text: Bacon (Feedback appreciated) “Fuck it’s hot,” he proclaimed as the sweat beaded on his forehead and rolled down next to his eyes. It was day three hundred thirty, and another routine patrol in the Registan desert of Afghanistan for Three-Charlie. The weight from his pack pulled him backwards so he was in a constant forward lean as they walked. His mouth was parched from the sandpaper air, and his eyes glazed at the sight of the flat dirt that surrounded him. His legs were sore, and the foot blister pinched with pain on every step. “A week. One week Carl. If you could quit being a crayon eating bitch for just one more week,” said Lian as they walked down the side of the gravel road. The sun was baking them like roasted chicken. Lian walked in front while Esha followed him from behind. His helmet was stifling, and the straps caused a rash on the back his head. He wanted to wipe away the sweat but he couldn’t. His rifle was held firmly in his hands, the finger on the guard. The doors opened and the cool air conditioned wind blasted him as he walked in. He picked up a shopping cart and began to walk down the fresh meat isle. Someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Mr. Carl? I haven’t seen you, well, since you left. I heard it was rough overseas,” said the well-dressed man. They shook hands. “I just want to say thank you very much for your service. You’ve done so much for this country.” He smiled back, nodded, and watched the well-dressed man leave looking satisfied with himself before going back to picking his fresh meats. Fish, Poultry, Beef, Pork... “Why the fuck, are we even out here?” Carl continued. “The glorious 33rd Expeditionary force, trained in mountaineering, airborne drops, CQC, and urban ops. Five hundred fifty thousand of tax payer’s money to train and spit each one of us out of basic. And what do we do for a fuckin’ year?” “I don’t know Carl, why don’t you tell us,” said Baptista sarcastically as he swiveled slowly side to side from behind the mounted turret of their truck. It crawled beside them. Two section’s truck followed a length behind as they walked on the other side of the road. “For a year, we walked around this empty fuckin’ desert waiting to get shot at. We move water pumps, generators, and guard absolutely fuckin’ nothing. If isn’t the Taliban, its fuckin’ Americans who can’t tell friend or foe. Fuck, we’ve had more deaths from people falling off the guard tower than the fuckin’ enemy.” he continued ignoring the sarcasm. He left the checkout line and exited the building. The sweltering heat came back to hit him. His knees shot with pain as he stepped down the curb. He groaned on the inside. *Pain is weakness leaving the body.* Luckily, he didn’t have to walk far, he had parked close to the entrance. “This your vehicle?” A lady asked. She looked agitated. “You parked in a disabled spot. What’s your problem? You look fine to me.” She paused as she noticed the car magnet on the side of his car. “Support our troops? What are you a warmonger? You can’t possibly support those babykillers and their rapist tendencies!” She continued to shout at him as he closed his trunk and got inside his car. *Maintain Composure.* He blasted the A/C and drove off slowly, and made sure he didn’t hit anyone... “So you want to get shot at Carl? Is that what I’m getting from you?” said Lian kicking a rock to the side as a miniature dust bowl floated away. “The ‘Stan has been fought over for a millennia. Stopped the mighty Soviets in their tracks. These people know nothing but war. Peace breaks out in the ‘Stan. Not War.” “What’s your point Carl?” “My point is, this is fuckin’ bullshit. I came here for some action. I want to know what our mission is. Our real mission. Why the fuck are we doing all this bullshit? We have enough firepower to level everything and pave it over.” Lian turned around and bashed Carl on the helmet with the butt of his rifle. Carl returned with a shove. Lian swung his rifle to his side and grabbed Carl by the collar and brought their faces close enough together that their helmets clanked. “One Week. We’re on a plane and back home in one week. Shut your pipes and we can all go home.” He opened the packaged bacon and threw four pieces on the pan. It began to sizzle, little air bubbles popping so fast it sounded like static... Light chatter came in