Street Fight, Falluja

Twilight, Falluja.

The platoon Filkins is embedded with comes under fire.

The platoon’s lieutenant begins to panic.

Considering he’s only twenty-three, one cannot judge him too harshly.

He orders his men to go first that way, then another. They end up going back and forth between two houses. Just like that. Back and forth.

“No, this way.”

“No, here. Here!”

“What the fuck are we doing?”

Filkins tries to open his big mouth. Of course, he’s the reporter. He’s probably the oldest man present, too.

“You — keep your fucking mouth shut; you’re not part of the unit,” one of the soldiers yells.

Well, we all know Filkins survives because. This book.

Stay tuned.

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