We take our seats. The driver settles in his stage. The Humvee rattles our helmets, shakes our boots, ripples our clothing. We sleep, sleep, sleep through the ride back. The sweat has dried and staled our uniforms, soaked our socks, drawn out our faces. The Driver shifts his composing stick. A box of Ritz crackers slides across the spit-stained floor. Vaguely, I am aware of their existence. We hear just the middle C of the engine, not the whack of our guns or the stomps of our boots. We hear a simple symphony, the Humvee hums one note. The truck stops. We hold the applause. The symphony is coming to a close. Play us just a few more notes so we can dream we are back home.