The desert sun beat down on the earth, hot, brash and unyielding.

The land was barren. The wind gusted and hot sand pelted a small shack. The shack was made of earth, straw and cheap second rate concrete. It looked like it was ready to topple over in the impending weather but was surprisingly durable as it stood the test of time and countless, merciless desert sandstorms.

On the other side of the shack was a man of nearly forty herding sheep. The sheepherder wiped his brow, muttered a prayer to the sky and continued about his work. He directed the sheep over a hill that he hoped would yield some kind of growth that the already thinning herd could feast upon. Beating strays about the head and rear with his wooden cane he heard the unmistakable laughter of children.

The young ones were playing soccer in an impromptu field. Old bars of rusty steel served as goal posts on either side. The sheepherder watched his youngest child, Ali, move skillfully with the ball from one end of the field to the other. He nimbly dodged his way between two of his larger brothers and another child. The boy's feet, already calloused, were visibly red from running barefoot across the hard sand and gravel. The child juked once more, kicked and scored a goal. Judging from the reaction of the children this was the first goal of the game. The ball, covered in spots of blood, rolled to a stop against a ragged edge of steel jutting up from the ground. The sheepherder stared with impassive indifference but beamed inside with pride. He uttered another prayer to Allah hoping that his son would pick up no disease this day. Medical care was a far and luxurious dream affordable only to the affluent living in the capital city that was under siege a hundred miles north.

The sheepherder had not always been such. He had tentatively picked up his family's original and most ancient trade after the loss of his job at the State Company for sanitation. He heaved a deep sigh and spat into the hot earth. Filth. His last job had been the profession of dirt, grime and smells that would make even the stoutest of men vomit and hold their noses. And now he had...what, exactly? He had a dwindling amount of wool to sell and a tiny piece of land that would never produce crops, not even after a thousand desert monsoons. Briefly he considered going inside his shack for some water and rest but decided that the heat would be just as unbearable indoors as it was out.

Tired, weary and more than a little lightheaded from the heat he ambled toward the nearest (and only) tree and sat down gracelessly at the trunk. His dog, which he could not name nor admit ownership happily took the lead in keeping the herd consolidated.

How had it come to this? What would he do? There would be no harvest; no wares to sell at the end of the season. He had worked to help clean his homeland, his city and the dwelling place of his people. And now he had practically nothing. His nose twitched and his head swung to the left at the offending odor. He scowled at the sheep droppings and realized there was no refuge from the filth. It was everywhere. He looked at the lone street across from his small plot of land. The road was the main thoroughfare leading to the mouth of the city. His eyes drifted south and he could see the local market stretching beyond his vision. The small carts were flanked by many ruined government buildings and an ancient Muslim cemetery.

A crooked smile came to his lips revealing many jagged yellowed teeth that still clung to the inside of his jaw after years of neglect and heavy smoking. The cemetery. The ancient resting place of his beloved family going back generations until time out of mind. It was there he owned the only other piece of land to his name. He had inherited the original plot from his father, of course. But by sheer luck the graves parallel to it had fallen, giving him right to claim it and dig a deep mausoleum. It was in those empty tombs where many of his family, including himself would one day be laid to rest that he hid his fortune.

It wasn't much, thousands of Dinars still bearing Saddam Hussein's face, some jewelry, and assorted trinkets too valuable to keep at home. And weapons.

Ah yes, the weapons.

There were over a dozen rifles, assorted pistols and sidearms. Also there were three cases of small yellow grenades purchased from the Soviet arms dealers that arrived in the city from time to time. And his pride and joy: a dozen RPG Sevens, capable of piercing the hardest steel the world can offer. All of these weapons were clean, well maintained and packaged for immediate removal and use. He yearned to sell at least some of the rifles to feed his family but knew that the cleric would be very mad at him. He didn't need more trouble. The weapons would wait entombed until the time he and his brothers were called to arms in the name of Allah.

