I wrote this a couple years ago for a class I took. Thought I'd post it here for the shits and giggles. Tour of Duty It was always hot here. And if that wasn't bad enough, it got cold enough at night to give a man frostbite. It made North Dakota seem that much more pleasant, even with its unbearably humid summers and icy winters. At least there, Mother Nature could make up her mind about how hot or cold it was going to be. And it never got this hot in North Dakota. Here, it was at least 120 degrees in the shade. Wally hated it here. He'd never done well in the heat, not even back home in North Dakota. It'd always made field work that much harder, and his father that much more angry with him. In the end, his dad had invested in a new tractor that had an air conditioned cab for him, at least after the heat stroke. But there was no air conditioning here, not even for the natives, who had somehow managed to build a city in this place. With water and power out more often than it was available, air conditioning was very low on the priority list. Not that any of that mattered to when he was out on patrol – his armor and gear made it feel a good 10-20 degrees hotter than it actually was. It was a miracle he hadn’t keeled over yet. Actually, the heat stroke he’d had during the summer of tenth grade should've kept him from being given this assignment. Normally, the Army wouldn't have let him anywhere near the desert, but with the troop shortages, the Army had been forced to make certain compromises. At the end of the day, he was a soldier, and the Army needed soldiers. It didn't keep him from letting everyone know about how he shouldn't be here, though. They hated him for it. Even now, as they walked the streets, they resented his presence; he could tell just by the way they carried themselves. He had a lot of experience in that area. After all, he'd been in the Army for three years, and everyone he'd ever known in the Army hated him. If it wasn't the quiet indifference his squad was giving him now, it was open hostility. It might help if he kept his mouth shut instead of whining so much, but he actually enjoyed complaining; it just made him feel a little bit better somehow. He took another sip from his camelback. "I wonder if this place is any better in the winter?" he asked no one in particular. "Why?" Sergeant Griffon replied without even looking at him. "Planning on taking a vacation here?" This earned him a few snickers from the other men. "Don't worry," Griffon told him in that burly voice of his. "With the extended tours of duty everyone has been getting, I'm sure you'll find out along with the rest of us." "Unless you manage to get yourself killed before then," someone, probably Drake, added. Naturally everyone started laughing, at least as loudly as they dared out on patrol. Everyone except Sarge anyway. Wally couldn't ever remember seeing the man crack a smile, let alone laugh. He reminded him of a black Terminator from one of those old movies he'd seen. Definitely not someone to fuck around with. "Noise off and eyes open, assholes," Griffon warned. They were out on patrol in a dangerous part of town. Usually they didn't see anything or anyone, but that didn't mean anything in this city. Every day they were losing people, and it would just be Wally's luck if something happened to them today. Between the heat and the constant threat of attack, he really wished the Army had posted him in Alaska or Greenland. Most people would consider that a punishment, but he wouldn't give a shit – he could take the cold better than the heat any day of the week and twice on Sunday. Suddenly, Mendoza whipped around and pointed his rifle at him. His heart clinched in his chest, and he hopped backwards as he fumbled with his own M4. Mendoza just smirked as he looked down the barrel of his weapon at him. "Boo." Wally scowled and stopped fumbling with his rifle. Mendoza was like every other jock he’d met, the kind that all the women would go out with and then bitch about how horrible guys were. It really burned his ass that he had to put up with this jerk’s constant pranks, as if the constant threat of getting shot or blown up wasn’t enough of a living hell. All he could do was roll his eyes and wait for his heart to start beating normally again. "God, you're easy, Wally," Mendoza teased as he lowered his M4. "You should pay more attention. Next time it could be a towelhead jumping out from one of these buildings." Mendoza smiled and motioned with outstretched hands at the row of buildings lining both sides of the narrow street, slowly backpedaling as he did so. Just in time for Sarge to cuff him upside the head. Wally couldn't help but smile as Mendoza's helmet tipped forward and hit his nose. He could barely make anything out as Griffon leaned in close and chewed Mendoza out. "Now get your ass up there and take point," Griffon told him with a jerk of his thumb over his shoulder. Mendoza wasn't even phased; if anything, he was smiling even more broadly. "Whatever you say, Sarge," he said before running up to the front of the line. "You." Wally's attention was diverted back to Griffon. "Mendoza was right, Jenkins," Griffon told him without the smallest hint of sympathy. "You need to pay attention. I don't care how hot it is, you need to be more situationally aware, or you’re not going to last very long out here." Wally simply blinked, and watched Griffon as he made his way back to his former position. The man was