Sergeant David Pascoe stared at a jet trail dissolving in to the faint blue skies above Kirkuk as the green fruit of the oleander tree hung heavy over mangy dogs in the dirt. His seven-man patrol rested under the tattered awning of the baker’s shop. Corporal Richard Dawson sat by himself. He hated Iraq and Iraqis. He missed his family, his brothers and his dog. He also missed his girlfriend, Simone, who he knew was banging his best mate back in Ballarat. Of course, she denied it but he knew. He just fucking knew.

Pascoe signalled to move on. The men rose slowly and the flies rose with them and settled on their backs again. They fanned out across the dusty road and moved towards the town square. The morning sun beat on their helmets. Their 40 kilo packs cut in to their shoulders. Their rifles hung across their chests. A large pile of cardboard, old tyres and plastic water bottles, burned in the distance. Another day in paradise Pascoe told himself.

It was quiet for a Tuesday morning. Road workers had abandoned their tools on the side of the road. The little fires they made to boil water for the sweet tea, burned unattended. An American helicopter flew low over the patrol, its rotors tilted forward, sending a wave of dust in their faces. The Yank pilots were always pulling that sort of shit.

Pascoe was a local surfing legend in Queenscliff, south of Geelong. He had come third twice at Bells. His grandfather and father had been in the army. A family thing so the khaki green replaced board shorts. He had two weeks to go before his tour ended.

Pascoe called Phillip Carmen over. Phil was famous in the battalion for eating 27 Weet Bix in 60 seconds. Pascoe liked his blonde-haired radio man. He looked like he’d come straight off the beach.

“Call in our position,” Pascoe said. “Tell ‘em we’re checking out the German satellite contractors near the market”

The engineers were erecting large antennas so the locals could get Fox News. The locals hated Fox, so at night, they climbed the towers and changed the antenna band width to pick up rock music stations and sports channels. During the day, the Germans changed the bandwidth back again. They’d copped abuse from local kids but nothing serious.

Three contractors stood by their Toyota four-wheel drive, drinking coffee and eating cake. A large man, who looked like the actor Rutger Hauer, offered Pascoe a slice of coffee cake.

“No thanks, mate. Where’s your security?”

“Our guard didn’t come with us today,” Hauer said. “Said there were problems at home with his wife. We have been musing – is that the right word? – on the nature of this attending”

“You came out anyway?”

“We are paid by the hour. Tonight, the locals will enjoy 24-hours of Fox News. Who said American largesse is not spread thick?”

Dawson was hassling a kid in a Manchester United jumper for his ID and getting plenty of lip.

“What’s the story with the kid?” Pascoe asked.

“Just some scum sucking IED-building motherfucker. Got no ID. Want me to haul him in?”

“If we did that, every kid in Kirkuk would be in the compound,” Pascoe said. “Take his name and address and move him on.”

A 12-year old boy dressed in white muslin entered the deserted marketplace. The boy wore a white hoodie. He looked like an apparition. A ghostly figure set against the grey of the buildings and the red dust. He walked slowly past an abandoned Toyota and the ruins of the coffee shop. He was little over 5 foot tall. He walked as if deep in thought. He wore Nike runners and had a slight limp. The boy leant forward a little as he was carrying a large black backpack. He walked slowly towards them.

Pascoe trained his field glasses on the kid’s face. He was good looking. Olive skin and high cheek bones. There was something in his left hand but he couldn’t make it out. Could be a packet of cigarettes. The back pack was a worry. It looked new as if bought for a special occasion, like blowing up German contractors and Australian soldiers. He was dressed in white like a martyr.

“Hey Phil, you know some of the local lingo,” Pascoe said. “Tell the kid to stay put.”

Carmen barked out the order in Arabic but the boy kept coming.

“Tell him again.”

The boy stopped for a moment, shifted the weight of the pack on his shoulders, and then started walking again.

Hauer lit a cigarette.

