{Note-I wrote this a few days ago, just been working on it bit by bit.}

We were sitting and playing Spades, just monitoring the radio traffic, when the call came across.

"Break break, this is Action 6, we have many KIAs, we are at XY 123 456."

I know these people, I know who they are, where they live. And they are dying, right now. Some are already dead.

Americans dead and dying in Iraq, they need help, and they are in the bad part of town. The ghettos. Places I've never been, I avoid like the plague, and they aren't far, just down the road.

The shit hole desert of Iraq taking a few more of our own from us.

I hop up, "Let's go-get the Iraqis rolling, get the trucks ready."

A mismash of activity-I can't even replay it all coherently in my mind-Americans running around, briefing each other, briefing Iraqi soldiers, getting gear ready. Everything is happening so quick, and I can't remember it in order, we are rushing to where death is.

I have a nagging little thought-I should have called my mother. Damn.

I remember rechecking the map, showing the Iraqis-here, get men here. Marines are down.

I remember the Iraqi trucks rolling out, the gunners in the back of the truck jouncing around, holding on for dear life. We are not far behind them.

The guys are moving-where are we going, let's get in the trucks, move move. Guys are piling in, radios are out-shit-no radios-we're rolling without radios--do you want to move-shit get moving. It's just down the street.

Tearing down the camp road at break neck speed, rolling corners, the fear of the iminent danger and the unknown is more of a breathless anticipation.

Hit the highway, roll faster, we're going fast, as fast as we can, honking and waving at the cars on the road "why in the hell are there so many cars on the road!?!?! This is Ramadan, shit!"

I'm in a new part of a neighboring suburb for me, a part I've never seen before, a squalid little shit hole, the ghettos, people hate us here, the pedestrians on the street glare at us, children are flipping us the bird, yeah, people hate us. I feel them wishing death at me though the armor.

We roll past the turn to take--a mismash of trucks congregated down the road. We continue down the highway, past congested shops and gas stations and big trucks and little tiny cars and everyone might be an insurgent, every hole might be an IED.

"We missed the damn turn. Turn around!" Truck in front missed the turn, radio is down, we're trying to honk and get their attention, they pull down another road, alongside some good-looking!! American armor that is on patrol, headed the same place we are--"Turn around-follow us"

Away we go, back on the highway, down the wrong way of the highway, daring cars to come at us -get close, we will shoot you, I'm sorry it has to be this way. Our friends are dying and we are in a hurry, so BACK OFF.

We make the turn, we roll up, I get out, my partner gets out, we find guys on the ground "Show us where to go"

Everyone is taking up positions--American forces from everywhere are pouring in, helicopters (God bless them-the choppers!!) are here now, the anxiety subsides a little, we are still targets, but we are here in force and we DARE you to take action on us, we WANT You to show yourself and come out, we are here, and we are pissed off that you have taken some of our own, we can see the smoldering pit that used to be an American truck, and if you make yourself known, if you show yourself, if you even come out of your house and look cross eyed at us, be prepared to pay the consequences for your actions, because we are sick and tired of dying in your shit hole country. I have never in my life wanted to take a life as badly as I do now, but you have left me little choice with your cowardly attack on my friends.

A few insurgents did pay the price.

And so it goes, for the next half hour, pulling security, letting those know who were in the attack-we are here for you, you are safe. Slowly the fallen are gathered and placed reverently in body bags. Young men that wanted to serve and to better their lives and make something of themselves are being attended to by other young men that want the same, who are crying, who have American blood on their hands, who are angry, who are tired, who are scared, who want to fight, and go home and be normal and get vengeance, probably all at the same time.

The hole is there, a huge black smoldering hole that has swallowed up the hopes and fears and dreams of some great Americans, that sits in the middle of the desert and glares at all of us, that reminds us that we are not always welcome here, that we are hated here, at times, that we must watch out at all times, be vigilant, look out, watch out--they want to kill us. But we got some of them today, too, I guess in that tired back and forth way that the war is today.