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Smith, Jeffrey G. General Infantry. Grunt. Front Liner. Short-Timer. Mean Green Killing Marine, Oorah! I’m with 3rd Platoon Alpha Team. Or maybe it’s Charlie Company 1st Battalion, 20th Infantry Regiment. There’s been so many it’s hard to keep straight.
Platoon’s at base camp, around a fire that pops like bones in the desert air. Men’s faces tiger-striped in shadow, they’re every face of every soldier of every war ever fought. Shell-shocked and battle-rocked. Tired, hungry. Ready to die or go home.
Next to me, Rodriguez says, “Pinche frio.” He cups his hands to his mouth and blows. Slips them under his armpits. Just a kid. Getting a diploma, then getting orders. Same acne on his forehead he had at Prom.
I sip from my canteen. Lick the trickle from my chin before anyone sees.
