Excerpt from All the Ruined Men by Bill Glose, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Bradshaw notices movement in his peripheral vision and comes back to the present moment. It's Mueller getting up from his seat. He hears the pestering squadmate plop down behind him and lean over the tall, row seat.

Mueller taps the window beside Bradshaw's head and says, Know what these remind me of? On the other side of the glass, red tassels dangle from the roof's edge, some with tiny bells affixed to their ends. Mueller drops his hand from the window and taps Bradshaw's shoulder instead. Hey, know what the tassels remind me of? C'mon, you must know.

Bradshaw still doesn't turn. As the newest member of the unit, Bradshaw is the continual target of Mueller's taunts. Berkholtz had transferred in about the same time four months ago, but as their squad leader he is beyond Mueller's harassment. Shit flows downhill, not up.

Mueller continues tapping until Bradshaw turns from the glass, irritated. What?

They remind me of the pasties on your sister's tits, that's what! He puts his hands up in a mock defensive posture as if Bradshaw might punch him. But Bradshaw just shakes his head and turns back to the window and the ocean of brown.

Mueller spins to see if his squadmates heard the exchange, looking for anyone to give him props. But they're ignoring him, too. Aw, c'mon, he says. That shit was funny.

BERKHOLTZ

This is what it's come to, Berkholtz thinks. Picking fights among ourselves. With the war on hold, it's not just Mueller. They were all feeling the tension.

A month ago, when the statue of Saddam toppled in Firdos Square and jubilant Iraqis slapped his face with their sandals, Berkholtz had figured the war was all but over. But the next day they attacked and captured Kirkuk. The following week, they rumbled into Tikrit to battle the last pockets of the Republican Guard. Their battalion fought ferocious battles, all successes with few casualties and no deaths in the company. They were conquering heroes, liberators of the subjugated. Each sandstone city they entered, skinny men and children in ankle-length thawbs raced, cheering, beside their vehicles. When President Bush stood on an aircraft carrier in front of a banner reading, MISSION ACCOMPLISHED, what more was there to say? It was time to pack up and go home to the ticker tape parade.

Except they didn't go home. A provisional government was set up and they stayed on in a peacekeeper role, stuck in the desert, six thousand miles from loved ones. So here we are, Berkholtz thinks, riding out to a makeshift range in a jingle bus, the hour-long ride feeling more like three.

Looking back at Mueller and Bradshaw, Berkholtz stifles the smile trying to rise to his mouth. Not because he thinks Mueller's comment was funny, but because he knows one of these days Bradshaw is going to knock Mueller down on his ass. Quiet and contemplative, Bradshaw is a former linebacker who still carries a hitter's mentality. Something Mueller will discover soon enough. Now is not the time for a fight, though, so he orders Mueller back to his seat with a flick of his hand.

Berkholtz runs his hand across the fuzzy stubble on his head and feels the pulpy texture of his scalp. Yesterday had been the squad's first shower in a month. The sensation of being clean is still foreign to his desiccated skin. The uniforms are fresh, too, unpacked from their follow-on duffels, their skunky, salt-rimed clothes collected and shipped off to be laundered. Though no one would have cared if they were burned instead.

MUELLER

Now seated beside his team leader, Corporal Faust, Mueller sits with his feet tapping, his knees jerking up and down. He'd also had an online chat this morning, the scared face of his pregnant wife filling his mind as they made small talk about babyproofing the outlets and what type of crib was best. Mueller was just as scared as his wife. Not that he might come home in pieces or not at all; no, he was scared of becoming a father. He wasn't ready for that kind of responsibility, and he's pretty sure Sophia senses that about him as well. He's probably the only one in the unit who's dreading going home. In battle, everything makes sense. Kill or be killed is a mantra he can embrace.

Excerpted from All the Ruined Men by Bill Glose. Copyright © 2022 by Bill Glose. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.