“This boy, you think he is a bomber?” Hauer said. “He’s dressed as if he wants to meet his maker.”

Pascoe directed two men to take up positions behind the four-wheel drive. He sent two more to keep an eye on the windows above the market place.

“Phil, tell him we are commanding him to stop. Tell him failure to obey will have serious fucking ramifications”

“Sarge, I don’t know the word for ‘ramifications’”

“You know what I mean”

Phil Carmen yelled so loud, three women came to their balcony windows, then retreated behind drawn curtains.

The boy stopped, squatted down, retied his shoelaces and continued walking towards them.

“Hey Sarge”, Dawson yelled, “you reckon he’s carrying something in his left hand? Could be a detonator button.”

It could be a mobile phone, it could be a bag of sweets, it could also be a detonator. The kid was only 75 metres away.

Pascoe grabbed the phone from Phil and called in their position.

“We’ve got an Iraqi juvenile at the market failing to stop. The boy’s carrying a large back pack. Contents unknown. He’s about 70 metres away. Please advise immediately”

“Roger that Patrol C. We will advise ASAP.”

ASAP wasn’t soon enough, Pascoe thought. Another minute and this kid will be on us.

“Hey Dawson, fire a shot over his head,” Pascoe said.

An American helicopter took off by the medivac centre one street over. The down draft from the motors drummed on the tarmac.

“Wha? What did ya say?” Dawson yelled.

“Fire a shot over his head!”

Dawson raised his weapon and fired a shot, which echoed around the market square. The boy fell to the ground, the white muslin around his stomach turned red.

“Jesus Fucking Christ, I told you to shoot above his head!”

“I thought you said, ‘shoot him dead,” Dawson yelled. “I couldn’t hear shit with the chopper. How the fuck was I meant to know?”

The radio clicked and then came alive: “This is Radio Foxtrot calling Patrol C. Pull back and let the kid pass. We’ll send a Special Forces team with a personnel carrier to deal with him. You copy that?”

The kid was curled up, screaming his head off.

“We’ve got a problem Foxtrot. The boy is down,” Pascoe said. “We had a misfire from our side. We’ll need medical assistance straight up. The boy is still alive.”

“Roger that. Misfire. Is the kid still wearing the back pack?”

“Yeah”

“That’s a negative on the medical team. Too dangerous. I’ll get in touch with General HQ and get back to you.”

Pascoe trained his glasses on the rooves and windows of the square. Some serious retribution was on its way.

“I’m telling you. I heard the Sarge say, ‘shoot the kid dead’ not ‘shoot above his fucking head.’” Dawson yelled. “I ain’t taking it up the arse for this one.”

Dawson wiped away the tears as a rock hit him on the helmut.

“Why the fuck are we here anyway? These people hate us!”

The Germans climbed in to the four-wheel drive. Hauer leant out of the driver’s side window and offered Dawson a cigarette.

“Fuck off, Kraut”

Hauer turned to Pascoe. “May I suggest, Sergeant”, Hauer said in perfect English, “that we take the advice of your assassin here, and fuck off. In ten minutes, every gun-toting terrorist and gangland hoodlum, will want to kill your boys and us too. There is nothing we can do for the boy.”

“Ain’t that simple,” Pascoe said. “We have to offer assistance. We stay. You go.”

The four-wheel drive did a quick U-turn and revving through the gears, disappeared in a cloud of dust.

Carmen handed Pascoe the radio phone. “It’s HQ”

“General Peter Samuels in Baghdad here. How you doin’ young fella?”

Pascoe stifled the urge to stand to attention.

“It’s going as well as can be expected, sir. We have an Iraqi juvenile down and suspect he’s carrying a bomb. The medics won’t come and I understand that. We need some way to get to the kid without blowing ourselves up.”

“Tricky shit, son. What’s the news on the natives?”

“Some stone throwing but nothing serious.”