Shaking his head to remove his wandering thoughts, he stood and stretched. Tall and gaunt, he was even more underfed than his children or even his herd. Hard times require men to sacrifice much for their families. His hair was dark and matted, his nose was slightly bulbous. He meandered onto the tarmac of the road and took pleasure in brushing away the dirt and rocks out of his sandals. Slowly he merged with the large group of people and entered the market.

Immediately he smelled the sweat of the crowd. His nose wrinkled as he pushed by merchants yelling loudly and holding up questionable pieces of produce. Nothing was of any great value. Food grown and sold here had the unmistakable taste of something born and bread of a hard life, filling a stomach with nourishment that punished the insides. He looked at the many things for sale without paying attention. His dark brown eyes darted from person to person. All of them had the same hard look; the look of people thrust upon hard times and determined to survive. How strong his brothers and sisters were! How proud he was to raise his family here! In the Holy city of his ancestors he would bravely carry the legacy of his great tribe back to glory. Some of the men his age saw him and nodded curtly, they too were great warriors for the Muslim cause. It was difficult to identify his fellow soldiers; he had never seen them except when they were hooded and armed. The steel glint in their eyes was enough.

The sickly sweet smell of the crowd grew more unpleasant. He pushed harder through the mob and was immediately rewarded. Somewhere close was the wondrous and tempting aroma of simmering lamb. Turning in a semi circle, he found the source across the street at a stand with hardly any people near it. He moved quickly to cross, limping slightly and leaning on his stick. The new found pain in his knee went completely unnoticed as he hurried to face the bearded man running the rotisserie. The meat hanging there looked delicious; it glistened with oil and spice and rotated in a hypnotizing uneven circle. The sheepherder looked at the price and grimaced. He knew he shouldn't, but he hadn't eaten in days and had vested far too much in the maddening aroma to turn back now. He stuck his rough hand into stained white robes, fished around, and produced three badly beaten and tarnished coins. The bearded man raised an eyebrow at the old currency, shrugged, pocketed the money and proceeded to cut a slice from the lamb with the bone still in it.

The sheepherder ate greedily as the hunger in his belly was finally admitted to rise up. As he neared the bone, a small dog no more than a year old with a milky white blind eye shuffled toward him. Hobbling on three good legs it sat and gave the sheepherder a quizzical look. It then stuck its nose in an old tin can, working its tongue in vain to scrape the last remnants of food. The sheepherder took a cautious look around carefully scanning for prying eyes, and then casually dropped the scraps in the dirt next to the animal. The dog's bad eye rolled aimlessly as its jaws snapped into the meat, revealing a surprising row of razor sharp white teeth.

Content in stomach and soul, the sheepherder reached into his pocket and grabbed his prayer beads. He moved the beads through his fingers with the amazing precision and dexterity of somebody who has done it countless times. While he chanted the thin worn string holding the beads together snapped. The small hard plastic orbs scattered across the tarmac as the sheepherder uttered a curse that earned at least one dirty look from a passerby. The beads had been given to him by his eldest son returning from a successful trip to Basra. Despair filled him and anger was not far behind. It wasn't the beads, or the lack of money, or the fact he had to hide what little food he could get. It was as if his miserable life and destiny had become clear to him. It was more than he could take. He began to walk and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a sleeve attempting to hide unwelcome tears sliding down his dusty cheek.

He set off to cross the street. Halfway through the pain in his knee became more pronounced. He stopped unwisely in the road. A sudden wave of panic came over him. His eyes instinctively moved to find the dog he fed, but they found only the rusty can. He scanned the area quickly. No dogs. The hundreds of strays littering the market had vanished. How do they know? They always did. Even before his knee could cry a warning the dogs would take their leave. A faint rumble could be heard in the distance, rhythmically getting louder with every passing moment.

