But he found himself thinking about what it would be like to be leaning back against the counter of his Dad's 7-11 store back home in Middletown, wearing that garish polyester uniform, crossing his arms, just so, taking a drag and blowing out slow.
He peered over the trench again. There's no crying in war, thought Roger. There was movement on the other side, under the white angular, rusted outdoor rooftop that covered filthy metal tables and flimsy plastic chairs of what once was a cafe on the edge of this desert town. Not a lot of movement...a shifting shadow, hunched and quick, that disappeared behind an overturned table.
Roger motioned to Lopez and Jake with two fingers and then pointed. Take 'em out. Two cracks of automatic rifles, a shout and a cry and it was done.
Roger hopped out of the trench and walked to the cafe, impatiently, and the two men followed. He didn't want to run, but wished he could just be there, now, instead of watching the overhang and the chairs and the tables and the bodies grow larger with each heavy step.
The bodies lay on the concrete patio. It was a man and a woman -- a boy and a girl, really, their faces smooth and hopeful to their last breath. Her head was on his chest, like they were laying together at night in a park, looking up at the stars. Only the growing red stain told a different story, seeping out through and behind her long, coal-black hair, soaking his white cotton shirt.
"Couple of kids," Lopez said. "Shouldn't have been here."
"Just where we thought they'd be," Roger muttered.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Jake said, startling Roger. He nearly raised his gun.
"Nothing. It's nothing, Jake."
"So what do we do with them?" Lopez asked.
"Nothing," Roger said. "Let the locals take care of it."
"Of them, man. Of them," Jake said.
"That's what I said."
"No, man. You said 'it'. You called them 'it'. They're not 'its'. They're them. They're people. Two dead people. Dead kids. Don't even know what they did or what they're doing here. No guns on them. Look at them! They look like a couple of sweethearts out on a date."
"They are," Roger said. "Don't ask me any more questions."
"I didn't ask you any questions. I was telling you. These are people. That's all I'm trying to say."
"Jake, you better calm down. Right now," Roger said and he turned his back to his comrade. He looked down at the couple, at the girl and her boyfriend, how nice they looked together and how strange and aloof she's seemed when they met the first time, months ago, and she told him what her father said about Roger, his people, their mission. He asked, and she told him what she thought, and he recalled how her speech widened her eyes and wet her lips as she pointed and gestured and her slim fingers grabbed and held his wrist with startling strength. She had passion that was...unquenchable. Until now.
Roger heard the stamp of boots on concrete, felt his neck muscles stiffen.
"You having second thoughts? Are you thinking about what we've done here? Are you even human? You'd better be thinking." Jake grabbed his shoulder firmly.
Roger spoke without turning around. "Lopez."
A loud click. Two steps. A long pause.
"Shit. I'm cool. I'm cool," Jake said, finally, raising his hands and walking away.
Roger raised the first three fingers of his hand to his right eye, and curtly wiped away the wetness that had gathered there.
"Let's get out of here," he said.
# # #
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