“Get down,” I yell. “The fucking bastards are everywhere!”

The insurgent’s bullets land all around me, hitting the walls of the building behind our platoon and sending chunks of concrete flying past my head. What started out as a simple ordinary patrol mission has turned into a cluster-fuck of massive proportions.

Don’t go near the bazaar.

How many times have we been told this?

The large outdoor market is a no-go zone known to be under the command of the insurgents. To make it worse, the locals who buy and sell their goods there act as look-outs for the enemy. I’ve no doubt our every movement is being watched and transmitted back to forces wanting to do us harm from the time we arrived.

We know the rule.

And yet here we are pinned up against a wall with snipers firing at us from every direction. The order came in from intelligence higher up, so we had no choice but to do what we were told. To take out a small group of Taliban meeting at the far end of the bazaar. Our commander said the operation would be low risk and high reward if we could knock them out all at one time.

Low risk for who was my first thought.

Then I put it out of my mind. It’s not my place to question an order.

Ever.

Even when I’m in a fucking disaster of a situation like this one.

I spot a sniper perched high on the windowsill of a building across the road. There’s two more ducked down behind a truck near the street corner with four flat tires. The vehicle looks like it hasn’t been driven in years, and the only thing it’s good for now is cover for the enemy.

The snipers have my platoon cornered up against a concrete wall. We can’t go back down the street the way we came. Our only option is through the shell-shocked building behind us where God knows what is waiting inside. What appears to be a safe solution could turn out to be a booby-trapped compound filled with improvised explosive devices.

The insurgents are known to plant IEDs in areas where the Marines might take cover. Behind a lone rock wall in a barren landscape. Or in an empty truck like where the snipers are currently hiding.

Any place is suspect.

Nowhere is safe.

My team goes ahead of me to clear the first floor of the building. They move room to room checking for hold-outs. I wonder how many times this same building has been cleared before by other platoons of Marines during their seven-month stint of duty.

Day after fucking day, we clear territory. As soon as we finish, the insurgents flood back in.

Over and over.

Like the ocean washing away a sandcastle.

Sometimes it takes a few weeks or months for the enemy to regain control of an area. If we’re super unlucky, they regroup and are back in days.

I’m beginning to wonder if anything we’re doing is making one bit of difference. I can’t let myself think that way though. For me to be effective, I must believe one hundred percent in our mission. Any sliver of doubt will start breaking me down mentally, and I can’t afford that.

Neither can my buddies.

I’m the platoon’s Guardian Angel.

They depend on me to keep them safe.

Armed with my Mark 12 Special Purpose rifle, I’m expected to watch over and protect my platoon like a Border Collie watching their sheep through the lens of a telescopic sight.

My job is to constantly scan the barren, godforsaken landscape for threats. To size up every civilian and decide if they’re a killer hiding in plain sight. To watch every hand movement of anyone coming near my troops.

When I was given the role of designated marksmen, nobody told me my job would also be to make split-second decisions on whether there was military justification to kill civilians.

Farmers, women…even kids.

After a few weeks in Afghanistan, I became nothing more than a well-oiled machine. Taking care of business and doing what needed to be done.

No second thoughts.

No regrets.

This is just another fucking day in hell.

I wait for the signal from my buddy, Fred, before I move. He motions, telling us the room ahead is clear, so we keep shuffling forward in heavy flak jackets with our rifles raised. In the stifling heat, the jackets and heavy combat boots weigh an extra eighty pounds.

Once we make our way to the roof of the building, I can set up a rifle position to watch the insurgents on the ground. If they’re anywhere within 400 yards, I can take them out with no problem once they’re in my crosshairs.

Fred carefully swings open the door of the next room and steps inside with his rifle raised. Terrified screams erupt. We all rush forward into the room with our guns pointed. Several women with their heads covered in the traditional hijabs are holding onto each other and crying hysterically.

“Get down!” Fred yells, pointing to the floor with his rifle tip. “On the floor. Let me see your hands.”

They don’t understand English, but they know instinctively know what he means. Their wailing only gets louder as they kneel in terror and hold out their empty hands for us to inspect.

Shit!

Do they really think we’re going to shoot a bunch of unarmed women and children? The Marines have been stationed in the area forever and the locals still don’t trust us.

Probably never will.

The scene becomes more chaotic by the minute.

The women are praying loudly. One has a baby who is sweating in the miserable fucking heat and flailing around in his mother’s arms. He’s so wet and slippery, I’m surprised he doesn’t slide right out of her arms. A couple of small children with big, dark eyes are hanging onto their mother’s legs, too terrified to make any noise.

I can’t look at them.

Their scared little faces make my guts twist up inside. The horrible things these children must have already seen.

I don’t think about it. For me to be distracted by any emotion could turn out to be a fatal mistake.

“Hold your fire!” our platoon leader yells. “It’s just women and kids.” He holds up a hand.

