Then one of the other guys scrunched up his own letter and dropped it in the dirt.

“What’s up man?”

“Fucking ‘dear John’ letter,” he answered bitterly. “She said she didn’t want to spoil my last few days of leave, so she thought she’d wait till I got out here to tell me she was seeing someone else. Bitch.”

Yeah, pretty much every one of us knew what that felt like. Girls went for the uniform—not so much the months of being left behind with an empty bed and time on their hands. Some couldn’t help the constant worrying, they said. Another reason for not getting attached, although that had all changed for me now.

The sun had sunk behind the mountains and the compound was shady for once. I was just thinking I should check on my terps and call into the comms room when the guard on duty in the observation post yelled loudly.

“Incoming!”

Everyone scrambled for their body armor and weapons. I slapped my helmet over my head and yanked on my Kevlar vest, but I lost sight of Caro and my heart lurched.

The first RPG exploded about 200 yards outside the compound and a spray of dirt rocketed 90 feet into the air.

I grabbed my M16 and ran to the nearest observation post. Then the durg-durg of the heavy machine guns started.

Another RPG exploded: 100 yards this time. Looked like the Taliban gunner was getting his sights lined up. Not fucking good. But there weren’t any further shots and I wondered if it was just to stop us from getting any downtime. If that was the reason, I was a little surprised that they didn’t wait until night time so they could disturb our sleep: fucking amateurs.

Before the all-clear had been called, I ran to Caro’s room and stuck my head around the door, making her cry out in fright.

“You okay, baby?”

“Yes, fine. Don’t worry about me,” she replied breathlessly.

I nodded and sprinted to the comms room.

I guess I’d spoken too soon, because after that the Taliban had a new tactic: sleep deprivation. Intermittently throughout the night, they’d fire random RPGs that never landed near enough to be dangerous, but stopped the guys getting any rest. Not that sleeping in body armor was that easy anyway—at least not until complete exhaustion had set in.

I spent the night in the comms room listening to a combination of insults broadcast in broken English, threats of what they’d do if they captured us, plus two terrorist cells talking to each other.

By dawn, we were all tired and pissed.

Guys were starting to line up for breakfast when I heard some of them singing the old Beatles classic ‘I’m So Tired’—the lines that said the guy had his mind on the blink because he hadn’t slept a wink.

When I looked out of the comms room, nine fuck-ugly Marines were singing and grooving, surrounding a smiling Caro who was singing along with them and shaking her hips. More guys joined in, making me want to punch the ones who were staring at her ass, but then Grant appeared from his office, and even he couldn’t help smiling. I didn’t know the guy had teeth.

I nearly choked when the boss threw Caro a salute and she waved back. Only my gal. Damn, I was proud. Yeah, I may have mentioned that before.

The patrols that day were kept short. At least I had the satisfaction of knowing that Caro would be safe in the compound—well, as safe as Helmand Province got. I was sent out with Sanders and an EOD operator to check out if there was any unexploded ordnance from the night’s RPG attacks. The guy wore his dog tags on his boots because he said that those would be the only things left if an IED took him out.

I hadn’t been there long when Jankowski arrived with orders to join him and his unit in another patrol to the foothills. I left my best terp with Sanders, a 17 year old kid named Gawhar. I trusted him more than the others; he seemed solid, but that wasn’t saying much.

We pushed further into the hills, only turning around when we started losing the light. We’d stopped for a five minute break to give us a chance to drink some water and eat an energy bar. Chiv had been listening in on the portable radio when he waved me over.

“Fuck man, you need to hear this.”

As I listened, all the blood drained from my face. A Taliban cell was gloating that they’d killed an ‘Infidel’ journalist. I thought I was going to be sick. It was only when I heard the words ‘Kandahar’ and ‘Bastian’ repeatedly, that I realized that they weren’t talking about Caro.

Chiv radioed back to the compound when he saw the look on my face, just to check Caro was safe.

We booked it back quick march anyway. Seeing her sitting outside in the quad was the best fucking sight ever. I breathed out a deep sigh of relief, hating that I couldn’t go to her, and stood with the other guys as the kitchen re-opened to heat up some shitty chili-flavored MREs.

I’d just started eating when Grant ordered me into the office and told me to sit down. That was a first.

“Seb,” he began. Fuck, if he was using my first name it must be serious. “You met the journalist Elizabeth Ashton. Correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I understand she was a friend of Ms. Venzi’s.” Was? “Ms. Ashton was killed by sniper fire near Camp Bastian today,” he said, his voice cold and angry. “It’s a publicity killing. They know she was a journalist and the fact that she was a woman makes it even more newsworthy. The locals know that Ms. Venzi is here—I wouldn’t be surprised if the Taliban have already put two and two together and figured out she’s journalist.”

No! NO! NO!

Then Grant looked at the radio operator.

“How soon can we get a helo in?”

We waited while a flight was arranged for oh-six-hundred hours, then Grant turned to me.

“Send Ms. Venzi in. She should know that her friend … she should know.”

“Yes, sir.”

When I went to find her, Caro could tell by the look on my face that something was wrong.“

What is it? What’s happened?”

“Grant wants to see you,” I said, ignoring the curious gazes from the other men.

She stood up stiffly and followed me into the office.

“Please take a seat, Ms. Venzi,” Grant said gently. “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you … I told you yesterday that we picked up some veiled threats to you; well, it’s become much more direct. The Taliban have heard that you’re with us—and they’re viewing you as a prize kill.”

For fuck’s sake! Did the asshole have to say it like that?

“They’re aware of the value of publicity,” he continued, “and I’m afraid earlier today, they killed another journalist—a woman. I’ve called in a helo to evacuate you back to Leatherneck as soon as possible first thing in the morning. Ms. Venzi? Ms. Venzi?”

Caro looked up at him, stunned. “Who?”

“Excuse me?”

“Who was the journalist they killed?”

Grant glanced over to me.

“Liz Ashton,” I said gently.

Caro dropped her head into her hands, and I could see her fighting back tears.

“I’m sorry,” Grant said uncomfortably.

Caro looked up and nodded slowly. “She was my friend.”

“I’m sorry,” Grant said again, “but we can’t risk our mission here and…”

He bit off what he was going to say.

“How did she die?”

Grant looked away, leaving it to me to give her the gory details.

“Sniper,” I said. “She died instantly.”

I didn’t know if that was true, but it’s what we always said to families and friends. No one needed to hear that their son or brother had died screaming in agony with his legs and arms blown off and his stomach lying on the floor in front of him. You didn’t forget that shit. Ever.

Grant tried to say something comforting, but I don’t think Caro heard him. She walked out of his office, and I started to reach for her but she ignored me and walked past.

I wasn’t sure what to do—what she’d want me to do. But Grant made the decision for me.