Dr. Richard Jacobson raised a gloved hand to cover his eyes. A cloud of dust, whipped up by a nearby helicopter, tore through the low, open-sided hospital tent. Nurses and patients shielded themselves, coughing and hacking the following dirt fog that seemed to settle on the electric equipment and precious medical supplies. The roar of the helicopter rotors had given way to frantic shouting, as a small group of soldiers emerged out of the swirling brown haze, pushing a stretcher between them. Dr. Jacobson lowered his hand and watched this group move past. A soldier lay in the middle of the stretcher, blood pouring out of his gut and jaw. For a moment, the two made eye contact, the pale green eyes of the wounded man piercing into Dr. Jacobson. Yet there was a glassiness to his gaze. He knew the poor soldier wouldn't last long.

"Shit, bro, this place is mad shitty dude," grunted a voice from behind Dr. Jacobson. Dr. Bruce Dagless, a portly man with squinty eyes that were shielded by a tiny pair of glasses, stripped a pair of bloody latex gloves off his hands and allowed them to fall to the dirt floor beneath them. He placed these on his generous hips and smirked at this medical companion. "Seriously, dude, this place is not chill."

Dr. Jacobson stared out over the horizon of the desert. It was bleak, lifeless beyond their remote hospital outpost. A small mountain range, like craggy daggers, formed a wall around the base that seemed to keep them in more than keep invaders out. They rarely saw combat, but they were not far from the intense fighting: many of their charges were mortally wounded soldiers, all of whom had dim hopes of survival upon arrival.

"Bro can't get decent nug or a Jagerbomb out here," Dr. Jacobson whispered. "No way for a bro to live."

Dr. Dagless stepped up next to him and placed a fat hand upon his shoulder. "Dude, it's time to like, move on from the bad shit, and like, um, you know, move on to the good shit, bro.." These comments dug into Dr. Jacobson worse than the only wound he had ever received in the military. Before being stationed at Camp Delta Bravo Sixer, he had been a combat medic on the front lines. As the fighting raged through the centers of population, the horrors that were inflicted on the battlefield, the decencies of wars abandoned, the wanton destruction of civilian refugee camps, the disease, the fear that you wouldn't wake up the next day, had taken their toll on the doctor. In one of these camps, his platoon had made a stopover. It was there that an angry refugee, upset over the loss of his family to military bombing campaigns, shot him in the back. The man was quickly gunned down by Dr. Jacobson's comrades. Since then, Dr. Jacobson hadn't seen the front line. He was the resident surgeon at this camp and walked stiffly, with the help of a cane.

"Bro, shut the fuck up," Dr. Jacoboson said to the doctor.

"Dude, what up? I'm tryin' to like, help you dude," Dr. Dagless replied angrily.

Dr. Jacobson grabbed his fellow doctor's hand and pushed it roughly off his shoulder. Stumbling away from his crude workstation, Dr. Jacobson staggered out of the tent. The hot desert sun struck his skin like an iron. Shouting angrily, he flailed his arms into the air and fell to his knees sobbing. The burning tears fell from his eyelids and evaporated with infinitesimal sizzles on the rocky desert surface. He felt a large presence standing on all sides of him, but he ignored them and continued crying. The doctor felt himself going mad as childish thoughts of wanting to go home and being safe plagued his wits and paralyzed his body. Rough arms seized him by the limbs and lifted him back into the shadow of the hospital tent. Dr. Jacobson felt himself lowered onto a hospital bed. A relaxing chill settled over him, as he enjoyed the cloth sheets that cushioned his thin frame. It felt good to be off his feet. The doctor felt a sting as a syringe made its way into the veins of his left arm. Edges blurred and pinpoint details faded away. He heard a faint yet familiar voice floating on the horizon of his increasingly tired consciousness.

"Shit, fuckin', war is hell, bros. War is hell."