The Distance to Fallujah

The dust got into everything.

It collected in the charging handle of Vale’s rifle, in his neck creases, in the corners of the photograph inside a ziplock bag. By the fourth day north of the berm, every man in the Humvee had the same red eyes, cracked lips, and road-colored skin. Iraq made one color out of them.

Specialist Daniel Vale sat behind the driver, knees jammed against the seat back. They were five men in a soft-skinned Humvee with sandbags on the floorboards and a .50 cal in the turret, five miles ahead of the tank column they were supposed to recon for.

Sergeant Caleb Bell rode front passenger with a map across one knee. He had the stillness of old wood. Vale trusted him more than the lieutenant, the chaplain, or the weather.

Private Tomas Ruiz drove with both hands locked on the wheel. Specialist Silas Reed stood in the turret behind the .50, quiet as a fence post, goggles black with grit. Doc Jonah Avery sat in the rear beside Vale, aid bag between his boots, an unlit cigarette stuck to his lip. A pistol, but no rifle.