We don’t shoot, but we don’t lower our weapons either. Until proven otherwise, they’re still a threat.

“What are they doing here?” I yell back. “The building is unoccupied. They shouldn’t be here.”

There’s no reason for them to be gathered up in a room together. They obviously don’t live in an abandoned building and aren’t carrying goods to sell at the bazaar.

“Why are you here?” I yell to the oldest woman in the group.

I know she doesn’t understand English.

I let loose a string of curse words at her anyway in pure frustration, which isn’t helping the situation. She’s clearly terrified of us. Her weak, watery eyes remind me of my Grandma. The last letter I received from her caregiver told me she was being put into a nursing home. By the time I return to Georgia, she won’t remember who I am. If she dies, her favorite grandson won’t be there for the funeral.

What would my Grandma think if she saw me now? Screaming and cursing at scared old ladies? Would she be disappointed and ashamed? Or would she realize I’m doing the best I can under the circumstances?

I honestly don’t know.

I hate this fucking shit.

I would give my left ball to be back in the green Georgia mountains. Riding my motorcycle on the curvy roads and drinking shots of cheap whiskey with my friends. Or even better, to be between the legs of one of the blonde, big-boobed high school cheerleaders I knew from years ago.

Instead I’m in hell on earth.

Where the low temperature every day is over 100 degrees and the taste of sand never leaves my mouth.

The old lady keeps glancing toward the door. To underestimate her would be a mistake. I’ve made errors like that before and won’t again. Everyone is a threat. She’s watching and waiting.

Something isn’t right.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of a dark-haired young man, no more than twelve or thirteen, step into the doorway of the room. He’s thin and small, wearing tattered clothes and sandals.

I whirl around.

We never leave our backs exposed. Where the fuck are the guys watching the door?

I notice the glint of the gun in his hands as he raises it to fire without fear or hesitation. Fred doesn’t see him because he’s preoccupied with one of the women who is refusing to get down on the ground.

Fuck!

There’s no time to think or second guess my actions.

I open fire, unloading my weapon into the kid.

He crumples to the ground.

“Motherfucker!” the Marine closest to the doorway yells. He takes a step and kicks the gun away from the kid’s body.

One of the women scrambles across the floor and cradles the boy’s head in her lap. She rocks back and forth, holding him and crying.

Is that his mother?

Did she know all along what was going to happen and did nothing to stop it? Maybe she couldn’t.

I’m physically sick.

It takes everything I have in me to swallow down the hot bile coming up in the

back of my throat. I feel like puking up everything I’ve eaten the last three days.

He’s just a kid.

And I’ve killed him.

The insurgents probably didn’t give him a choice. Go in with a gun and take out as many Marines as possible.

Do it or die.

Or they might have threatened his family. His mother or siblings. One way or another, the kid was a goner. The knowledge doesn’t make me feel one bit better.

My heart is pounding so hard and fast it feels like it might explode. Sweat and concrete dust drips into my eyes. The tension has gone sky high in the room. What happens next could mean the difference between life and death for everyone. Any movement could set off a rain of bullets.

Fred shoves the woman he was wrestling with onto the floor and puts the tip of his gun to her head. Whereas a minute before it was a shoving match between them, now she’s dead if she makes a wrong move.

Just another fucking day in Afghanistan.

A hand grabs my arm, catching me by surprise.

I spin around and react. Reaching for the insurgent’s throat, I wrap my big hands around it and squeeze hard.

Shocked green eyes gaze back at me.

It’s a woman.

Kill or be killed, my mind tells me again, and I continue squeezing.

The woman grabs my forearms and tries to pull me loose from her throat. She struggles with me, scratching my skin with her fingernails and gasping for air.

It won’t do her any good. She can fight me with everything she’s got. In the end, I’m much bigger and stronger. I could easily snap this woman’s neck in two with my bare hands.

And I will.

After what went down here today, it will be a justifiable kill. If there is any question, my buddies will back me up, just like I would them.

There is no black and white in Afghanistan. Only lines of gray that we cross every day to keep each other alive.

Something familiar about her frightened eyes slowly registers in my clouded brain and causes me to loosen my grip a tiny bit. The faint scent of her perfume floats into my nostrils.

I inhale deeply. It’s been so long since I’ve smelled a woman.

I close my eyes for a second and drink in the sweet aroma.

She smells of fresh dew on the morning grass and wild honeysuckle growing on the side of country roads.

She smells like home.

Why?

I don’t understand. How can she?

Now I’m confused. I can’t breathe, and I’m struggling to draw in air the same as she is. Still, I can’t turn her loose. Hesitation means death.

My throat is parched from the heat and sand. I’m suffocating to death in this hellhole. A dog barks incessantly way off in the distance.

I’ve never felt so lost and alone.

I struggle to open my eyes so I can finish the task. My team depends on me to do my duty, no matter what.

The beautiful woman I’m holding in my hands is already limp.

She’s gone.