"The Water's Great!"

The cell was little more than a basement closet with a thick iron door, but, given the condition its occupant was in it might as well have been Alcatraz. The U.S. Marine Corps fatigues he wore were almost unrecognizably torn, stained, and worn. His wrists were bound by rough rope, and his face and chest were covered in bruises from the beatings he had suffered at the hands of his captors over the last few days. Each breath causing shooting pain from his broken ribs, Marine Corporal Lloyd Mennard struggled to remain conscious.

He concentrated on the footsteps of the pacing guard outside. Now he'll be at the end of the hall... The footsteps paused, then resumed. Now on his way back. Mennard visualized the guard, a tall, muscular, AK-47-toting man who spoke only four words of English, none of which were particularly pleasant.

Mennard's vision swam again, and he concentrated on remaining conscious. Though one eye was swollen shut from the beating, he squeezed the other one shut tightly and opened it again to clear his head. It didn't exactly work - when he opened it again, he found himself sitting at a folding card table back at the base, along with the other members of his squad. This isn't real, he told himself.

"Your bet, Lloyd." Vince said. Looking down, Mennard saw that he was holding a pair of tattered playing cards.

"I fold." Mennard heard himself say. He didn't seem to have an option.

Rob folded as well. "Did you guys hear? We got patrol duty again tomorrow." This was met with a chorus of groans and mild swearing. Their squad seemed to always get patrol duty. "For once I'd like to actually see some action." Rob was hotheaded, the youngest of the squad. Even so, most of the others nodded in agreement, including Mennard.

Mennard blinked, and the card table was replaced by the dusty cell, the murmur of the barracks replaced by the repetitive footfalls of the guard. Mennard saw in his mind's eye Rob cut down by enemy fire in the ambush. He had been the first to go when his wish was granted, and the rest of the squad had met a similar fate. Somehow I'm the only one left. But not for long. Mennard knew he was going to be killed. It was just a matter of time. It was the same every time an American was captured - sooner or later, the enemy always decided they were safer if you were dead.

Mennard had come to terms with his impending demise during the last beating. He was beyond feeling particularly upset about it, after all, the longer they kept him alive the longer they'd have to beat him, or to find more imaginative methods of making him suffer.

"Come on, Lloyd. Come on in!" Mennard was back on the shore of the lake where his family had once vacationed. In front of him, his grandfather stood waist-deep in the water, beckoning. "It's too hot to stand around all day." It was hot. Mennard felt himself perspiring. But Gramps died years ago. This can't be real either. His grandfather had stormed the beaches of Normandy on D-Day, and lived to tell the tale. He had died when Lloyd was eleven.

"I can't." Mennard said. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something was off. Something was wrong.

"Why not?" Gramps waved him in. "The water's great!"

Mennard opened his mouth to reply, just as the vision faded. From the sounds outside, the guard was talking to his superior, but Mennard's limited understanding of Arabic wasn't enough for him to follow. The conversation ceased, and footfalls approached the cell door, which creaked open gratingly to reveal a pair of Russian assault rifles and the two men aiming them.

"Get up." The heavily accented English words almost pulled a smile out of the Marine - in his condition, he knew he couldn't stand without aid. Mennard knew better than to smile, though. Instead, he did his best to show his captors that he wasn't able to stand, by struggling against the back wall feebly. A brief argument in Arabic between the two men ensued, and eventually, the guards shouldered their assault rifles and stepped forward, each one taking hold of one of their prisoner's arms above the elbow. When they hauled him to his feet, his broken ribs grated against one another. Mennard gasped shallowly, but managed to avoid crying out in pain.

Mennard suspected that they were going to torture him for information again. Not that they'd be getting anything useful - a Marine wasn't an intelligence officer, after all, and even if he did know what they were asking for, Mennard wouldn't talk. The bastards will never get anything out of me. Not that they really expect to. I swear half the reason they're doing this is that they find it fun.

To Mennard's surprise, the guards dragged him up the stairs, past the "interrogation" room. That's new. What's going on? He knew that in his condition, escape was probably futile, unless he could get his hands on one of the group's ubiquitous AK-47s. Even then, it'd be me against what, thirty-five men? With broken ribs and smashed fingers, he doubted he could fire a rifle without passing out anyway. Still... The guard at his left had his weapon slung over his shoulder improperly, and it dangled tantalizingly less than a foot from Mennard's hand. I just need to...

The man must have seen his prisoner eying the weapon, because he adjusted the strap to move it out of reach. So much for that idea.

The guards had him at the landing in moments. The door to the rest of the building was open, and there was another guard there, with another gun. Beyond him was a ground-level, dirt-floored room lit blindingly with a mix of scavenged USMC equipment and primitive-looking oil lamps. Most of the group, it appeared, was gathered here. Now they are selling tickets to my torture? Mennard would have chuckled dryly, if it weren't for the broken ribs.

