The Sandbox

The Sandbox

The Sandbox
There is and underdeveloped country that lies in the shadows of the Middle East called Iraq. There are very few towns and cities scattered throughout the almost uninhabited wasteland. A small number of roads, that seem endless, intersect the country side like dried up rivers. Sand covered hills line the horizon as if they were constructed to prevent intruders from entering. Vegetation is almost non-existent and the only precipitation that hits the ground is the sweat I wipe from my brow.
I wake, from a nightmare infested sleep, to the echoes of explosions in the distance that sound like a stampede of bulls charging the streets. As I swat the flies from my face, I rise from my cot like a bear from hibernation after a long grueling winter. The sun is beating down on the blistered backs of marines digging fighting holes like they are preparing their final resting place. A swift but fierce wind hits me, nearly knocking me to my feet because of the intense heat it brings. My mouth is dry, so I grab my canteen and force down a gulp of warm water to quench my thirst. I ask myself, “Did I die and go to hell?”
After a small and un-filling breakfast, I round up my squad for a vehicle patrol. Everyone scurries to their appointed position like robots given a mission to destroy. We leave the base wondering what surprises this day will bring. The radio squawks an all familiar voice giving us permission to leave the base. I lead my convoy through the desert, instead of using the roads, away from the outreached arms of death. Though, the wind flowing in through the window would be a luxury, it is a gamble with ones life. A continuous layer of dust manages to sneak its way into the cracks of the dilapidated humvee blanketing everything. I have to constantly wipe my goggles to see the path ahead.
I make a planned stop in a small village to conduct searches and collect valuable information from the village people. While everyone comes out to greet us as...