"When to shit is a big deal for Sergeant Colbert, isn't it?" Ray nods at Evan: "In a war zone, Marines shit tactically. Piss too. Sometimes the situation requires that you do not leave the vehicle regardless." It is at this moment that Evan finally figures out the whole thing with the adult diapers. Brad drops trou and craps. Ray is so bored that he starts singing "I Feel Like I'm Fixin' To Die." "And it's one, two, three, what are we fighting for? Don't ask me, I don't give a damn, next stop is Vietnam..." Evan and Walt join in. "Whoopee! we're all gonna die. Well, come on generals, let's move fast..." Out by the roadside, Brad is clearly feeling some relief; he watches the fighting up ahead and sings quietly along to himself. Ray claps, to keep the time, and even Trombley joins in on the chorus. Brad hops back into the cab, a new man. "Daddy's back!" Ray congratulates him on his record time, and on managing to pull it off so quickly. "I am seriously impressed. Taking dumps under pressure, man, that is our Iceman's Achilles' heel. Or Achilles' asshole. Holy shit, Brad's our, uh, Achilles' anus!"

They sit a second and then some mortars drop; Evan jumps and adjusts his helmet. "Shit man," says Ray, unperturbed, "It's really pretty country out here." Evan points out how that's true, if you ignore the mortars dropping, but Ray's philosophical about it. "Yeah, but they're random. I mean, come on man. It's not like anybody's scoping you with an AK. It's not personal like that. You gotta let some of this shit go." Ray has never made more sense to me in this entire story. Brad gets off the radio: the Cobras didn't find anything where they were looking, so they're going to clear a couple hamlets further up the road and see if they can find anything. Oh good, invading actual homes. This shouldn't be horrendous.

They drive past a man with a goat as Nate tells them the mortars are definitely coming from somewhere in this particular village. It is implied, although he doesn't say it, that this is one of those things he's assured of. "Our mission is to detain all males and search all structures." The place is pandemonium, all these women and children running around screaming and wild, teams checking in on the radio, military-age males trying to escape north. Ray parks and chuckles. "Check it out, Brad. It's gonna be our own episode of Cops." That's remarkably what it's like. They crash into a bunch of houses, one by one, while One-B and Two force all the people onto the ground outside, screaming and shouting. They empty the houses and keep going, hut after hut, clearing them, bitching quickly. Some lady shoves Brad but he keeps working, moving to the next hut and the next. It's kind of a blur. Ray shouts, in one nicely appointed hut with bead curtains and a TV, "Brad, check this motherfucker's crib out! Hajji be pimpin', yo!" It does not matter how many times you say "pimpin' yo," Ziggy, you are never going to sound like anything other than a total idiot. It's just not something your mouth was made to say.