A great convoy of trucks and treaded vehicles stormed into the market. The sheepherder narrowly moved out of the way in time; a barrel unluckily left in the street was destroyed with an inaudible crunch under the roaring of engines. In the back of the largest trucks were dozens of men, mostly white skinned, dressed in peculiar camouflage consisting of many tiny dark and light brown squares. They wore no flags, patches or badges on their sleeves. The vehicles were green and starkly contrasted the landscape. The lack of subtly was mirrored by the men themselves; they sneered and barked like animals. Some of them made crude gestures and shouted what were surely taunts to people on the street. The last truck passed with a group of children following close behind. The sheepherder recognized several of his own as they chased happily along asking the infidels for money or candy. White hot rage boiled beneath the surface of the sheepherders' mind.

On the back of the truck a U.S. Marine named Matthew Trotter pointed and shouted varying obscenities to the children in tow. Lance Corporal Trotter was 19 years old and on his first tour of duty. The sun had yet to beat the youth and childish vigor from his face. He pointed to the cigarette he held in his left hand. "You want this? Huh? Do ya?" he said.

"I don't think they do. You know smoking is bad for kids." said another Marine. Trotter turned to look at him. The Marine was leaning back against the squeaking troop bench and smiling gently. Beneath the sunglasses Trotter could feel newly pale blue eyes stare back at him.

"Oh yeah? I think they do, BlackJack. Worth a lot of money, I think." A sharp piece of gravel leaped from the tire treads and made a loud "Ting!" noise on the armor of the truck. Both Marines jumped with weapons in hand and then sat back down once they saw it wasn't a bullet.

Black lit a cigarette of his own and surveyed the terrain as the convoy slowed. They were getting into a thicker part of the market and he didn't want to be caught off guard. "How do you figure?" he asked without looking away from the people.

"Well," started Trotter with his best math teacher impression, "I figure I paid a buck for this shitty pack of smokes. Twenty ciggs in a pack, that's a nickel a cigarette. That means the butt alone has to be worth two and half cents." He swatted a fly that landed on his cheek. "That's enough to live here comfortably for a month, given the current exchange rate." He smiled a malicious grin, snorted and spat out the sand and grime from his sinuses. "And what do you care? This is your second time here. I figure you hate these hajjis twice as much as me."

Black exhaled smoke and waved to a child. "I think your math is flawed, Hot Trot." He pulled a slightly melted tootsie roll from his cargo pocket and threw it to the same child. "We're here to win hearts and minds, remember?"

Trotter laughed. "Fuck their hearts and minds! They need a bullet in both." He pulled his goggles off his helmet with a decisive jerk and put them on. He looked like an angry fly with a long single black eyeball and a toothy grin. "Jesus, this place smells bad." He took one last drag from the cigarette and flicked it over the truck gate into the horde of children.

"Agreed." Black grunted, extinguished his own cigarette and let it fall to the truck bed. "And no more smoking till we get back. I don't need the Lieutenant giving me anymore shit."

The sun began to dwindle on the horizon. The convoy quickly pulled out of the market and roared toward the American base less than two miles away on the outskirts of the city.

Trotter's cigarette bounced, sprayed glowing red embers and then came to rest in front of Ali, still doubled over and breathing hard from the futile chase. He snatched it up hoping to get a tootsie roll like his brother. Immediately he dropped it with a sudden yelp of pain. He turned to see his father standing tall with herding stick in hand and a look in his eyes that both scared the young boy and made him fiercely proud. His father would be appalled at how much the youngest son knew. Ali had already guessed his father and possibly his eldest brother were part of the mujadeen. The boy ran away briskly after a short scolding. He heard his father pray and the boy muttered a prayer of his own. Someday he would join the fight against the intruders.

The sheepherder stood in the street. He stubbornly stayed where the trucks had driven him from moments before, quietly protesting the infidel's intrusion on his Holy city. He watched the trucks vanish into the distance as the sun disappeared completely. The market was cast in a ghastly light diluted by floating sand. Slowly the sheepherder let his cane settle to the ground for support. He sighed deeply and looked down. The cigarette was still smoldering. A flash of raw anger came once more and he snuffed it out with a stamp and a twist of his foot. He spat at the ground and stared north. Finally, he pried his eyes from the horizon and turned to join his family.

 Somewhere, a dog howled.