The guards dropped their prisoner roughly in the center of the room, and stood over Mennard to ensure he stayed put. After that last beating, I don't know why they worry. Mennard could barely manage to keep his face off the dusty packed-earth floor. Somewhere outside the building, Mennard heard the bass-drum tempo of mortar fire.

Mennard blinked, and he was back at the barracks, suiting up for patrol. "Careful what you wish for, Mennard." The gruff voice had come from behind him: Lockhart. Lockhart had been stationed at this base longer than almost anyone else, and, so the story went, had survived a dozen or more ambushes, even one in which the rest of his squad was killed.

"Sorry, what?" Mennard remembered how this conversation went, and as before seemed powerless to do anything but observe.

"Careful what you wish for. I heard you hotheads're spoilin' for a fight. When one comes to you, you'll take back every word." Lockhart scowled grimly.

"We've been in... what, four firefights this month?" Mennard responded. "The war comes to us often enough."

"Pickin' off AK-47-totin' cannon fodder is not a firefight. It's barely above slaughter." Lockhart shook his head. "Some of these nuts are good, and eventually everyone gets in the thick with that sort."

"I know. It's that sort that eggs on the rest. Makes others die for 'em, and takes credit when the saps get lucky. It's that kind I signed up to stop." Mennard slammed his locker and started putting on his vest.

"Knowin' you're doin' right don't protect you, not here." Lockhart scowled, and turned to leave. "You boys be careful out there today."

"Will do." Mennard shouldered his pack, and closed his eyes for a moment -

And opened them to find himself sprawled on the packed-earth floor of his captors' hideout. I must have passed out again. The guards were arguing about something, again in rapid, unintelligible Arabic. Mennard stayed still, his good eye roving what he could see. Lots of feet, most sandaled or booted. The wall of the building, drab and crumbling, like the city around it. And... A tripod?

The guards bent down to lift the Marine again, moving Mennard into a corner, where the brightest lights were pointed. The lights forced Mennard to keep his gaze low to avoid being completely blind. On the other side of the room, a man was fiddling with a black device on a rickety wicker table. Most everyone else started crowding around the bright corner, the murmur of conversation occasionally interspersed with nasty chuckles.

After a shouted command from the tinkerer in the corner, someone moved the tripod to a point in between the largest pair of lights. Mennard wondered what exactly they had planned.

An older, gray-bearded man shoved his way through the group, shouting a single word repeatedly. Given that after each repetition the crowd got quieter, Mennard suspected the word meant "silence." In one hand the man held a large-caliber pistol of some kind (If he were gesturing with it less Menard might have been able to tell what model), and in the other, he held a long knife of some sort, sheathed in leather. Mennard guessed this was the group's leader.

Outside, the drumming thuds of mortars were interrupted by an explosion - by the sound, Mennard guessed it was less than a half-mile away. The thumping did not resume. With the room's inhabitants quiet, Mennard could hear small arms fire, too - somewhere out in the city, he bet, the Marines were turning over every rock looking for him. Even so, he suspected that his captors would kill him or move him before they got close. We never leave a man behind. It's our tragic flaw. How many will be injured or killed looking for me in vain? He didn't really blame his comrades, as Mennard knew that if it had been anyone else, he'd be out there looking for them too.

The tinkerer at the table exclaimed something, and picked up the device he was working on, rushing it toward the tripod. Mennard got a good look at it - it was an older model compact video camera. One of the pieces of the plastic housing was missing, and the adjacent segments were cracked around the edge of the hole - it had definitely gone through a lot. Mennard slumped even further and closed his eyes when he saw the camera - it meant he was going to die today.

"Lloyd?" It was his mother's voice. "I have to go run some errands. If you start feeling worse, call my cell."

"Ok, mom." Lloyd felt so tired, and cold, and he just barely got the words out before a wave of nausea swept him. "I'll be fine." False bravado, of course - he didn't feel fine. Mennard remembered this day - he was in ninth grade, and he'd woke up that morning quite ill.

"All right. Hope you feel better by tomorrow."

"Me too. I'd prefer school to feeling this bad." Lloyd hadn't particularly liked high school, especially freshman year, but he'd done well enough despite that. And, of course, it was better than being sick. His mother left him there, bundled up on the living room couch. What else was a teenager to do? He grabbed the remote and flicked on the television, hoping it could put him to sleep. After realizing that the usual channels had nothing on but toddlers' cartoons, he flipped to the news.

Lloyd remembered that fall Tuesday morning well, because the television had not put him to sleep. The date that day was September 11, 2001. Mennard, powerless to do anything but, relived his fourteen-year-old-self watching his countrymen die. The sight of those people jumping from the blazing Trade Center had given him nightmares for years.