“Look, hang tough. I’ll get the Americans to send a platoon behind the market and do a sweep. That should keep the nasties away for a while.”

“Appreciate that, sir”

“Leave this with me, son”, Samuels said. “I’ll bump this upstairs and see if we can’t work some magic from the top down. In the meantime, carry on the good work.”

Pascoe handed the phone back to Carmen.

“We’re fucked. That was Samuels. He’s bumping it upstairs. That means he’ll call the Minister of Defence in Canberra. It’s 10.00am now. It’s about 5.00pm in Canberra. Ever tried to get anyone in Canberra at 5.00pm on a Friday?”

“We’ll be here for hours before anyone gets back to us,” Carmen said. “I’ll get the kid. Just keep an eye on those windows.”

“Don’t be fucking stupid,” Dawson hissed. “The kid has more explosives on him than Rio Tinto. He’s just waiting for a stupid gringo like you to go out there. Factor this too, every window up there may hide a sniper. You’d be dead meat before you got 20 metres.”

“Got any better ideas?” Carmen barked back.

“We put a bullet in his brain,” Dawson replied.

“No one is going anywhere,” Pascoe said. “We’ll wait.”

The rocks stopped. The Americans had arrived behind the market. They knew the shit had hit the fan. They’d keep their distance. This was Pascoe’s problem.

The hot afternoon sun fell on the market as the soldiers sipped water and ate the bakery cakes. An American helicopter hovered over the market square for a few seconds and then took off again. They were taking intelligence pictures. Noting ever little detail. Like the kid lying in a pool of blood and the Australian soldiers eating cakes 70 metres away.

The fuck ups were legion, thought Pascoe. In his second week in Iraq, an American helicopter rocketed an Australian patrol in a dry river bed. Three men were killed. The families were told the men died charging an enemy position. He was on that patrol. You don’t forget shit like that.

Four hours later, the radio fired up.

“This is the Defence Minister, Peter Ask, who am I speaking to?”

“This is Sergeant David Pascoe, sir, of the 3RAR out of Melbourne. Do you read me?”

“I can’t hear much on this line. Heaps of static. Are you than soldier who shot the kid?”

“No sir, I am the patrol leader.”

“Your name is Biscoe?”

“No sir, David Pascoe”

“Sorry. Look, none of you guys are wearing helmet cameras. Why is that?” Ask said.

“We wear them on combat patrols but this was a reconnaissance patrol. No need for cameras.”

“Would have been real handy in this situation,” Ask said. “I’ll try keep this from the media as long as possible. If they get hold of it, it will be a shit storm.”

“Thank you, sir. I can imagine that might be difficult for you.”

“Difficult for all of us Biscoe. Difficult for you, me and everyone.”

Pascoe could hear the Minister was sizing him up as a scapegoat. ‘Sergeant allows his troops to shop at bakery then shoots unarmed kid’. Front page material for The Age. It would be followed by a 60 Minutes report on ‘Kiddy killers in the ADF’.

“Minister, I was wondering if we couldn’t get a robot here. That way we could check out the kid’s back pack and give him some pain killers and water.”

“Unfortunately, our Explosive Diffusion Robots have a technical issue. There’s not a working EDR in Iraq.”

Pascoe saw that an Iraqi man throw a water bottle to the kid. It hit his feet and skidded away.

“Minister, I was thinking of going out there myself. The kid has quietened down a bit in the last few minutes. He might be losing consciousness…”

“No. That’s not going to happen. If the kid’s a suicide bomber and he kills you, that’s another media shit storm. They’ll blame me for putting you up to it. I’m going to rocket this to the Prime Minister’s office. Stay cool – or frosty – if that’s the right word.”

Dawson sat behind the communications box and dreamt he was back home. He’d sort out his best mate and Simone and then get a job picking fruit. Live off the fat of the land for a while. He closed his eyes and imagined driving north past Townsville, past the cane fields, towards the Daintree. His elbow out the window of his old black SUV. Maybe he’d get some bar work and meet a nice girl. He hadn’t had much luck with women. He’d fix that up north. Anything to put distance between himself and this shit hole.

