Greg Pollowitz over at Media Blog alerts me to this piece, Shock Troops (sub. req.), in the current issue of The New Republic.

... After a minute or two of eating in silence, one of my friends stabbed his spoon violently into his pile of mashed potatoes and left it there.

"Man, I can't eat like this," he said.

"Like what?" I said. "Chow hall food getting to you?"

"No—with that f***ing freak behind us!" he exclaimed, loud enough for not only her to hear us, but everyone at the surrounding tables. I looked over at the woman, and she was intently staring into each forkful of food before it entered her half-melted mouth.

"Are you kidding? I think she's f***ing hot!" I blurted out.

"What?" said my friend, half-smiling.

"Yeah man," I continued. "I love chicks that have been intimate—with IEDs. It really turns me on—melted skin, missing limbs, plastic noses ... ."

"You're crazy, man!" my friend said, doubling over with laughter. I took it as my cue to continue.
...

One private, infamous as a joker and troublemaker, found the top part of a human skull, which was almost perfectly preserved. It even had chunks of hair, which were stiff and matted down with dirt. He squealed as he placed it on his head like a crown.
...

Funny? Of course not. But many of my friends were laughing anyway. That is how war works: It degrades every part of you, and your sense of humor is no exception.

I know another private who really only enjoyed driving Bradley Fighting Vehicles because it gave him the opportunity to run things over. He took out curbs, concrete barriers, corners of buildings, stands in the market, and his favorite target: dogs. Occasionally, the brave ones would chase the Bradleys, barking at them like they bark at trash trucks in America—providing him with the perfect opportunity to suddenly swerve and catch a leg or a tail in the vehicle's tracks. ...