through the radio. “Two-Charlie, this-is-zero, request Sitrep, over.” “Two-Charlie, Roger, wait-ten, out.” A pause. Lian and Carl continued to stare at each other. “Three-Charlie, this-is-zero, request Sitrep, over.” That was them, Three-Charlie, he pressed the PTT without breaking eye contact and responded. “Zero, this-is-Three-Charlie, wait-ten, out.” “Quit touching each other, boys,” directed the Lieutenant, her long red braided hair flew in between them as she pushed them apart with little effort. Lian slung his rifle back into his hands and rejoined the patrol front. “Walk with me Carl.” “Ma’am - “ “Corporal Carl, recite the mission briefing I gave you this morning.” The sound of his rank being called snapped him to. “Mission: To maintain regular patrols along key MSR’s within the Kandahar Province. Assist locals in their infrastructure building process. Provide security when necessary. Commander’s intent: To prevent the spread of Neotaliban insurgency from spreading beyond the thirty-first Northing in the Registan Des - “A sudden force knocked him clean off his feet, the air out of his lungs, the light from his eyes. Blackness. When Carl came to, all he could hear was his skull ringing in his ears as he coughed and tried to breathe. The smell of carbon filled his lungs, and everything was on fire. There was nothing left of the first truck but the wheels. He stood up slowly, and grabbed his rifle off the ground. He pulled the bolt back and watched a round eject out as he unjammed his weapon. He heard Lian screaming to his right and ran towards him. When he got there, he stared into Lian’s green eyes as if he was trying to ask him what was wrong. “Just couldn’t keep your mouth shut. Help me up,” rasped Lian as he stuck his hand out. He grabbed it and pulled, but only managed to straighten the arm and lift the shoulders off the ground before it slipped. There was no grip pressure from Lian as the head tilted back and the eyes rolled up. He stared at Lian’s lifeless body. Everything below the waist was disintegrated, pieces of shredded cloth and Kevlar hung over seared flesh that clumped itself on to the exposed pelvic bone. Blood pooled slowly from the cavities, directed only by the force of gravity. He took a step back and fell as his boot rolled over Esha’s dismembered arm. He landed hard as Baptista's helmet, later to be the only thing they found of him, punched his side. Everything smelled like burnt bacon and rusted iron. Someone shouted at him from behind, but all he could think about was how he be dead next to them if it weren't for their argument. The shouting became angrier - “Hey! You’re burning the bacon!” His wife pushed him aside as she took the pan from his hands and dumped its contents into the kitchen sink, hosing it down with the faucet. “No wonder you keep getting fired,” she lectured, scraping at the pan, “if you zone out like that at work, no one, and I mean no one is gonna keep you around!” She ran the pan under the water and steam hissed off the surface. “I thought the Army taught you to pay attention to details or sumthin’, but clearly I was wrong!” she continued. “Why do you insist on using this rusty old pan anyway?” He didn’t answer. She sighed and dropped the pan into the sink, the sudden clunk made the stillness scream. They stood staring at each other. Days passed. She spoke again. “I - I don’t know if I can deal with this much longer.” She said dropping her shoulders. He remained silent. *Show no weakness. It was your fault. Suck it up buttercup. You asked for it. Unfuck yourself troop. You wanted action. Get your shit together. They died for nothing. Sort your shit out. No one here cares. Quit fuckin’ around like a bag of smashed assholes. People want their Starbucks, not foreign policy. Stop falling on your face like a bucket of rusty skidoo parts. A country’s war is the soldier’s fault. Shit heels! Stop feeling guilty. A country’s war is not the soldier’s fault. Don’t be a crayon eating bitch. Tell me why, why did my brothers and sisters have to die?* “Well? Say Something...” She softly demanded as she approached him. Stepped in closer as the tears began to stream. “You can’t keep it inside you forever.” Her closed fist struck his chest, as the weeping began to soak his shirt. He held her, his mouth hung open. He tried. He tried, so very hard to tell her.