Chow Hall, by Joseph S. Pete

(F.F.F. Website Story)

The guy who scooped gobs of mashed potatoes on his tray was supine, bleeding from his femoral artery.

Chow hall workers, Iraqi police and soldiers were strewn everywhere. Smoke billowed.

Mark scanned, searching down the barrel of his M4 for any threat, but saw nothing. Just disoriented soldiers stumbling around the blast radius amid plaintive wailing.

Sunlight peered through the chow hall tent, which the bomb blew through. Blood ran down the floor.

Mark applied a tourniquet. He recalled his training and pressed down to stop the bleeding. He pushed his hardest. He’d regret his failure every second going forward.


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