Youngblood

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It’s strange, trying to remember now. Not the war, though that’s all tangled up, too. I mean the other parts. The way sand pebbles nipped at our faces in the wind. How the mothers glared when we raided houses looking for their sons. The smell of farm animal waste and car exhaust blending together during patrols through town, rambling, aimless hours lost to the desert.

How falafel bits got stuck between my teeth so much I started bringing floss on missions, along with extra ammo and water.

The sun, the goddamn heat. The days I couldn’t sleep and the nights I wouldn’t. How the power of being in charge got to me, how it got to all the officers and sergeants, giant, armed soldiers at our backs ready to carry out foreign policy through sheer fucking force.

How sometimes, many times, we were gentle.

The feeling of something — relief? gratitude? exhaustion? — when a patrol returned to the outpost and, for another day, we’d be able to ask ourselves just what the hell were we doing.

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