Requiem for a Soldier (Requiem #1)

Chapter 33: Conflagration

Six men trudged through the deserted streets of an abandoned Afghani village. A hot, dry desert wind blew intermittently, occasionally catching a tassel or an untucked corner of someone's shemagh and battering it about.

This was just a routine reconnaissance mission. The bombed-out, deserted village had previously been occupied by the Taliban until an intense conflict had driven civilians from their homes and eventually left the town largely uninhabitable. No activity had been sighted here for months, but this small unit of soldiers had been deployed to examine the ghost town more thoroughly.

"Well, would you look at that, boys," said one of the soldiers who sported a cocky grin. "A whole lotta nothin'. Looks like the Chairborne Rangers have sent us on a fool's errand yet again."

"Just because intelligence hasn't reported any activity out here, that doesn't mean there's nothing to find. Stay alert, Thompson."

"Look around! There's NOTHING here."

The soldier with THOMPSON embroidered on his name tape gestured at the desolate wasteland with his M16. He certainly had a point. Looking at the landscape now, it was hard to believe the place had been the center of international attention less than two years ago. While some of the mud-brick walls were still standing and some intact houses remained, most of the small town had been reduced to rubble. In the center of a small section of abandoned homes, someone's forgotten laundry still hung from a line strung between two poles. The fabric had been reduced to tatters, constantly exposed to the harsh environment.

"You better hope Staff Sergeant Morrison doesn't get wind of you calling his brother a Chairborne Ranger. You and Pretty Boy are gonna find yourselves in a G.I. party if you're not careful."

Private First Class Burke shot Private First Class Thompson a glare.

"We're not E-2s anymore," PFC Thompson shot back. "That's what Private Brody's for." He gestured to Private Brody, who was diligently scanning the area, trying to distance himself from the conversation as much as possible.

"No, you're PFCs. Personnel for Cleaning."

PFC Thompson groaned. "Y'all in the E-4 Mafia are the worst."

The other three members of the six-man team, all ranked Specialist E-4, traded knowing smiles. PFC Burke rolled his eyes, only imagining the trouble Jeremy Thompson was going to get them in today.

"When I get promoted to E-4, which y'all know will be very soon, I'm going to respect my subordinates," Jeremy continued. "Isn't that right, Private Brody?"

Private Brody appeared displeased to have been dragged into this discussion twice now. He'd learned early on that PFC Thompson's mouth had a knack for getting people in trouble.

"Hey," Specialist Lance said suddenly. The five other men glanced at him. "Did you hear that?"

"You mean something other than Thompson's blathering?" asked Specialist Hayfield, giving PFC Thompson another warning look.

"Yes. That," he said, his expression becoming edged with concern.

Each soldier listened carefully while searching their surroundings for both the source of Lance's supposed noise and for cover in case things went south in a hurry.

PFC Burke gripped his M16 closer. Something didn't feel right.

A noise came from behind. A dull thud and a light clink.

"Grenade!" Private Brody yelled, and the men sprang into action. PFC Burke bolted forward toward a half-collapsed wall. He'd almost made it when the grenade exploded and he hit the dirt. Searing pain shot through his right hand and he choked back a scream. He forced himself up, got behind the mud-brick wall, and tried to take stock of his situation.