One Jeep, tan; destroyed
One Caucasian male, approximately thirty to forty years in age; dead
And on and on the corporal scribbled as he scanned the scene. Out of curiosity, he reached into the pocket of one of the dead bodies. His hand produced a passport and a bundle of permits and visas. Smith only needed a quick look to identify them as French. He quickly stuffed the bundle in his jacket pocket.
“I got French papers!” a soldier yelled from the other side of the Jeep.
“Me too,” Smith called out. “And digging permits.”
“What?” the sergeant asked.
“Archaeological work,” Smith clarified.
The sergeant only nodded.
Corporal Smith stood and continued touring the scene. He decided to take a look under the Jeep, which was still lethargically smoking. He ducked his head under and was met with a bloody face and pleading eyes. It was an Iraqi.
“Aidez moi,” he muttered, thinking he was talking to French forces.
Smith only shook his head and rose up from under the vehicle. He turned one hundred and eighty degrees to see Private James Wallace in his face.
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