a machine. He always had a rigid posture that made his muscle-bound six-foot figure seem that much more intimidating. Wally was actually a little taller than Griffon, but he felt like a little kid standing next to him. Griffon was the only member of the squad he respected, and it had more to do with the man’s professional bearing than his rank. They started moving again, cautiously making their way down the street. Wally couldn’t help but look forward to his next leave. At least his dad appreciated having him around. About a half hour later, they came to a major intersection. Again, nothing had ever happened to them, but they'd only been on this route a few weeks, and if it nothing else, the insurgency had a tendency to turn up where it was least expected. The city was like a maze, with narrow streets and houses built close together. In some ways it felt safer to have everything in so close, but the harsh reality was that it actually made it easier for them to get caught by surprise. Mendoza stopped at the corner and slowly peeked his head around the edge of the building, the other men waiting anxiously. It wouldn't have been much of a surprise to see his head suddenly snap back from a sniper's bullet, but as luck would have it, that didn't happen. Mendoza extended his left arm toward them, clinched his fist and stuck his thumb straight up, signaling the all clear. Griffon waved him forward and pumped his fist in the air. Mendoza nodded and quickly sprinted across the street to the next building. It was one of the wider streets, so it took him around thirty seconds to cross it. He made it across without incident, and they waited while he checked the other side, making sure that there were no towelheads or bombs there waiting for them. Mendoza signaled the all clear again. Now all that was left was for each of them to make it across the street, one at a time, hopefully without drawing any attention in the process. Wally waited his turn. He almost didn't notice that he was starting to breathe harder. The fact that his chest felt like it was going to burst held most of his attention. After all, he was dead last in line. At least he was supposed to be. The sweat was running down his face when he saw Griffon look back at him. He could tell that the Sarge was weighing something just by the set of the other man's jaw and the angle of his right eyebrow. Griffon waved him forward, and signaled him to cross the street next. He didn't really know how to feel about that. On the one hand, a small wave of relief washed over him because he didn't have to be last anymore. On the other hand, he wondered why. Sarge was definitely no fan of his; he hated his whining just as much as everyone else did. Then again, right now, he didn't really give a shit. Drake ran across the street, kicking up sand as he went. Wally got ready to run, tightening his muscles and hefting his rifle at the ready. He waited until he felt Griffon's hand hit his back, then ran like hell, and didn't stop until he'd reached the other side of the street. He leaned heavily against the building next to Drake and let out the breath he hadn't noticed he'd been holding. Wally gasped for air and panted in the oppressive heat. Drake patted him on the shoulder and smiled, his lips curling around his plaque-stained teeth. "I think it's safe to breathe," Wally heard him whisper. Wally shook Drake's hand off his shoulder and looked across the street just in time to see the Sarge start to run toward them. Then he heard something he'd never heard before – Griffon crying out in pain. Blood sprayed from the Sarge's left arm and leg as the pop-pop of AK-47s reached Wally's ears. Griffon hit the ground, his wounded leg unable to carry him. Quickly he rolled onto his side, putting his back to the incoming fire. Several rounds impacted his body armor, sending the gray powder spraying from the boron carbide plate that was keeping him alive, for now. Of course, the armor didn't do a thing to protect his legs, and the gunmen were doing their best to make sure that Griffon would never walk again. More bullets hit the wounded man's legs, sending small geysers of blood into the air. Mendoza and Drake got into better positions and returned fire. Across the street, the others were shooting back at whoever was shooting at Sarge. Wally couldn't see who it was, he was still pressing his body back into the building, his muscles too tight to move. He couldn’t even hear the gunfire over the pounding of his own heart. If he couldn't still see the ground rippling with bullet impacts around Sarge, he'd almost think the towelheads had run away. "You fuckin' pussy!" Drake screamed. "Get your ass over here and help lay down cover fire!" He checked his weapon, but he didn't move. It wasn’t that he was that afraid, really, he just couldn’t seem to get himself to move. Looking back up, he could see one of the others – possibly Thompson – make a break for the Sarge, only to get shot down himself. The other three across the street laid down more fire, but only drew a small amount in return. There were a few chucks of adobe cracking apart and falling to the ground just in front of them, but nothing like what was going on in the street. "God damn it, Jenkins!" he heard Drake's frustrated voice again. "You want those men to die out there?" Mendoza was next to make a foolhardy attempt to rescue the downed men. He wasn't as lucky as the others, though. Blood sprayed from Mendoza's formerly