From the Associated Press:
Mitrovica, Kosovo–Ten people have been killed in three days of riots that erupted after two ethnic Albanian boys were found dead in the freezing Ibar River which separates this bitter, ethnically divided city. French peacekeepers patrolling Mitrovica have asked for help and KFOR, the NATO mission in Kosovo, is responding. German and British troops arrived here last night and a contingent of American Soldiers is expected to arrive here sometime later today. This recent wave of riots is the worst violence seen in Kosovo since the American led bombing of Serbia ceased, ending the Serbian campaign of ethnic cleansing against the Albanians.

Three American Soldiers rest in their parked HMMWV waiting for a weapons search to be completed. The city of Mitrovica reminds Rich of a World War II movie; crumbling, bombed out buildings line the cratered roads.

Kentwood, the company commander, sits in the passenger seat with a black hand-mike pressed up to his ear and pretends to listen to the radio traffic. He’s actually sleeping.

Kelly stands in the turret, manning the SAW. A cold wind, mixed with snow and ice, blows relentlessly from the north and Kelly is bundled up tightly against it. She is sleeping as well, dreaming of home, but nobody can tell just by looking up at her.

Rich sits in the driver’s seat eating the Skittles that came with his breakfast MRE (he wasn’t about to touch the yellow sponge like material some fucker in a plant somewhere in the middle of Ohio had the gall to call eggs) and watches people walk up and down the desolate streets.

An old woman walks by and scowls at the American truck. She wears a worn brown scarf that covers her small, gray, bald head. Her coat is thin and useless against the wind and cold and she wears ridiculously oversized rubber boots. She breathes through her mouth and Rich sees that most of her teeth are missing. Her face is pitted and worn and Rich thinks of the moon.

Rich waves at her and smiles, hoping to establish some kind of diplomacy with at least one person. But American bombs killed her sons months ago as they slept on her floor—she isn’t fooled by Rich’s smile. She looks at the machine gun mounted ominously on the top of the HMMWV and sees a serious looking soldier standing behind it, ready.

To her, Americans are killers. And they aren’t even honorable killers; they drop bombs from the sky like some kind of bird defecating at random. These robotic looking soldiers are the first Americans she has ever seen and she boils with rage. Shuffling off quickly, she goes to alert her nephew—The Americans are here!

“What time is it?” Kentwood asks, suddenly awake.

Rich peels back his gloves and finds his watch. “It’s ten hundred hours.”

“Shit. That’s it? Time’s dragging ass today.” He looks around the truck for something to eat or read before turning back to Rich, “Do you think they’re going to find any weapons here?”

“I doubt it,” Rich admits.

“Really? Why not? You know there’s a ton of weapons up in this mother-fucker.”

“Maybe. But this is where they live. They know every hole in the ground, every fake wall and false bottom. We, on the other hand, don’t know shit. It’s midnight in this garden of evil and we’re wearing sunglasses.”

Rich’s frustration with this peacekeeping business had been growing. He was constantly shocked and dismayed by his Army’s weakness.

Memories of dark Baltic nights wander his brain this angry February morning. Sitting in the company TOC late one night a week ago, bull-shitting with the operations sergeant, frantic voices suddenly came over the radios and filled the tent. A squad on patrol had arrested two Serbian men in a Serbian-majority town for trafficking weapons. The squad took the two men and placed them into their trucks to transport back to the American base. A squad travels in three up-armored HMMWVs, trucks that can be totally locked from the inside with armor so thick it takes an anti-tank mine to get inside.

As the squad prepared to leave the village, the narrow streets filled with angry Serbs demanding the release of their countrymen. The squad leader, inexperienced and scared, called into Headquarters for help. Rich couldn’t believe this and was shocked when Battalion sent a whole company to rescue the squad. God, Rich wished he was in command for that moment. The order he would have given: Batten down your hatches and drive the fuck out. If you run over anyone, so be it, they should have gotten out of your way. But no, they sent a whole, fucking, company. And we’re the strongest Army in the world? Rich thought. Well, it’s only a matter of time until the rest of the world is on to us, and that will be a sad day indeed.

