"Take cover!!" Someone screamed. The men hit the ground. The sand was everywhere. The sand was coarse. The sand was rough. The sand was irritating. It was flung into the air. The dust clouds made them cough, itch, and it got into their eyes. It was in their boots, on their shirts, and in their pants. The sand would come home with them. When they think they got away from it, they'll find that one shirt, that one boot, and from it the sand would pour.

        Then there was the gun fire. Loud pop after pop. Crack, crack, pop. Sharp through the air. Hitting the sand around them. Bullets hit a body every now and then. The enemy went down with no remorse. The soldiers had the authorization. They were ordered to kill. They encouraged each other to kill. The tactics approved them to kill. They were also accustomed to killing. It was a habit. Once you did it more than one time, it became nothing. It was a game, and the consequences didn't matter.

        When their own went down, it was a different story. The enemy was ordered to kill, same as them. They also encouraged each other and each had a tactical advantage if they did. The enemy also had a habit of killing and also were accustomed to it. The only difference is they killed the innocent. They killed innocents, and they killed comrades. Men and women who had family back home. Who had friends back home. Who had a life full of freedom and possibility. All stolen away from them.

        Eventually one side had to recede. One side had to call it quits. One side had to tell the men and women who were willing to fight and willing to keep pushing forward that they were losing the battle. One side had to show the other side who was really winning. Today the enemy fell back. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless. Tomorrow they may push forward more, or go back tenfold. That was the nature of war.

        "Look at 'em go, tucking their tails between their legs!" one soldier yelled.

        "I say three cheers for us!" another said.

        "Don't start the party yet boys. Still gotta dig trenches, set up camp, and establish a perimeter," a third said.

        "Aye sir!" the men responded.

        "Call for Lance Corporal!" a soldier said, running up with a satellite phone. The third soldier picked it up.

        "Lance Corporal Hooper here, awaiting orders."

        "Good evening Brian. This is your friend, Hudson."

        "Hudson?! This is a secure line! How in the devil are you calling me?"

        "I provided a hefty sum for the campaign. Nothing important. Look, I got you and your boys some supplies. Heard things were running low down there."

        "You crazy son of a gun!"

        "Don't thank me yet! You owe me a drink when you head back."

        "I'll buy you a whole tab!"

        "I'm looking forward to it."

        "Where did you get the money? Aren't you still paying off student loans?"

        "Let's just say that money is the least of my problems. We have a lot to catch up on. I have to go now. The supplies are being dropped off not too far from your location. Send your team my regards. Hudson out." The phone clicked, and silence followed.

        "Hey boys! Prepare for a supply run!" Brian exclaimed, and the soldiers cheered, brandishing their weapons in the air. He gathered up some men, and left the others to secure the camp. He knew that there was an airstrip not too far from their location. That was the most likely spot for the supplies.

        The sun was high in the sky that day. There were no clouds in the sky. There were no branches and no leaves. Not even the moon could cover up that sun. The light shined directly at their backs as they trudged to the airstrip. Even with their faces wrapped and their bodies covered, the sun went right through and struck their soul. The pure power of the sun sapped their energy. In most places the sun is the bringer of life. Here it was the bringer of death.

        "The airstrip is about half a klick away sir," a soldier said to Brian. He nodded, and kept moving forward. They could all see the airstrip ahead. There was a bird parked on the runway. The men cheered once more. The pace picked up, and they hustled all the way there.

        "Good Evening! Some good ol' supplies, provided by Hudson Enterprises, for all you. We have new guns, ammunition, food, and mail from home! Thank you boys for your service," the pilot said, saluting the soldiers. They saluted back, and went to the cargo bay.

        "Oh we done hit the motherload!" a soldier exclaimed, sorting through all the items.

        "This is all from my good friend Hudson! We are having drinks with him when we get back, understand?" Brian said.

        "Cheers to that boss!" They all shared a laugh. Then they loaded up. Rations, ammo, a gun or two, new armor, and some simple stuff like toothpaste. Then it was time to head back. They walked, more weight on their shoulders. This weight was acceptable though. It was the weight of certainty. The weight on their back was the weight of safety. It was the weight of power, and the weight of strength.

        It was better than the weight of their subconscious. The weight of death. The weight of bodies, especially the ones of their friends. The weight of the dark night, the absence of light, and the cold. Most of all, the weight of their country was the hardest one to bear.

        "Sir, smoke ahead!"

        "Smoke? Send a scout ahead. Company halt!" Brian said. The men stopped. The atmosphere suddenly was a weight they now bore. They were quiet, waiting, listening. Time slowed down.

        "Camp is on fire sir! Men dead, some missing," the scout reported.

        "Prepare your weapons," Brian ordered, and signaled for them to move forward. They inched towards the camp bit by bit. Each soldier's body was tense. Each soldier heard sounds that weren't there, and some that were. Each step that each soldier took was harder than the last. It was like moving through goo, moving with a giant rubber band attached. They wanted to turn back, they wanted to run for the hills. They didn't want to see the damage that was done, to see the friends they lost.

        Then gunfire. It was everywhere. In front of them. Behind them. Above them. Below them. Some of the men blindly fired back. Some tried to cover. Others just accepted their faith. When you get shot, you don't fly backwards. You don't lie on the ground sputtering out last words. If the shot is lethal, you drop. Your body just crumples, just a bag of bones and muscle without sentience.

        If it isn't lethal, you don't feel it at first. Your body is in shock, your mind is focused on the battle. Then later, when your heart calms down, and your body isn't in shock, the real pain comes. At first, it's partially a burning sensation. It's like having multiple sharp needles being pushed to the skin, not stabbing, but continuous pain. Then the pain gets worse and worse, like a hot poker held to your skin. Most people faint after that.

        The men got closer and closer to each other, until they were practically on top of each other. Brian fell to the ground, his men on top of him. The bullets flew all around him. With every inch of his soul, he prayed. The one thing he knew was that his armor was the only thing keeping him alive. That and the bodies of his comrades surrounding him. If it wasn't for those supplies, he knew he would die. He just wished that they would've had a chance to use the supplies with preparation.

        Eventually the gunfire ceased. Brian didn't dare move yet. He just waited. Waited and listened. The sound of the wind. The sound of the sand, beneath his head. The sound of ghosts. He could have sworn he heard the sounds of the burnt down camp. Sounds of soldiers chatting quietly, talking of home. He could hear himself, sitting at a desk. His pencil moved back and forth. He wrote a letter home. The war is going fine. No casualties. That wasn't what he was going to write later. He wasn't going to send good news.

        There was one thing he was going to write. He was going to write to Hudson. He was going to thank him. Even if Hudson wasn't there with him, even if Hudson's supplies weren't the reason he survived, Hudson saved him. The armor he wore gave him strength to get up from the pile of bodies. The armor he wore gave him strength to move forward, to march to the next camp, and to tell the travesty of what happened around him.

        They sent him home after that. There was no need for him to suffer more. There was no need for him to try to be comrades with a new team. No need for him to watch more men fall. At that point, he didn't even care. He didn't care that it was the coward's way out. He didn't care that the men out there needed more men, not less. He just wanted to rest. He just wanted to get a drink with an old friend. That was the peace he needed.