before the day's opening rays
hit the night-cooled sand.
We're trained since basic
to aim for center of mass:
torso, chest, vitals
but Terry tends to give the first one
a whirl like he's back home
twenty years ago in the hills of Tennessee
squirrel hunting, trying not
to damage much meat.
When you're that good
you've got to entertain yourself
regardless of what the manuals
or screaming drill sergeants say
half a globe away.
"Contact," I said lowly
as I confirmed the hit
through the scope above my 7.62
a half-second after he cycled the bolt
and chambered the next round
in the .300 he'd been issued this deployment.
All hell broke loose in the desert
as AKs fired blindly into the dim dawn.
"Contact, contact," I reiterated in the same tone
as Terry pushed the second and third ones
back two meters to the ground.
The party began to scatter.
We'd seen movement at their knees
prior to engaging
and assumed they were goats
but livestock don't have arms to flail
when picked up as human shields
by cowardly targets.
We'd been warned in our briefing about this group's
ruthless tactics and ordered not
to compromise the mission at all costs.
That's Uncle Sam's way of saying
"Leave your conscience at home, boys."
The kids--humans, not goats--were
too far off for us to hear their screaming.
Terry and I were grateful for that.
When his next shot kicked up dust
we were equally thankful for that.
I'd never seen Terry miss until then.
I have a few times since.
His wife had recently gone through stillbirth
as he was on a bird back to the sandbox.
I knew it was on his mind.
He dropped his mag and inserted one
full of heavier-grain ammo
as if the mild crosswind had caused
the last lighter bullet to drift.
Before he could acquire his next target
I painted the middle of the hot spot
with the laser designator
affixed to the front of my rifle
and called in an airstrike
on the radio clipped to my vest.
It was easier to push one button
than to pull a trigger a dozen times
with each shot hoping to hit a narrow margin
or miss.
We're a team, right or wrong
no matter which god's eyes are judging.
The missiles cruised down as we covered
ourselves as best we could for impact
feeling the ground shake beneath our prone bodies.
A charred crater kissed by the scornful sun
was the only evidence that our objective had been met.
The trek back to base was silent
aside from the crunching of sand
older than our continent.
He never thanked me outright
but the next time it was my turn
to empty the latrine he volunteered instead.
That's as close as it gets with guys like Terry.
He and his wife could try for another child
whenever he'd go stateside again.
We were told a few days later
by westernized adolescents
selling candy bars in the nearest town
that the sunset in their province
is beautiful as well.
