This book is terrible. It is about war, not with the epic sweep of Tolstoy. This is the gut-wrenching bloody awful detail of injury, of amputation, of death. There is no detail that the reader is spared. There is no glory. This is the bloody reality of Afghanistan, told through the eyes of ordinary soldiers on the frontline.
Rounds slammed into the Mastiff's side, flat thuds that reverberated round the cab. Tom yanked Dusty down from the hatch, screamed forward to Davenport to follow Jessie and said to Dusty, 'Stardust, get on the GMG, I need to be in the cab talking to Zero.'
'No probs, boss.' Dusty sank back down into the Mastiff's body with the gimpy, unloaded it, rested it on the floor, swerved around Tom and got back on the GMG in the main turret. Tom could hear Trueman's .50 behind him laying down a valediction to the ambush site.
'Helllo, Minuteman Nine One, this is Tomahawk Three Zero Alpha. Has my Three Two calllsign updated you on our situation and plan? Over?'