• The air rippled.

    The armored personnel carrier shook from the sudden detonation. Private First Class Joseph Brinks clutched the side of the vehicle, ignoring his wrenching gut, ignoring the thought of bullets and shrapnel grinding their way through a quarter of an inch of tempered steel. He tore a clip from his belt and slammed it into his weapon, peering over the side of the humvee's door to identify a target, a missile, a bomb, anything to stop the noise, the insanely loud carnage occurring not yards away. Brinks heard the screamed orders of his Lieutenant, drowned away in the thunder of warheads and mortars.
    Suddenly, his door was ripped open, and he felt his gravity lift away as he slid from the armored car, his protection. He slammed into the ground, and looked into the face of his superior, red and flushed at the same time, screaming something.

    His focus returned. "BRINKS! Get up! This convoy is forfiet!"
    As the private stood up, his firearm was smacked against his chest, and as he grasped it he was forced to run. "We need to get to our rendezvous point!" He leered forward, his feet catching up, pushing him forward, trying to outrun bullets. His squad was down to 3. The convoy had left with 10, and it was down to 3.

    "Sir!"
    "Yes, private!"
    "How are we supposed to get to the point, 3 miles from here, sir?!"
    "March, private!"

    And he did. It was all he could do. His sweat ignored, his fear forgotten, all that was left was to meet with their reinforcements, the only thing they could hope to keep them alive.

    Then the world shook.

    And the hard, dusty road met Private Brinks.

    He lifted himself off the road, shaky and bruised, to see what had lifted him off of his feet.

    His Lieutenant, the leader of their squad, had been hit by a mortar. Their gunner, Private Turly, was too close.

    Brinks set himself back on the ground. The dust filled his nose, his helmet smacking into the pavement as he shuddered. He did not move for days, and at the same time minutes. His breathing was labored, but uninjured. His head swam, but was perfectly clear.

    He felt his arms get lifted off the ground, and felt himself get picked up. He looked into the dark, angry eyes of an Iraqi, shouting into his deaf ears. He felt his leg dragging behind him, and looked at the Ak 47 in the terrorist's hand. The other ignored him, simply grasped his arm. He had a RPG strapped to his back.

    The silent terrorist's head exploded. Brinks was dropped that instant, his face drenched in an Iraqi's blood, and watched as the other terrorist's head was ruptured by the sniper's bullet. He lay there, waiting, unable to move, for his leg, his right leg, was gone below the knee.

    He felt the humvee's engine vibrate the ground, as his help approached.