And now, this mission. “Stop everything that moves,” they were told. It’s absurd, impossible. A fucking joke, and everybody here knows it. Soldiers carry lethal weapons (A SAW can fire 850 rounds in a minute) and are trained to fight wars and kill enemies. Now they stand in the middle of a city seething with hate, trying to keep two groups of people from killing each other. Rich sometimes wonders if everything would be better if they were just allowed to kill each other off. Who would miss any of them anyway?

Rich has relieved Kelly in the turret and is standing behind the machine gun when the two radios explode with static and overlaying voices. People screaming out positions, situations, and plans all at the same time. There’s an old adage that everyone in the military knows: “No plan survives first contact.” No matter how well a mission is planned—once the shit hit the fan, the plan will invariably fall apart. Rich can’t see what’s going on, but he senses plans rapidly falling apart.

A roar moves through the valley of buildings to Rich’s left, sounding like a long, slow thunder trembling just beneath the miserable earth. Rich’s view is somewhat blocked by a small, bombed out building to his left, but he is able to see a Bradley bolting through an intersection at top speed. Uh-oh, he thinks to himself, I don’t like the looks of this. His feelings confirmed moments later by a large crowd chasing after the Bradley.

“What was that noise?” Kelly asks from behind the steering wheel.

“People,” Rich answers. “And they’re pissed.”

“Start up the truck,” Kentwood says. “We have to rally on the bridge.”

Rich doesn’t like the sound of this. The only way to the bridge is through the crowd. “Are you sure?” he asks down into the cab, his voice dripping with dread.

“That’s the order,” Kentwood answers as if that’s supposed to reassure him. “Kelly, start the truck and get to the bridge.”

The crowd stands in the intersection yelling after the tank it has just vanquished and fails to notice Kelly slowly pulling out into the street. Rich eyes the crowd wearily over the sights of the machine gun. He has a belt of 100 rounds. He checks the weapon, makes sure the first bullet of the belt rests on the feed tray, the bolt locked back, safety off. He’s ready to go hot.

A boy notices the American HMMWV and alerts the crowd of its presence. They turn towards it; their fists pumping into the air, a wounded-animal like cry emanating from them.

The rocks come slowly at first. Rich watches as one or two sail slowly through the air and bounced harmlessly, almost magically, off the roof of the truck. But the air is quickly filled with anything that could be picked up and thrown. Rich looks at the sky and thinks of hawks dive-bombing their prey.

Kelly slowly moves through the crowd. She doesn’t want to hit anyone.

Rocks and bricks and bottles shower down upon Rich. He is hit several times in the head and neck, his helmet offers some protection but his face is exposed. Blood pours from his nose, his ears ring painfully; he starts to see strange bursts of light and the world slowly starts to fade away.

“HURRY THE FUCK UP!” Rich screams into the air as an Italian soldier motions for them to stop.

“Stop, Stop!” Kentwood yells to Kelly. He lowers the window to talk with the Italian, but the soldier doesn’t speak English very well and stumbles to find his message, which is—“Wait here; we’ll clear this crowd out in a minute.” Italian Military Police are violently effective at crowd dispersion.

Something is burning Kentwood’s neck. Now, he notices the distinct sound of a machine gun discharging its cargo and sees bodies in front of the truck falling like heavy dominoes.

A young Serbian boy, no older than ten, watches all of this. He watches as men and women and children scream and fall and die. He looks up at the pristine flag proudly sewn onto the upper right sleeve of Rich’s Battle Dress Uniform. Fifty white stars laid out on a dark blue field, 13 alternating red and white stripes all within a yellow border.

Rich looks upon this flag with great pride, the Army told him it’s a living thing and deserved the utmost respect. The Army also taught him the significance of its colors. Red is the blood that had been spilled for freedom. White is purity and innocence. Blue is hope. Americans see their flag as a symbol of freedom, democracy, and peace.

This boy feels little freedom, even less democracy, and absolutely nothing of peace as Rich’s shoulder moves rhythmically back and forth, man and machine becoming one as it sends fast moving pieces of metal into the crowd.

He feels fear. And then anger.

He bends down, picks up a rock, and strikes.

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