Moon Dust | Generation Kill

Chapter 3: America's Pit Bull

Trudging through the sand, Katie let out an exhausted sigh and looked down at Whiskey, who was keeping up rather well considering the change in terrain. It had been quite a while since the two had done any sort of training in sand, and to put things simply, the adjustment had left them with tired legs and aching feet.

"If only we could curl up somewhere and take a nap," Katie said to Whiskey, her voice low as to not draw any attention to herself; she didn't need people thinking she was crazy for talking to a dog, or worse, herself. "You'd like that, huh?"

Whiskey's tongue drooped from the side of his mouth and a drop of saliva dripped down onto the sand, instantly evaporating from the heat. Katie was sweating bullets, so she could only imagine how hot Whiskey must have been with his thick, fur coat.

As the duo passed by the area where the humvees were parked—their hoods flipped up and teams of men working on each one of them—Katie slowed her pace as one of the Sergeant Majors marched over to another one of the men, grabbed him by the face, and started yelling at him about something or another.

A few people stopped to watch the ordeal go down, but by the looks of things, most of the men were used to this sort of behaviour based on how they didn't even bat an eye when the shouting began.

Once the Major was gone, the victim of the one-sided screaming match turned around and Katie recognized him as 'Pappy', or more accurately, Sergeant Patrick. "What was that all about?" the confused brunette questioned.

Patrick looked over his shoulder quickly to make sure the Sergeant Major was out of earshot. "Sixta's just chewing me out about my mustache hairs," he answered. "Grooming standards."

"Your mustache hairs?" Katie almost couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Seriously?"

"Yup."

"Well then," Katie shifted her gaze down to her canine companion. "Let's not let him see Whiskey then. He's got one big mustache that pretty much spans the entire surface of his body."

Patrick actually cracked a small smile at that. "Let's not," he agreed before climbing back up onto his humvee and returning to work.

Turning on her heel, Katie continued her way back toward her tent. Just before she could enter, however, the familiar sound of an explosion filled her ears, followed by panicked voices from inside the tent. Curious and concerned, Katie entered with caution only to find one of the men sitting atop a box and pressing a towel onto one side of his face while others gathered around.

"Do I even want to know what happened in here?" Katie asked, her eyes focused on the man who had obviously been injured in one way or another.

The man's expression turned to one of sheepish guilt, almost like when a child knew they were in trouble. "It was an accident." He supplied no details.

Stepping forward, Whiskey gave the man a few sniffs before sitting down in front of him and letting out a small bark. "What's he doing?" one of the other men gestured to Whiskey.

"He's telling me that-" Katie paused mid-sentence before looking to the injured man. "I'm sorry, what was your name again?"

"Ray Person."

"Ray," Katie repeated. "He's telling me that Ray is injured. He's doing his job."

Ray reached out with his free hand and gave Whiskey a few pats on the head. "Does that mean he likes me?"

"Well, it means he doesn't hate you." Katie shrugged. "Trust me, if he hated you, you would know."

Just then, two more men entered the tent, one of which being Sergeant Colbert. "Gentlemen ... and lady ... and dog." He removed his cap and stared at the gathered group of marines.