mocking face, and the man dropped like a marionette that'd had its strings cut. Wally knew he was dead; he didn't even have to see where exactly Mendoza had been hit to know that. That’s what did it. Finally, his back left the wall. Without thinking, he launched himself toward Griffon. He heard Drake shouting something after him, but it was drowned out in the chaos. Sand sprayed all around him, and he knew that each ripple meant that a bullet had barely missed him. He kept waiting for the searing pain of one of those bullets tearing through one of his limbs, but it never came, not even when he had to skid to a stop next to the Sarge and wedged his hand under the shoulders of the other man’s ballistics vest. It was almost surreal; Wally didn't even feel tired as he dragged Griffon back toward Drake. His limbs felt light, and it was almost too easy to get the Sarge to cover. Even the heat seemed to go away. "Jenkins!" He ignored whoever was yelling at him, and ran back out into the street. As he got closer, he could see that it was definitely Thompson; he could make out his freckled face. Thompson was still writhing around on the street, so he knew that the man was still alive. At this point, he barely even noticed the snap of the bullets around him, focused entirely on grabbing a hold of Thompson and dragging his ass back to cover. Thompson actually looked stunned to see him, his brown eyes staring at him as he let his body go limp while he pulled him over the sand-covered street. He waited a minute to catch his breath, but he was already planning his next little sprint out into the street. Mendoza might've been an asshole, but the Army didn't leave its people behind, and he wasn't going to shirk that tradition. Someone was yelling at him again, but he didn't care. Someone had to get Mendoza out of the street and it might as well be him since he'd managed to do it twice already without getting hit. He ran headlong back out into the street, and made it out to Mendoza's body. It was a little harder to get a hold of him than the other two; he was on his belly and facing the other direction, sot took a little longer for him to roll him over and drag him back to where he'd come from. He’d just started to make his way back to cover when a bullet cut through his sleeve and imbedded itself in Mendoza's Kevlar helmet. He let go in surprise and fell flat on his ass. Sand spraying around him, he got back up and grabbed a hold of Mendoza without wasting any time to check his arm. A few seconds later, he was safely behind cover. He dragged Mendoza a few more feet, released him, and collapsed next to the wall. He heard Griffon laugh at him, a kind of cackling sound that was unnatural to hear coming from such an imposing man. It was the first time he had ever heard the Sarge laugh. "You lucky bastard," Griffon said with a grimace and a grin. "That was some crazy shit you just pulled." He nodded in agreement. "I didn't know you had it in you." "I didn't know I had it in me either." Wally poked a finger through the bullet holes in his sleeve. He had been lucky; it'd completely missed his arm and passed through the billowy part of his sleeve just under where his arm was. "Thanks for saving my ass, Jenkins." "You're not out of the woods, yet, Sarge," he told him, looking around. None of the men on this side of the street had the medic's bag, or the radio. Griffon had a hand-held, but he doubted it could get through to HQ from here. Drake sat down heavily next to him. "Dammit, Jenkins!" Drake scowled at him. "You're hit! You've been hit since you brought Sarge back!" "Where?" He looked at Drake skeptically. "I don't feel like I've been hit. Do you mean my armor?" The boron carbide body armor they all wore was more than enough against the AKs the towelheads were using. Hell, they were probably the only reason Sarge and Thompson were still alive. "No!" Drake replied, and lifted his right arm. "Here!" He winced with the sudden sharpness of the pain. It was right under his arm, just above where the side plate would have protected him. The four of them stared at the trickle of blood coming from the small hole that was the only sign he'd been shot. It was no where near as dramatic as the wounds Griffon and Thompson had on their arms and legs, but he could tell just from the look in their eyes that it was a lot more serious. It was then, and only then, that he felt a burning in his chest, and it became very hard to breathe. "Aw, shit," was all he could manage. He felt his body slide down the wall until his side was on the ground. He stared at Griffon, who was looking at him with concern. Sarge was calling something into his radio, but he couldn't hear what it was. He felt hands at the front of his vest, and looked up to see Drake sliding him over onto his back. "Don't worry, man," Drake told him, his voice ringing in his ear. "We're gonna get you out of here." He stared up into the sky. He was amazed at how clear it was. Pure blue. Blue was one of his favorite colors. Not this particular shade of blue, but it was close enough. It almost reminded him of a clear crisp day back home during winter. In fact, he almost felt like he was there now, lying in a snow bank as he stared up at the sky, the cold making his skin tighten around him. His father was out on the old tractor, pushing the snow, and he was just a little kid again, enjoying the winter. He watched the mist of his breath dissipate against the clear blue sky.
