Grenades, nasty little bits, make a man’s hand clench tight the first time he holds a real one.

For a while, I imagined that we were back home, just regular dudes watching a football game with a couple whiskeys.

Me and my piece of paper head to the podium. I look out into the faceless crowd. I introduce myself once more and begin.

Two things Bob hated: being watched and being summoned.

Smelling that hot carbon on your fingertips from your expended rounds. Everybody just waiting, listening, wondering if the shit’s about to start up again.

My ears rushed with the sound of blood, loud as a tornado.

“It’s the most fun you never want to have again.”

"Is this your trick? You force people in here and trap them in this white room with your fancy awards, and you repeat yourself 'til they talk or something?"

“There’s no greater force in the universe than gravity.”

He learned about whorehouses. No one talked about home, girlfriends and wives, or anything else like that. And no one cared about Boston.

Three points.

But knowing when the sun will set doesn't make it any easier to see in the dark.

Dear Dawes... You asked me why I joined. That was a mystery to me in the desert and now that I know, I wanted to share it with you.

How was a group of trained killers supposed to close in and destroy the enemy with chronic heartburn?

A prickle went up my neck, like cold poison water. I knew we were being watched, but couldn't say anything because the baddest thing anyone can do on a midnight raid is talk, especially when that anyone is a terp.