to the nostrils and caused a constant gag-reflex in the throats of four young men clothed in desert camouflage against the sky of the dense May heat. It was days like these, and missions like this that made all the service members question their resolve. Never being comfortable, unable to ever be satisfied in the midst of a mission, and to always have a new and exciting way to complain about how things were run, that is the way of these young men. Forever sitting in a pool of his own sweat and stench is Joel, a young man from Minneapolis who somehow found himself in the middle of a cursed village. Sitting atop a frail building, holes in the roof and each step led to a very real danger of plummeting through the ceiling into a room of garbage and unsanitary medical equipment. In non-stop peril these four youths observed brown-skinned locals as they milled about draped in garbs that always seem too heavy for this god-forsaken heat, as if in a perpetual shuffle … from building to rubble building, they moved in earnest pursuit of collecting what little scrap metal was left. These corrugated strips were used to construct frames of the small buildings that were mostly a destroyed composite of brick, mud and dirt, but the people of Iraq are so poor and live in such destitute they were taking anything that wasn’t bolted down. “Sioux Alpha Two 1400 hours,” a crackle spits forth from the radio as the arid western desert wind picks up the signal along with barrels of sand and trash spewing a collection of litter out further into the daytime abyss. Sitting against the same roof wall as Joel, Corporal Michaels retransmits the message sent every four hours during the mission, “Sioux Alpha Two, 1400 hours, nothing to report along route Dallas, how copy?” Michaels was a 23 year old from Georgia, and a born again Christian. How he had come to be a shooter for a Marine Corps Scout Sniper Platoon was a mystery to the rest of the crew. Sioux Alpha Two is the call sing for Sniper team two while attached to Alpha Company in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom for the 1st Battalion of the 5th Marine Regiment in the 1st Marine Division out of Camp Pendleton California. “That’s a solid copy Sioux Two, fourteen hundred hours, no activity along route Dallas, War Path out.”(War Path is the unit wide channel that transmits to everyone on the designated radio band) Michaels drops the hand held receiver and a looks back out over the village, out past the eastern corner building out into the emptiness, garbage and sand. Holding his green issue binoculars up to his eyes, Michaels swept the horizon for movement, finally dropping his arms in a huff. “Jim, why did we take this fucking mission again?” Michaels was asking Jim Bishop, his team leader and a rather large, strong and silent type Native American from one of the Dakotas. Rumor was that Jim was extremely wealthy, he supposedly owned about a third of all the cattle in the Dakotas. Looking up from his shaded spot in an alcove in their position Jim nodded and gestured at David and Joel, the final two members of Sioux Two. These two misfits were a very new addition to the Sniper Platoon. David and Joel were from another company in the battalion. They were part of an augmentation policy that outfitted the sniper platoon with able minded Marines proficient in reconnaissance and surveillance capabilities, as well as guys that could hit a target at upward of a thousand meters. “How was I supposed to know we would be sitting in a fucking dumpster for three days?” Joel asked in a short-tempered jaunt of exasperation. “Plus, I wanted to get out from under their noses. For Christ-sakes it’s as if we were convicted criminals.” Joel let his rant get the best of him, and sitting up he grabbed for a two-quart canteen off the side of his Frankenstein pack. He calls it that because it had been hit with an RPG (enemy rocket propelled grenade) a few weeks before and he had to sew it back together with fishing line and piece the frame back together with epoxy. His pack looked like a mad science project of olive drab, blue thread and lumps of opaque plastic, therefore, it mildly resembles the fictional monster in some respects Along with the rest of Sioux Two, Joel and David had been the subjects of scrutiny for a series of unauthorized target acquisitions (confirmed kills) on the outskirts of what was then known as Saddam City. These alleged shootings had taken place during the initial push that lasted some eight hundred miles from Kuwait to Baghdad, the initial push that they were now in an extended stall supporting. All the ranking officials didn’t seem to have any problem ordering the team out on forwarded inserted missions while some bullshit investigation was pending- guess doing what the mission called for was as important as-it-was in question. “You guys are trying to say that you would have rather sat in the CP (command perimeter) doing nothing then to be on a mission?” Joel looked at Jim, then to Michaels and back. David sat crouched in the corner with his scope on a tripod, surveying the western portion of the village. The position they held was a destroyed rooftop on the key corner of the village giving them an optimal view of the eastern section while still tying them in to a mutually supporting placement with Sioux team 4 in the next village, approximately 4 miles to the west. Michaels spun around on his haunches to face toward David and Joel, “See that is exactly how to tell that you two assholes aren’t from SSP.” Joel sees David’s eyes look over with a hint of fever in his gaze. With his face dirty, his eyes narrow and Joel can almost hear the sizzle of anger coming from the glare- but David makes no sound, save his steady breath, as he sat listening intently to the insults Michaels directs at the two of them. “We don’t volunteer for shit. We don’t go looking for duties; we sit back and get done the jobs that need to get done.” Michaels’ words came in a forced whisper, but you could still hear the southern drawl sneaking through, “-And, we for damn sure don’t go pitchin’ in to get some fuckin R&S mission in some fuckin sewer.” David and Joel sat and took the impact of this verbal assault with an aforementioned understanding they had together. When joining the Sniper Platoon months earlier they knew that they were strangers in a foreign land. Among the six Marines that had joined the platoon in support of OIF David and Joel had seen the most action, and demanded the most respect from the real members of 1/5 SSP, it wasn’t because they were both sergeants, they had both honed their skills in a variety of military specialist schools right along with the guys from SSP. That didn’t change the fact that they knew sooner or later it would come to an impasse between their team. Even after the Saddam City thing, they knew Michaels’ had an attitude problem. Throughout all the missions he always