In a Perfect War

The singeing smell of burning trash and sewage permeated through every sour alley way and filmy window throughout the city. Black, sludgy puddles reflected the setting sun like pools of mercury as our convoy rolled past the market district of Musayyib. Shop owners frantically slung chains through welded loops and studs in order to make it home before the call to prayer. Within minutes, the once bustling streets were occupied only by mangy dogs searching for any remaining bits of falafel or kebab. I couldn't help but wonder if Iraqis had a secret ability to morph into canines, for they never made a simultaneous appearance. As soon as the arm waving, beard scratching men disappeared while your back was turned, the dogs emerged through ravines and gutters to scope out the situation and watch without persecution. The fact that the two mammals smell almost identical only fueled my suspicion.
We rounded the corner and continued down an alley bleeding with anti-American graffiti. All doors were shut and the radiant orange blanket of sunlight was fading into a dingy grey, foreshadowing the ominous coming of night. I stood in the turret and scanned the rooftops, thumbs resting on the split trigger of my .50 caliber machine gun in anticipation for that first snap of a round or reflection from a distant Dragunov scope. Scenes from popular war movies swirled through my head while images of bloody ambushes and fiery explosions coaxed me to stop pondering why I enlisted for this bullshit and pay attention to my surroundings.
We passed a small building with a roof of grass, mere inches off of our right side. The mirror almost scraped and I turned to ensure all of the bulky, unnecessary, (yet government mandated) equipment bolted to each side of the vehicle passed without harm. I had taken my hands off of my weapon.
I never heard the muzzle blast but the gunner in the vehicle behind me said it came from somewhere near the school. It didn't hurt, in fact, I didn't even know I had been shot until I felt the slick liquid soak my sleeve. I stared in disbelief. Florescent pink paint was everywhere. He must have been using extra large balls-the kind the Geneva convention wouldn't let American troops use because of the confusion it creates from not being able to identify the exact point of impact. Insurgents used them in lieu of marksmanship training-if there's paint everywhere, they thought, we would assume it was in a vital area. I didn't assume shit. I stripped my gear and meticulously fingered through the latex sludge, searching for any remnants of crispy shell.
The UN Impact Official scurried to our truck, fumbling with his camera and various clip boards to document and officiate the exact point of impact. The scene was chaotic and marines were scrambling to find the sniper. It was all a blur. I was still coping with the realization that I could be going home. I was careless and I let my guard down, let my Marines down, let my country down. I would be revered as a hero at my homecoming, but my conscience would always tell me otherwise.
I prayed for an arm shot as I climbed out of the turret to assume the Vitruvian position. I could deal with two months of combat disqualification, but going home was not an option, not until my year was up. The UNIO snapped a few quick photos and asked a slew of questions in a sharp Dutch accent, most of which I couldn't answer because it had all happened so quickly.
What were you doing at the time of impact?
Where on your body did you feel the impact?
Are you physically injured in any way?
He scribbled down my answers on his UN clip board and immediately accessed his bag for a small, black wand. With a flip of a switch it hummed into service emitting an eerie blue aura. It was a density light, designed by the UN to make locating the prcise impact point easier. He slowly passed it over my paint spattered body, stopping occasionally to jot more notes and berate me for touching the paint before he arrived. Areas of thick paint coverage absorbed more of the light and showed up brighter with spatter and over spray absorbing little to no light at all. The brightest glow came from my flank, just below my arm pit. He sympathetically shook his head and lifted my arm to expose the jagged pieces of a shattered shell. I wanted to spit in his face and demand he do it again. I wanted to tear up his papers and throw his clip board into the shitty sludge flowing from the nearby drain, but I knew I was done. There was nothing I could do.
I handed my weapon over to my team leader and apologized. He lit a cigarette and said a few words about war being a bitch, all the while keeping a hurried lookout to the street lights and desolate alleys of the now darkened city. He was anxious to continue the mission, I knew, so I turned and reluctantly accepted defeat.
I climbed into the back of the UN van thinking of home. What would they think? Should I tell them the truth, or fabricate a heroic story of bullet barrages and valiant devotion? The air conditioner was cold. I reclined the seat and took a deep breath to steady my twitching hands and quivering lip. Outside, the convoy rolled on without me. It was hard to see them go, but at this point, it was beyond my control. The wheels of fate were turning, and now, I was just along for the ride.
I closed my eyes to rest and tried to think optimistically. "Well" I said aloud, while making myself comfortable, "I guess it could be worse."