Shaking off, the private packs their piece back up with a button of trouser bottoms. A small yellow escapee falls onto the brown cargo pants. Luckily, the darkened crimson spots help conceal the spill. Back on Earth, American Earth, kind mother’s club soda would have snatched the stain away. Though that bastard stain had hardened with the arid winds of the desert climate and I don’t mind mentioning—blood never washes completely out—so set into my own fabric that I had to burn my evidence upon release back into the states. Warmness sneaked inside those pants now. I always have a few drops left too—no matter how many flicks my finger forces from the spout. Soldiers piss their pants.
The urine inside bothered the private much more than outside. Stains garnered mad attention, saluting a rugged hardness as akin to the jailhouse tat. Both coworkers and enemy needed to know of one’s devilish side—hence the black makeup covering the soldier’s face. This was the war face from the American ancestor’s that lived off the land and respected the Earth’s spirits. Here a fighter needed to present the evilest appearance possible, if only for themselves—something like having the little league team that looks better, usually balls better too.
The urine warmed an already painfully sweaty leg—the fire in the sky raged above, bouncing from rocky terrain, glaring with vengeance back up into the eye’s of the warriors. Merits were earned in this battlefield—nothing was accidental, or coincidental, or favored by any particular gods. The fiercest competitor usually remained alive—even though their battle buddies may be quite dead. Victory often garnered a couple of corpses from either participating side.
Concentrated and tucked away in my own memory, is the feeling of loss—losing one that held my head, stood me up, and helped me to better party.
This particular battle finds the private minus two friends closer than any frat boy’s ken will ever allow him to understand. Touchdown dances are prohibited, as is desecration.
In a fashion as only our government can sew—rules outnumbered outlets for the eighteen and over crowd of our armed forces. Away from anything resembling life—they are, from basic training on, molded into killing machines by the Drill Sergeant’s skillful purpose and attention to duty. And make no mistake; our mammalian minds mold like Play-Doh.
Remember that evil from above—imagine how angry you have needed to get to win a fist fight—let alone willingly rob another of their only life. The private’s favorite coworker’s “only life” had just been seized by one wearing a turban.
Human beings have evolved emotions for a reason—that is, distance makes us feel better about death. In this instance soldiers did not receive the luxury of location—their fingers pulled the lives right out in front of their once childish minds. It is important to know that solders aren’t’ born with warlord minds. Today the enemy had appeared to be, in fact born that way—so Private Johnson, pulled down her pants and crouched on her would-be-destroyer’s dead body—encircled by the grandees of her small empire; finally cheering in approval—the female soldier, warrior, and, desecrator.