Story time. Flash back to this one time that I remember, one crazy day.

I was assigned to the most forward gate, CP Alpha, which is, quite literally, Past The Wire. Which means I spend a lot of time walking across it with only a pistol and my faith in The Eternal. Carrying a rifle for this part of the job is a waste and a burden. It gets in the way for searching vehicles, and is better in the tower for the overwatch to use for aimed fire. Besides, if something goes down, the range will be so close, that the rifle is too much. And mine is “special” with extra modifications, and that is better in a tower with clear fields of fire and lots of ammo.

Children are the bane and the blessing of this post. They invariably come down here, to mooch off the Amriki, find free food and water, and maybe just have a little more security. No one is stupid enough to do a shooting or robbery in a place where jumpy nineteen year olds tote machine guns with belted ammunition. The possibilities are numerous, violent, and quick no matter what combination could be tried.

So, of course, they come running up. And at this point are well trained. They immediately clean up the test fire pit, knowing that payment in candy and cold clean water is immenent. Once, they stole it and sold it. The proceeds were done with however kids here deal without Seven Elevens, and the goods sold were made into penetrators that killed Amriki in bombs. Used to be. Now, the kids turn over the brass and the supply is gone. And gone to the point where the former beneficiaries make threats, pleas, bargins, trying desperatly to get the easy source of bomb making manna back. Unfortunately, the hearts and minds of the children belong to the source of lollipops, shampoos, and toothbrushes. But rarely money.

At least for the next couple of weeks, until the little juvenile delinquents revert to their old ways.

We go through the well established ballet of collecting the brass, payments of candy, gifts of hygiene products on occasion, requests for food and money, idle chit chat, sometimes turning to crime and terror, always with the answer that it is elsewhere and nameless. Right.

Today, though, at the drop-off of dinner, the kids were still there. And naturally, the kids wanted chicken, just one bit, never mind that it is not chicken, and no, there is no food at the house. Yes, the family has over 50 sheep, a sure sign of wealth, over a dozen cattle, another sure sign, three wives, a definite sign, and 23 children. This is a wealthy family, and while the children are often left to fend for themselves, or at least let loose free range, there is assuredly food at the house. Bullshit, kid. No food.

“Look, am I your father?” I asked them. “Yes,” one spouted back with a smirk. “You my father. You give me food.”

“Really? Come here son, we need to have a heart to heart talk.” I grabbed him by the back of the neck, and directed him to the back of the blast wall. I sat down, and motioned for him to sit next to me having released him. His brother jumped in my lap, he sitting next to me. “Look, your father in Jamiyah. Your house in Jamiyah. I’m not your dad. Your mother feeds you dinner; your father helps you.

“My home is here, ” I said sweeping the base with my hand. “Your’s is in Jamiyah. I don’t feed you. Your mother and father feed you. Your home is there. This is only a job; we only give candy and water. No food. No money.”

A whoosh and a thump indicated the detonation of some explosive, likely a mortar. To me, it sounded like an impact, far off. Unfortunately, I have gotten used to mortars enough to usually differentiate between launch and impact at great distance. “What the fuck?” I asked to no one in particular, and got up from behind the blast wall that I was sitting at. I needed to get the range and direction of the impact, so that the flunkies in the bedlam that we call “Higher” can ignore the information. So, I rounded the wall to look out into the western fields, where it sounded like it hit.

As I came around the wall, the earth in front of me erupted in a column of dirt and smoke. Two vehicles in the field belonging to the local farmer immediately dissapeared in the pall. Luckily, it was 200 or so meters out, so the effect was minimal. Yes, there was a fragmentation hazzard, but nothing came near me.

Well, shit, I’m still alive, so no need to panic. Of course, the only woman on my point that day decided to be the sterotype from central casting and immediately began the histrionics. “Did you see that?” No, actually, I missed it. What happened?

At that point, I whirled on the kids. “Intzar! [Alarm!]” I yelled at them. They all looked at me. A second pause to translate mentally what I wanted to say, and then “Roho joewah ha-nahk! [Go all y’all inside there!]” pointing at the bunker we have just for this sort of occasion. The kids hesitated a moment. “Now!” I said louder in Arabic. The oldest, the leader of the gang, spoke a bit, and they all ran.

There were a few still outside, so I ran to them. “Come here! Now!” They looked at me as though I was retarded. After all, the loud boom was done. Why all the hurry? I really hate the immortality that kids feel sometimes. One especially was dragging, Princess. “Sometime today, Princess!” I called out in Arabic. “Come here now!” She finally trotted up, flashing her trademark smile that earned her the moniker that we call her, still carrying some brass that she was collecting on her own. Her eyes still had a sparkle as though this were a big game, the same eyes that the girl who died the day before had.

The kids were quiet, but getting restless and bored. The American soldier was quieter also. The radio was alive with chatter, distances, reports. Up the stairs I sprinted, calling out to the female soldier trying to operate the radio. “Stop, no, never mind…I’ll get it.” I grabbed my compass, shot a direction to the impact, and keyed the mike to the radio. Another soldier in the tower told me that the camera was right on the launch point. He had called in the initial report of a shot and the general direction and a best guess already. This kid was on the ball. Not the female, who unfortunately was busy melting down a la the stereotypical woman under pressure. I glanced at the screen with a conversation going on in my ear, reporting information and noting where in town the image showed. While on the horn, I shot the direction to the launch point, worked a quick estimate of distance, and tacked that on. Done, back to guarding the kids.

“Hey,” said the Sergeant of the Guard, who was dropping off the food, and standing the entire time like a lump, “someone should watch the kids there.” No shit. And the interpreter was already moving in that direction, there being no need for Arabic on the American radio net.

So, a couple of waters, some chill pills mentally, one orange juice that was miraculously shared amongst the little seagulls, a few minutes of time, and we deemed it safe. No follow up mortars, no machine gun fire, no nothing. Okay, shoo, kids, it’s not safe here any more. Go home really this time.

“Mista, just one piece of chicken? Just one? Please?”