By the time their unit was set to deploy, the squad had settled into their roles—and earned their stripes.
Lance Corporal Jason "Jay" Price – Rifleman, 1st Squad, 2nd Platoon. (Promoted for "not being a complete dumbass," according to his DI.)
Private First Class Merwin "Skids" Callahan – Machine Gunner (M249 SAW). Nicknamed "Skids" after faceplanting during a live-fire exercise.
Lance Corporal Darius "D-Block" Carter – Fire Team Leader. The guy you wanted next to you when things went sideways.
Private First Class Travis "Snark" Weller – Designated Marksman (M16A4 w/ ACOG). Because if anyone was going to complain about the war accurately, it was him.
Corporal Marcus "Reaper" Hayes – Squad Assistant Team Leader. The only one who could shut them all up with a look.
———
[March 10, 2008 – MCAS Miramar, California]
The squad's gear was packed, weapons cleaned, and goodbyes said (or avoided). Jay had called home one last time—quick, tense, full of things he couldn't say.
"Don't do anything stupid," Chloe had said.
"No promises," he'd replied.
Now, they sat in a hangar, waiting for the C-130 that would haul them across the world.
"I swear to God," Snark muttered, checking his rifle for the tenth time, "if this flight's as bad as the one to boot camp, I'm deserting."
"Man, you wish you could desert," D-Block laughed, tossing a MRE peanut butter packet at him. "You'd last five minutes in Mexico before you got arrested for sarcasm."
Merwin, sprawled across his pack like a starfish, groaned. "Why's it always gotta be a *C-130*? Why can't we deploy in, like, a private jet?"
Reaper, sharpening his Ka-Bar (again), didn't look up. "'Cause Uncle Sam loves us just enough to not let us die before we get there."
Jay smirked. "Wow. That's almost optimistic for you, Reap."
Reaper just shrugged.
Then the engines roared to life.
"Wheels up, ladies!" their platoon sergeant barked. "Next stop, the sandbox!"
[March 11, 2008 – Somewhere Over the Atlantic]
The C-130 was louder than a Metallica concert, colder than a ex's heart, and somehow smelled like sweat, jet fuel, and regret.
Jay's ass had gone numb two hours in.
"This is torture," Merwin whined, shifting in his seat. "I can't feel my legs. Am I dying?"
"Yes," Snark said flatly. "Congrats. You've discovered the real enemy—military seating."
D-Block, somehow still energetic, was doing push-ups in the aisle. "Gotta stay sharp, boys! Can't let the Iraqis out-hustle us!"
"I will end you," Snark muttered.
Jay leaned his head back, trying (and failing) to sleep.
Reaper, next to him, just stared at the ceiling. "You good, Price?"
Jay exhaled. "Peachy."
Reaper nodded. Didn't push.
That was the thing about Reaper—he knew when to shut up.
[March 12, 2008 – Al Asad Airbase, Iraq]
The moment the ramp dropped, the heat hit them like a fist.
"Oh, fuck this," Snark wheezed, squinting against the sun. "It's like Satan's sauna out here."
D-Block grinned, slinging his rifle. "Man, this is nothing. Wait till August."
Jay adjusted his pack, sweat already soaking his collar. The air smelled like dust, diesel, and something faintly burning.
"Home sweet home," Merwin muttered.
Their platoon sergeant—a grizzled Staff NCO who looked like he'd been born in body armor—barked orders.
"Listen up! Drop your gear, hydrate, and do not wander off. This ain't Disneyland. First patrol's at 0600 tomorrow."
Reaper exhaled. "And so it begins."
[March 12, 2008 – Evening, Al Asad Barracks]
The "barracks" were a row of dusty conex boxes with cots.
"Wow," Merwin said, flopping onto his bunk. "Five-star accommodations. I knew joining the Corps was a good idea."
"Shut up, Skids," Snark groaned, already writing in a tiny notebook. ("It's a manifesto," he'd say if asked.)
D-Block was cracking open an MRE like it was a gourmet meal. "Boys, we feast tonight."
Jay sat on his cot, checking his rifle (again).
Reaper leaned against the doorframe, watching the sunset like he was memorizing it.
