Part Two

The wailing hazzan woke him, mingling weirdly with the rock music that played through his headset. He cringed that it had no remorse for the hour. His sergeant glared up at him through the roof hatch as he shoved the stick into reverse and awkwardly maneuvered the LAV up beside the hulking transport.
He shook himself awake and looked around at the familiar surroundings. The mosque, its pockmarked walls and broken spire leaning dangerously; the burned-out school with its tattered flag shivering pathetically in the early morning breeze. He wished desperately to jump down from the turret and stretch his cramped legs. Instead he scanned the townsfolk, watching them warily as they began their morning prayers. Rituals completed, people milled around, nodded As-Salāmu `Alaykum, drank tea, smiled. A few waved, though whether to him or to the blue-bereted UN crew of the aid transport he was unsure. He waved back anyway.
With a crash, the hatch of the transport was let down, spilling it’s cargo of seed and flour sacks into the sandy street. People began to gather, first in ones and twos, then by the dozens, as word of the aid delivery spread. He watched as the crowd grew, as it became frantic, as it became a mob. The aid workers spread out with batons, their blue caps stained pink by the morning light filtering through a rising cloud of haze stamped up by hungry feet. He coughed and spit, feeling the grit between his teeth.
He glanced around again, scanning the mob nervously, eyeing hands and watching for a weapon. A group of women had gathered across the street. They too looked around nervously. Two young men succeeded in wresting a sac of grain from the throng, and raised it joyously over their heads as they escaped with their prize, only to trip, dropping it heavily in the street. The yellowed contents spilled forth like so much offal. The women ran forward, their burka’s billowing. They threw themselves on the spilled grain, at first ignoring even the curses and threats of the young men. They could not, however, ignore the boots.
He watched in shock as the mob suddenly came about face. He watched as the mob armed themselves with stones, as the first of those stones arced through the air. Without his sergeant’s command, he jerked back the heavy bolt of his gun and let a shattering series blast into the clouded air.
“Jesus Corporal, this ain’t our goddamn fight!” his sergeant’s voice splintered the final notes of The Banger’s Embrace into a mess of static.
“But Sarge, those women…”
“We ain’t fuckin’ authorized!” his sergeant bellowed, then instantly calmed his voice. “Command, package delivered. We’re Oscar-Mike. Let’s go boys.”
Furious, he pounded the roof of the LAV with his gloved knuckles. He caught a glimpse of an aid worker who threw his hands up in disgust as the rest scurried into the back of the transport. His sergeant slammed the LAV into gear and the convoy lurched forward, leaving the shrieks to rise above the cloud of dust churned up by their spinning tires.