Hi again brothers and sisters. Even if the title changed, you might recognize me from my First Story, my Second Story, my Third Story, my Fourth Story, my Fifth Story, my Sixth Story (Pt.1) and my Sixth Story (Pt.2). Once again, thank you for all your support. Writing is my therapy, you reading it is part of it. Thank you for your caring and loving comments. Merci beaucoup.

I'm starting to realize I have quite a lot of stories, might have to change how I link them.

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I’m French. I’m in the Army. I’m in the infantry and fucking proud of it. I do love embracing the suck and I always took everything with that « fuck it » mindset.

An endless patrol, endless day with my legs aching because I stand up in my turret, the sun is warming my head under my helmet. My ballistic glasses are doing a bad job at stopping the sun's rays, my fingers are sweaty and riddled because of it. I'm perfecting the gunner's tan : V shaped on my chest, neck and forearms. I don't know if I'm tan or just dirty. Probably the latest.

For some reasons I'm rarely first in the column so I can pick up the dust from the vehicles in front of me. I see turrets turning sometimes and I turn mine accordingly, sometimes I scan left, sometimes right. I'm carefully watching a desert with dark rocks, orange dust. I am not so far from Matt Damon's potato salad.

I feel a push on my leg, it's my buddy giving me a bottle of water. Great, warm plastic tasting water. I drink it and I miss my mouth half the time because of the uneven dirt road. I hear my buddies singing loudly a French Army song, it's "La Mort". They don't sing it correctly but they do what they can with the engine blasting inside. I sing with them in the wind. Brotherhood.

We are heading back to the FOB. I sigh with relief. Finally.

I am glad we are heading back so I can finally sit and clean up a bit. I am happy we are heading back because we are passing in a village we are used to go through.

More dust, more sun, more scanning, more songs.

Every soldier who deployed know that you find happiness in the small things. The small habits you have, become your little happy place.

You see, in that village, nobody really like us. We have the more than occasional "Go back home !", "French colonialists !", "Rapists ! Pigs !". Nothing really dangerous but it will wear you out month after month. The boys in the vehicle don't really experience it but us, gunners, deal with it directly. Head outside, you look at them right in the eyes. You shouldn't, yet, you defy them.

Sometimes, things get tricky and you're the one stopping any outside elements hurting your buddies. You have probably see the video of the US Soldier in Iraq pulling its sidearm to stop a car to get close. I have to settle this now. Yes, some countries consider a sidearm way more serious than a M240 with a 200 rounds belt. Sidearms are for executions. It's a honor thing.

I've seen a lot of gunners pulling their Glock 17 and I had to do it a few times. Fun times I guess.

Anyway, this village. My small happy moment during patrol.

We go by small wooden and dirt houses. They are more like small cabins. There's a lot of goats, some donkeys, a few dogs. One of the houses hosted an old lady. A lady that had so many wrinkles on her face. Wrinkles coming from a hard labor life under the unforgiving sun. She was so thin.

In my thoughts I called her grandma.

Grandma used to sit on a small log next to a dirt wall. Sitting in the small shadow cast by the wall. She was there in traditional clothing, a bright red with yellow and blue strips. She was the only one that smiled to us, to me. She waved her thin arms to say hello.

I was in my armored turret with my M240. A guy fully covered that just nodded and waved his left hand, right hand on his gun. She was looking through me. Yet, she smiled at me, every damn time.

I guessed she was used to war and seeing soldiers from every corner of the world going through her village. I was just one more but she took time to salute us.

A grandma on a small piece of wood, in the shadow.

Every patrol I waited for her. Every time she was here. Same clothes, same place, same smile, same wave of the arms.

I did dozens, if not more, of patrols and she was always here. My small happiness during patrol. A smile in a world of danger and anger.

Today. I remember this day. I remember this patrol. I remember the way back to the FOB. I remember the village and the hate looks we got.

We go by the small wooden and dirt houses. I see the small piece of wood. No bright red dress. No wrinkles. No smile. No wave.

I never saw her again.

Grandma, wherever you are, there's a young man thinking about you. Grandma, I hope you are doing okay no matter what happened to you.