A group of kids sat on the schoolhouse wall and watched Stryker 2-1 approach, and they had a way of knowing that children often do. Some of them plugged their ears.
It was March 14, 2007, in Iraq, which is on Earth. That means it was 12 years ago, but I'm here to tell you that's not really true. That moment was 12 minutes ago and 12 days from now, a spring morning that waltzes across my synapses whenever it so pleases.
The stack of antitank mines exploded, and 2-1 achieved flight, which is unusual for a massive armored vehicle that looks like a square metal duck. Brian Chevalier, the driver, soared with it. His uniform blew off, and Chevy was nearly naked, as if he was being born at the same moment that he died.
The school walls were not thick enough for chain gun rounds the size of cigars. I watched a teacher in a classroom whoosh through the stages of grief all at once, but out of order, depending on the student she knelt beside.
Civilians danced at the crater when we left. Some of them were probably the parents.
People are curious about this period of my life. They don't say Iraq. They say “it.”
So, they will ask: What was it like?
Twelve nanoseconds pass. It's March 14, 2007, again.
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