Embedded journalism from the front lines of
Afghanistan & Iraq ~ by Mike & Carlos Boettcher

We joined the circle of soldiers, doing our best to remain unnoticed as we slipped between the gravel-colored men, trying our best to find a spot we could hear the platoon sergeant from. We settled for spots near the front of the crowd, listening carefully, the steady rumble of nearby engines filling the air with a dull bass pulse. We were in luck: the mission briefing had just begun, and I settled myself, laying my bags on the dusty earth, tucking my helmet under my arm, trying my best to not look like I just fell off the turnip truck.

I didn’t have much to worry about, most of the attention was focused on the platoon Sergeant, Staff Sergeant Fincher, who was voice was just barely breaking volume over the rumbling engines. There was little  meandering or wordy exposition in his speech, he laid the down the facts of the coming mission in essential tones that brooked no argument and needed no questioning. It was a bit like hearing an instruction manual read aloud: order of march, the sequence of locations that would be visited, any recent attacks in the area, all thrown out, one after another, Sgt. Fincher’s voice falling into a peculiar cadence as facts and information spilled from his mouth.

As with most things out here, it had the air of routine to it. I knew that little of what he said actually needed to be said, these men had done this hundreds, literally hundred of times before, and needed nothing more than certain specifics that Sgt. Fincher scattered throughout his briefing. It sounded like an instruction manual because in all likelihood Sgt. Fincher was repeating almost verbatim from one, Army Rules and Regulations molding his speech into a wartime facsimile of a fill-in-the-blanks book.

A brief look around the circle confirmed my suspicions, the men’s body language belied the painted-on expressions of interest each man held. They stood, shifting from foot to foot, and they smoked, pulling longs drags from off-brand Iraqi cigarettes, rolling the spent filters idly between gloved fingers before stubbing them out on the top of a pop can. Their eyes had not yet begun to glaze over, but it was still early in the day, the sun and heat had yet to work their magic upon them.

Most of all though, they waited. They wanted to get in the Humvees, get the mission underway, and be done. They took little pleasure in the process, a year spent at war had worn that edge from them.Results were what mattered to them now, and they eagerly awaited Cpt. Spencer whose appearance would get the mission underway. As luck would have it, Cpt. Spencer came upon the platoon as Sgt. Fincher was finishing his briefing; I marked Spencer’s easy gait, it was incongruous given our surroundings, but fit the man perfectly.

It fit the buzz of action that followed his arrival well too: helmets were dawned, buckles were snapped, and the clicking sound of weapons being checked filled the air. Black Platoon filed out, filling the seats in the four humvees that sat in wait behind them, and we joined them, taking our places in the frontmost vehicle. I did one final equipment check and got my gear out. I was ready for the mission.