"You good, Price?" he asked again.
Jay looked up. "Yeah." Paused. "You?"
Reaper smirked. "Just another day in paradise."
Somewhere outside, a generator sputtered.
Somewhere farther, artillery rumbled.
Jay exhaled.
Welcome to Iraq.
******
[March 13]
The alarm wasn't a sound—it was a Staff Sergeant's boot slamming into the conex wall, followed by a voice that could peel paint.
"ON YOUR FEET, DEVIL DOGS! PATROL MOVES IN 60!"
Jay Price's eyes snapped open. For a second, he forgot where he was—then the smell hit him. Dust. Sweat. Gun oil.
Right. Iraq.
Next to him, Merwin groaned like a dying walrus. "I changed my mind. I wanna go home."
"Too late," Snark muttered, already lacing his boots. "We signed the paperwork. We're legally Uncle Sam's problem now."
D-Block, somehow awake, tossed Jay an MRE coffee packet. "Rise and shine, killer. Big day."
Jay rubbed his face. "Yeah. Real big."
———
Body armor. Helmet. Rifle. Ammo. Water. More ammo.
Jay checked his M16A4 for the third time.
Reaper, already geared up, watched him. "You good?"
Jay nodded. "Just making sure I don't forget how to shoot."
Reaper smirked. "Aim for the bad guys. You'll be fine."
Their squad leader, Sergeant Ruiz, gave the quickest briefing in history:
"Listen up. First patrol. Stay sharp, watch your sectors, and do not shoot anything that doesn't shoot first. Clear?"
"SIR, YES SIR."
"Then move out."
———
The sun wasn't just up—it was personally offended by their existence, baking them alive as they rolled out in Humvees.
Jay sat in the back, rifle between his knees, watching the desert blur past.
"Man," D-Block said, grinning. "This is just like Black Hawk Down."
"Except we're in it,"
Snark deadpanned. "And it's real."
Merwin adjusted his SAW. "You guys think we'll see action today?"
"Hope not," Jay said.
"Hope so," D-Block countered.
Reaper just stared out the window.
———
They were on foot patrol, moving through a dusty village, when Jay saw it—a glint in a second-story window.
"Contact front!" he barked.
The first gunshot cracked past his ear like a whip.
"GET DOWN!"
The squad hit the dirt as bullets chewed into the wall above them.
"WHERE?!" Merwin yelled, fumbling his SAW.
"Second floor, blue door!" Reaper snapped, already returning fire.
Jay's heart pounded like a drum solo as he shouldered his rifle, squeezed the trigger—
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Glass shattered. The enemy fire stopped.
Silence.
"Holy shit," Merwin breathed.
"You hit anything?" Snark asked, peeking over cover.
Jay exhaled. "No clue."
"Nobody's shooting at us anymore," D-Block pointed out. "So, win."
Sergeant Ruiz radioed it in. "Enemy broke contact. No casualties. Continuing patrol."
Jay's hands shook. Just a little.
Reaper clapped him on the shoulder. "Not bad… for your first time."
Back at base, the adrenaline faded, leaving behind tired muscles and too many thoughts.
"We lived!" D-Block cheered, slamming a water bottle like it was a beer.
"Barely," Snark muttered. "Next time, I'm shooting first."
Merwin was unusually quiet.
Jay sat on his cot, cleaning his rifle (again).
Reaper tossed him an MRE. "Eat. You'll need it."
Jay caught it. "Thanks."
"You did good today."
Jay smirked. "Didn't piss myself. That's a win."
Reaper snorted. "Marine Corps standards, huh?"
———
The conex was dark. The squad was finally quiet.
Jay stared at the ceiling.
First firefight. First shots fired. First time someone tried to kill him.
"You awake?" Snark's voice, quiet.
"Yeah."
"Me too."
A pause. Then—
"Tomorrow's gotta be easier, right?"
Jay exhaled. "Sure. Totally."
******
[March 14-17]
The squad quickly learned the rhythm of war:
Patrol at dawn, sweat soaking through their uniforms before 0700.
Endless guard shifts, staring at nothing until their eyes burned.
MREs for every meal, with Snark declaring the "Chili Mac" an act of war.
