American blood flows freely from the gaping bullet hole in Private John Adams chest.
The camouflaged Iraqi rebel quickly scrambles behind the burnt-out remains of a building, cowering from return fire.
A frantic scramble engages as five different soldiers scream “MEDIC” loud enough for the President to hear back home in Washington D.C.
There is no response. Questions arise as to the locality of the medic. Word quickly returns through the troops that the medic is six feet under. His head was launched like a grenade by a rocket the day before.
“Shit” mutters John as word about the lack of a medic makes it to him. His breath comes in short, staccato, bursts now. The red pool below him has grown deeper in color and deeper in depth. The end is near for Adams.
“This war is supposed to be over! If it is over, why do I have a damn Iraqi bullet in my chest?! Fuck the American Government for all their dirty lies. Damn them to hell!”
With those words, his dog tags were ripped off his body to be shipped home to his family. Two soldiers place a tan, bare-bones cot beneath his lifeless body and lift it with a grimace. His body is taken to be buried with the other “peacetime” soldiers who have suffered the same fate as he.
