In Afghanistan, my platoon drew pawns on all our gear. Pawns, as in the chess pieces. Or we’d write the word “pawn” across the knuckles of our Nomex gloves, the ones that wouldn’t melt if the heat wave from an improvised explosive device swept over our bodies. A few guys got pawn tattoos when we got back. There is an old saying in the Marine Corps: “It does what it’s told.” We did what we were told. We knew we were just small pieces in the great American war machine.
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