The soldiers watched the Iraqis. Pascoe looked at his watch. They’d been at the market for almost 10 hours. He opened a packet of dehydrated French onion soup, scooped two spoonfuls in to his mouth and washed it down with water from his canteen. There’s fucking Dawson he thought. When we get back, he’s going to have a little accident.

“This is Radio Foxtrot, Radio Foxtrot, you there Pascoe?”

“Roger”

“I have a guest on the line for you, Pascoe. The Prime Minister.”

“You’re shitting me?”

“I shit you not. Prime Minister, I have Sergeant Pascoe for you in Kirkuk.”

“Hullo, hullo. Is this Sargent David Pascoe? It’s an awful connection. Can you hear me David?”

“I can hear you, sir. It’s patchy but clear enough.”

“No need to call me ‘sir’. Call me Tom. I figure if we cut the crap, the sooner we’ll sort this out. I’ve spoken to Peter Ask and General Samuels. They tell me you’re doing a good job in a difficult situation. Samuels said he was lining you up for a medal. Any thoughts on how you can get to the boy?”

“I’m thinking sir, er, Tom, that the boy will fall unconscious later tonight. When he does, I’ll go out there, remove the backpack and bring him in.”

“Sounds dangerous. I spoke to your Mum and Dad and they’re real proud of you. I didn’t fill ‘em in on the details but they know you’re giving your all for the service.”

“Thank you, Tom”

“Just one thing before I go. Any signs of any media? We’ve got a containment strategy in place but there are always leaks. There are only so many fingers you can put in to a dike, if you know what I mean?”

“I do, sir”

Pascoe gave the handset back to Carmen.

“What’s the story, Sarge?” Carmen said.

“We’re going to get a medal for shooting the kid”

Pascoe looked at the night sky and saw a shooting star. He couldn’t recognise any of the constellations. No Southern Cross. No Venus on the horizon. He looked at the windows above the market square and saw the glow of cigarettes.

“Fuck this. I’m going out there,” Pascoe said. “If the shit hits the fan, get the men back to base in double time. By that I mean, run…”

“Dave, this ain’t a good idea. Let’s clear it with HQ first,” Carmen said.

“They’re part of the problem. I’m going now. Give me the medical kit”

Pascoe yelled over the Dawson.

“I’m going over the top, fuckface. Try not to shoot me in the back.”

The market square was in darkness but he could just make out the boy lying on the ground. No moon. That was a lucky break. He looked at the dirt flying beneath his feet and wondered why a boy from Queenscliff, who surfed every weekend and ate ham and pineapple pizzas by the score, was running for his life in the dark. He threw the rifle over his shoulder and looked up at the windows to his right. Someone was moving behind a curtain. No time to stop now. The boy was only 40 metres away.

The kid lay on his side. Pascoe removed the iPhone from his left hand, pulled the hoodie back and took the earplugs from his ears.

“Hey, kid, can you hear me?”

The boy’s glassy eyes looked up at him.

Pascoe took the kids hands from his stomach and cut through a swathe of blood stained clothing. It was bad. The bullet had come out near the liver. He dressed it and gave the boy a shot of morphine. He gently removed the backpack and heard the sound of clinking bottles.

“What’s in the backpack?”

“Alcohol for brother’s birthday party. Secret. Got from Americans”

Pascoe removed three bottles of Jack Daniels from the pack and a carton of American cigarettes. There was a large box of liquor chocolates and a birthday card with a picture of a smiling camel firing an M-60 machine gun, while eating a large chocolate cake.

“You’re going to be OK,” Pascoe whispered. “I’ll let the morphine work its magic and then I’ll carry you back to the street. An ambulance is coming. How come you’re all dressed in white?”