had something smart to say, but when it came down to the job, Michaels’ was always in top form. “Volunteering is the best way to get yourself dead.” Michael’s laced out in one last stream of venom. Then he sat back against the wall not even trying to mask his contempt anymore, and Michaels’ stared across at David. “So now we’re assholes” David piped up from his perch in the corner. “If memory serves me correct, we have all been pulling our weight here. We all did work back there. We know what we’ve done and why it had to be done.” His words carried with them a bit more severity then Michaels’ had, and it had nothing to do with the extra rank on his collar, or the fact that what he said was true. It was his tone that always set David apart from other Marines. Having been raised by a single mother and the oldest of four, David was forced to be a man much younger than most others. Even now at the age of twenty-two he seemed older in mind than in years. What made him seem even more effectual was the fact that he found himself in the midst of a very strange war in a very strange land. Regardless of the hardship, discomfort or complaint, David was the epitome of a Marines approach to war … he was all business. “I understand that you two don’t want to be out here in this cesspool. But don’t think for a second I am going to sit here and let you trash either our abilities or our intentions. You got that corporal?” David leaned forward a rare intensity glowing in his steel blue eyes. “Donchoo even try an poll rank out hur,” Michaels’ southern twang reveals itself completely now as his annunciation falters and his emotions take over- “Don’t you even run your fuckin’ mouth,” David sits straight up and his voice takes on an edge “`Cuz while we are out here, anything can happen.” David’s eyes level with Michaels’ and the temperature rises a full ten degrees. Jim and Joel both sit back and watch the exchange stiffen up; arguments were all further complicated by the heat, the non-stop discomfort; this uniform and continuous missions. A change in wind could drive Sioux Alpha Two to extremes on this rooftop, stuck in the middle of the desert so far from the states, their base and their homes. Jim rocked forward some and said , “Alright-calm down guys,” his soft manner of speech casting a layer of calm and a cool perspective into the middle of this complex exchange of military speak and a tough guy pissing contests. As if on cue the PRC 119 radio jumps to life, and a slew of orders and reports bounce over a channel that was completely dead only a few moments before. “Sioux two Alpha this is Sioux Four Charlie, stand by for a Salute report.” Michaels leaned over on his side and snatched up the handset. “Send it Sioux Four.” “Three Vehicle Convoy (Size) heading due East across our front(Activity) grid 431(Location) appear to be paramilitary, black uniforms(Unit) 1434 Zulu(Time) vehicular mounted weapons and small arms in open top canvas pick up trucks, how copy?” The team springs to life, Jim drops behind his Barrett 50 cal. special applications scoped rifle in the shadows while Joel gets on his binoculars and radio to call for artillery and air support. Michaels’ gets his tan and brown painted military issued M40A1 set up next to David’s scope and every waits as the air tenses up. In the eastern distance billows of sand shoot out from the sides of three foreign made tan pickups like smoke seeping from the nose of a dragon. As the convoy creeps over imaginary gridlines Joel sends his request for air support onto grid 432. “This is Sioux Two Alpha requesting CAS (close air support) on Grid 432 headed east” “Stand by Two Alpha,” while the trucks creep across the horizon as the beads of sweat stand out on Joel’s forehead, the back of Joel’s hand. Drops of perspiration slide down Joel’s wrist, he reaches up and itches his head as the radio jumps to life again. “Sioux Two this is Whiskey Hotel Four (call sign for an A10 Wart Hog one of the oldest U.S airships used in combat today.) standing by for CAS.” As the sand and exhaust screamed out from the vehicles a low bogged out sound crept in from the edge of the sky. A pair of U.S planes flanked by four UH1 Cobra Marine attack choppers approached the enemy convoy like vultures sweeping in from a distant mountains peak ready to scavenge meat from the newly dead. As David peered over Michaels’ shoulder, leaning on top of him despite the heat and ill feelings between the two of them, he ranged the lead vehicle using the formula he learned in the first few days of the assignment. By allowing distance between the vehicles and eyeing the average length between the tires of trucks and vehicles you can approximate the distance of such a vehicle. David tells Michaels that the range is around nine hundred and fifty meters and the young snipers hands go to work adjusting the scope and loading his rifle. At the same time as Joel’s words resonate across the radio waves Jim’s oversized hands were feeding fifty caliber shells into the Barrett. The clip for such a land cannon is about the size of a man’s head, and the individual rounds resemble a small copper or silver flashlight, depending on the type of round, whether a regular shell or a slap(armor piecing round) shell. A small child screams from the front of a dirt and clay home across the street. Joel’s eyes drift toward the sound just as all hell breaks loose. A round erupts from the barrel of the 50 cal. like a tear in the fabric of sound. A bloom of dust jumps to life from the percussion of the shot and the lead truck in the convoy lurches away from the road. Michaels follows Jim’s lead and starts sending shots toward the black clad figure behind the RPK (soviet machine gun) mounted on the truck. His first rounds scream high and he begins to drop his aim as Jim follows his initial blast with a series of booms. The A10s and Cobras are now in range of the convoy and a barrage of bombs, bullets and rockets bombard this collection of desert enemies. There’s an eruption of fire and bright flames screech off into the clouds. Small forms of terrified and flame riddled bodies leapt from the trucks out into the sand. Through his binoculars Joel watched the scene in a glaze of preternatural disbelief perpetrated by the mechanical and technological advancements allowed by mankind, and the greatest minds of mankind applied by the military forces in order to better one sides global position and strategic abilities to implement politics and policies of one government onto another land. These goals were realized, or pseudo accomplished by the exploitation of young men like these, and on the blood sweat and tears of young men like this who don’t know and most-of-all don’t care about these politics and policies. Amidst all the bombastic explosions and violent carnage Joel swears he can hear the sound of the child still crying, and he feels that he begins to understand.