Mortar drills—because nothing said "good morning" like sprinting to a bunker in flip-flops.
By the fourth day, Merwin had memorized every curse word in Arabic (badly).
D-Block bet everyone he could do 500 push-ups in a day (he did).
Reaper started a running tally of "dumbest things Snark said under fire." (Current leader: "Are we sure sand isn't poisonous?")
Jay's hands stopped shaking after firefights.
———
[March 18]
A sniper round cracked past D-Block's head, missing by inches.
The squad returned fire, but the shooter vanished.
Back at base, D-Block laughed it off—but his hands clenched around his rifle a little tighter.
"Next time," Reaper said quietly, "we shoot first."
Jay didn't argue.
———
[March 20]
Merwin, on guard duty, accidentally befriended a local goat.
It followed him back to base.
"It's a spy," Snark insisted.
"His name is Steve," Merwin protested.
Sergeant Ruiz made him return it.
The goat looked betrayed.
———
[March 22]
The wind howled like a dying animal.
Visibility dropped to zero.
The squad huddled in their conex, playing poker with MRE crackers as chips.
"I swear to God," Snark muttered, "if I die of boredom in this hellhole—"
The power went out.
"Welp," D-Block said. "Guess we're telling ghost stories."
———
[March 25]
An IED detonated 50 meters ahead of their convoy.
The blast rattled Jay's teeth.
"STAY SHARP!" Ruiz barked.
They dismounted, cleared the road—but the triggerman was gone.
That night, Jay dreamed of fire.
———
[March 28]
A letter from Chloe:
"Hey dumbass,
Mom's driving me crazy. Dad says 'don't die.'
P.S. – Rachel Amber's hot. Just saying."
Jay laughed so hard Snark threatened to stab him.
———
[March 31]
By month's end:
Jay could disassemble his rifle blindfolded.
Merwin stopped flinching at gunfire.
D-Block taught the squad how to make "Ranger pudding" (MRE Skittles + coffee = crime).
Snark's sarcasm reached artistic levels.
Reaper still never slept.
As the sun set, Jay lit a cigarette (stolen from Merwin) and watched the horizon.
"Think we'll make it home?" Merwin asked.
Jay exhaled smoke. "Yeah."
He wasn't sure.
But he needed to believe it.
******
[Checkpoint Delta, Al Anbar Province – April 7, 2008]
The sun was already a white-hot brand in the sky by the time Jay and Reaper took their posts at the dusty checkpoint. A rusted barrier stretched across the road, flanked by sandbags and the ever-present stench of diesel and sweat.
This was a hotspot for suicide bombers.
"Eyes open," Reaper muttered, scanning the horizon. "Today feels itchy."
Jay adjusted his grip on his rifle. "When doesn't it?"
Around them, the usual chaos of the checkpoint unfolded—locals being waved through, vehicles searched, the constant hum of radios.
Then, movement.
A lone Iraqi woman in a dark abaya walked toward them, head slightly down, a plastic bag clutched in her hand.
Jay's pulse spiked.
"Contact front," Reaper said, voice low.
Jay raised his rifle, sight lining up on her chest. "STOP! TURN AROUND!" he barked in English.
She didn't react. Just kept walking.
Reaper's voice was sharper. "AY! IRJA'I!" (Go back!)—one of the few Arabic phrases they knew.
Still nothing.
"The fuck?" Jay hissed. His finger hovered near the trigger. "Is she—?"
"She's not stopping," Reaper said, jaw tight.
The woman was twenty meters away now.
Fifteen.
Ten.
"Sergeant!" Jay yelled.
Their squad leader, Staff Sergeant Ruiz, jogged over, his M16 already up. "What's the sitrep?"
"Civilian, unresponsive, possible hostile," Reaper snapped.
Ruiz's face hardened. He cupped his hands around his mouth. "STOP OR WE FIRE!"
Nothing.
The woman took another step.
Ruiz's throat bobbed. Then—
"FIRE."
Jay sucked in a breath, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.
He pulled the trigger.
BANG.
The woman jerked, a dark bloom spreading across her chest as she collapsed into the dust.
Silence.