The boy’s eyes momentarily lost focus and then fixed on Pascoe’s face. The kid wasn’t going to make it. His pulse was flat lining. Life was oozing out of his guts.

“Prayer. Alter boy in church near the school. Special service.”

“You’re a Christian?”

The boy moved his lips but no words came out.

“Hey Sarge,” Carmen yelled from behind him. “I’ve got the Defence Minister on the radio for you. Says it’s real urgent.”

“For Christ’s sake, tell him I’ll call him back.”

“I told him you’re with the kid,” Carmen said, “but he wants you to stop what you’re doing, leave the kid there, and get back to us right fucking now.”

Pascoe raised the boy’s head and gave him some water from his canteen. The boy was breathing easier. The morphine was working.

“Tell the Defence Minister to take a flying fuck at himself. I’m bringing the kid in. Make sure that ambulance is there in two minutes or else I’ll rip the medicos a new arsehole.”

The Iraqi men and women had left the far end of the market. Why would they do that? Had the Americans moved them on? They would never leave one of their own.

“Hey kid, what’s your name?”

“David”

“Hey, that’s a coincidence. Okay David, I’m going to carry you back to my men. Then we’re going to get you fixed up. I’m afraid the backpack will have to stay here.”

Sergeant Pascoe gently lifted the boy up and cradling him in his arms, ran back to the street. He could see his men scanning the top floor windows. Carmen had the radio handset pressed to his ear. Dawson was watching him run through the sights of his rifle. An army ambulance pulled up behind the communications barrier. The boy was crying.

“It’s okay little fella. Not far now.”

A single shot rang out across the market place. Carmen’s head flew back as he dropped the phone to the ground. Dawson knelt beside him. Then he stood up and with his rifle on automatic, sprayed to top floor windows. A man fell out of a window, followed by a black sniper rifle.

“You fucking towel heads,” he screamed, “you fucking murdering cunts.”

Pascoe gave the boy to the medicos and ran to Carmen. The bullet had entered his left eye and blown the back of his head off. Pascoe took a deep breath and one of the medico at the back of the ambulance give him the thumbs down. The boy had died. He looked to the east as the sky took on a pale pink rose colour. Crows crawed on the rooves of the buildings. He crouched down behind the communications barrier and threw a blanked over Carmen.

The radio phone lay clicking and hissing beside his body. He picked it up.

“This is Ask here, what the fuck just happened?”

“This is Sergeant David Pascoe, sir. I have recovered the body of the boy but one of our men was killed by a sniper.”

“Jesus Fucking Christ Pascoe, that’s why I told you not to move. The Americans told me the crowd at the end of the market had vanished. There’s hostiles in the area. That’s why I wanted you to stay put…”

“But the kid would have died …”

“The kid’s dead already, isn’t he? And now you’ve lost a man. But is gets better. There’s an American TV crew hightailing it to your position. I want you to get your men out of there immediately. That’s muchos pronto. Do you understand me?”

Pascoe looked at the end of the phone. He could make out bits of Carmen’s blood, blonde hair and brains. Dawson was sobbing next to Carmen’s body. He’d lost it. The medicos put Dawson’s body in the ambulance and drove away.

“Do you understand me, sergeant?”

Pascoe pressed the receiver close to his mouth.

“I understand fuck face that this is my opportunity tell of every tactical and strategic disaster we’ve had in the last 12 months.”

The earpiece crackled. In the distance, a grey Toyota land cruiser raced towards him. In the passenger seat was a reporter he’d seen on TV. Dawson stopped crying.

“Are you really going to do it?” Dawson said.

Pascoe put the receiver down. He could hear the Minister’s tinny voice bark through the speaker: “Pascoe, Pascoe, for Christ’s sake, let’s talk. Pascoe…”

The reporter got out of the land cruiser and looked quickly at the market place. There was enough light for the camera. He extended his hand to Pascoe.

“I’m Dave Williams from CNN. I’m looking for Sergeant David Pascoe.”