Mennard realized that he'd passed out, again. The old man was talking, now, waving his gun, and facing the camera, which now displayed a red "recording" light. Occasionally, he pointed the knife back behind him to Mennard, usually inciting the onlookers to a ragged cheer. At least once, he lead a group chant of "allahu ackbar" - that phrase, at least, Mennard knew. Outside, mortar fire had resumed, though more sporadically. The two guards were holding him up at a kneeling position by his shoulders, a position that caused pain in the soldier's ribs, probably intentionally so. The old man twice stepped back and rested the muzzle of his pistol on Mennard's temple, but each time he pulled it away and kept talking. Come on, you sadist. Get it over with. You won't see me beg for mercy. You can't strike fear into a dead man.

"Lloyd, I don't understand!" His mother again, sounding agitated. "You could go to any university in the state with your grades. Why are you doing this?"

"Mom, I know what I'm doing." Lloyd heard himself say. This, too, he remembered. It was two months before graduation. "I don't want to go to college. I have something more important to do with my life."

"But the Marines, Lloyd?" His mother was near tears.

"His mind is made up, dear." This was Mennard's father. "I don't think I've seen him more convinced of anything in a long time."

"Thank you, Dad." Eighteen-year-old Lloyd Mennard was interrupted.

"Don't think I like it either, son." The older Mennard pointed out. "But if it is your decision, I'll support it."

His mother refused eye contact, and avoided him that night. Lloyd remembered that she'd only come to terms with the decision the month before he was deployed.

Someone was shaking him. Again struggling back to consciousness, Mennard groaned in pain as each shake reached his ribs. The old man was kneeling down directly in front of him, grinning like the devil. "Any lass' words?" The sentence was spoken rapidly, as if practiced. Lloyd doubted the old man knew more English than the guards.

Okay, Lloyd, this is how it ends. Strangely, this thought didn't bother him, only made him think for a long second, wondering whether to say something to the camera or remain stonily silent and accept death without complaint. Eventually, he nodded his assent weakly. Still grinning, the leader stood up and stepped to the side.

Mennard knew what to say almost immediately. Something that would make his captors angry and simultaneously send the message that he'd accepted his death. Something he'd memorized a decade ago, words that were cause for murder in this part of the world. I wonder how far I'll get before they realize what I'm saying? Mennard took a raspy breath, and started speaking. "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want..."

He was on the beach again, standing uncertainly at the water's edge, and Gramps was still egging him on. "Come on in!" Gramps waved. Lloyd wondered hazily where everyone else was - surely on a beach trip at least his parents would be nearby, but he couldn't see them.

Mennard was back in that dusty building, surrounded by his enemies. He struggled to keep talking. One of the onlookers was gesticulating wildly at the leader, who'd not taken notice. "He maketh me lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me by still waters." The old man finally saw the gestures, and stepped over to hear his compatriot's concerns. Great, someone does know English. Mennard took a deep breath in order to continue talking.

"I bet it's really cold." Lloyd shivered just looking at the lake water. It was still, calm, as if it was a block of ice only hours before.

"Nah, the water's great! Come on!" Gramps laughed. Lloyd took a step forward, then two. He was at the water's edge.

After a racking cough, which brought up blood, Mennard kept talking. The leader's eyes widened, probably based on what his lackey was telling him. "... He restoreth my soul and leadeth me in the path of righteousness for his Name's sake."

"I'm not sure I want to... Where are Mom and Dad?" The beach again. Lloyd's toes were inches from the weakly lapping verge.

"They'll be here eventually. Come on. It'll be great!" Gramps was all smiles. Lloyd made up his mind. He started walking backward.

"Yea, even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me..." The gray-bearded man, murder in his eyes, had heard enough, and whirled on Mennard. The Marine didn't even blink. Wouldn't give them the satisfaction of putting me off now. I'm on a roll. "Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. Thou preparest me a table..."

Lloyd stood, for a moment, smiling back at Gramps. After a long moment, he started running toward the now-more-inviting water. Two steps. Three. The water's edge grew nearer again.

"... In the presence of my enemies. Thou annointest my head with oil; My cup runneth over." The man stepped toward Mennard, fury and horror in his visage. Mennard barely noticed the pistol coming to bear.

Lloyd jumped, and it seemed to him he jumped farther than should have been possible, and that he hung in the air unnaturally long. He had enough time to have a moment of doubt, but he forced it aside. Like he said, it'll be great.

"Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life..." Mennard felt the pistol's cold muzzle against his temple again, and he knew this time the man meant it. He felt strangely calm, collected. "... and I will dwell in the House of the Lord forever." The man screamed something wordless, as if hearing the last words of the psalm caused him physical pain, and pulled the trigger.

The water was indeed "great" - it was also cold enough to stop your heart. Lloyd Mennard gasped. Gramps embraced him, laughing. "I'm proud of you, kid. You did good. You did real good."