Then—
"APPROACH WITH CAUTION!" Ruiz ordered, rifle still trained on the body.
Jay moved forward, heart hammering, every muscle coiled for a gunfight, an explosion, anything.
Reaper kicked the plastic bag away from her limp hand.
It split open.
Tomatoes. Bread. A small bag of rice.
And tangled in her scarf—white earbuds, the wire trailing to a cheap MP3 player still playing tinny Arabic pop music.
Jay's stomach dropped like a stone.
"Oh God," he whispered.
Reaper exhaled sharply, turning away.
Ruiz knelt, pressing two fingers to the woman's neck out of habit, but they all knew. She was gone.
"Fuck," Ruiz muttered. He stood, rubbing his face. "Fuck!"
Jay's hands shook. "She couldn't hear us."
"No," Ruiz said grimly. "She couldn't."
A beat. Then Ruiz turned to Jay, grip firm on his shoulder. "Listen to me. This wasn't your fault. This place? It's a goddamn kill box. We had to make the call."
Jay stared at the woman's face. She looked peaceful.
"Yeah," he said hollowly. "We did."
Reaper picked up the groceries, placing them gently beside her. A pointless gesture.
******
[Location: Al-Fallujah Outskirts, Iraq – April 28, 2008]
The squad moved in a staggered column, boots kicking up dust, sweat trickling down their necks under the weight of their gear. The streets were eerily quiet—too quiet.
"I don't like this," Reaper muttered, scanning the rooftops.
"Yeah, well, you don't like MREs either," Snark shot back, but his grip on his rifle was white-knuckled.
Jay's eyes darted between crumbling storefronts. Every window was a potential muzzle flash. Every pile of rubble, an ambush.
Then—
BOOM.
The world split apart.
A hidden IED—buried beneath a rotting donkey cart—erupted in a fireball, hurling shrapnel like a shotgun blast.
Jay felt the heat before the pain. White-hot metal sliced into his arm, his leg, his cheek. Around him, men screamed.
"CONTACT FRONT!" Ruiz bellowed, blood running down his face.
Gunfire crackled from the rooftops.
D-Block was the first to return fire, his SAW ripping into a second-story window where muzzle flashes had appeared. Plaster and glass exploded.
"MOVE! MOVE!" Reaper dragged Jay behind a collapsed wall as bullets pinged off the stone around them.
Jay's vision swam, but he forced himself up, rifle barking. A figure in black dropped from a rooftop, AK-47 spraying.
BANG. BANG.
The insurgent crumpled.
"Marine down! MARINE DOWN!" Someone yelled.
Jay turned. Private Kowalski—a kid from Ohio who'd just turned 19—was on his back, blood pooling beneath him. His eyes were wide, confused.
"Medic! FUCK, MEDIC!"
But the corpsman was already hit, clutching his thigh behind a shot-up car.
Snark lunged forward, dragging Kowalski by his vest. "Stay with me, man! STAY WITH—"
A bullet punched through Snark's helmet—a graze—but it was enough to make him drop.
"SNARK!" Jay scrambled toward him, firing blindly at a silhouette in an alley.
Reaper moved like a ghost, picking off targets with cold precision. Two insurgents fell from a rooftop, their rifles clattering to the street.
"FLANK LEFT!" Ruiz roared, lobbing a grenade into a storefront.
The explosion shook the ground, and for a second, the gunfire stopped.
Then—
Click.
Jay's rifle was empty.
An insurgent stepped around the corner, AK raised.
Jay froze.
BANG.
The man dropped—D-Block's bullet between his eyes.
"Reload, dipshit!" D-Block yelled, already turning to fire again.
Jay fumbled for a fresh mag. His hands were slick with blood—his or Kowalski's, he didn't know.
———
The firefight lasted six minutes.
When it was over, three Marines were dead. Kowalski. Hernandez. Greene.
Five insurgents lay in the street, their weapons scattered.
Ruiz radioed for evac, his voice hollow. "Two KIA, one critical. Need immediate extract."
Jay slumped against a wall, his body throbbing with shrapnel wounds.
"We got lucky," Reaper said, wiping blood from his brow.
Jay looked at Kowalski's body. "Did we?"