Move that 50mm back for the love of--" I don't hear him speak anymore. All I see is a bright screaming yellow light engulf him. The flash forces me off my feet and I hit the ground scattered with empty bullet shells and blood stains. I can't breathe; the more I try to suck in air, the more it goes out of me. My stomach turns like a washing machine and soon empties its load. My head spins as if trying to recover from a bad hangover. I readjust my helemet and try to stand up, but before I can even place my hand against my knees another mortar shell not far from my right sends me flying across the horizon. The impact against the hard, cold dirt almost leaves me unconscious this time. I don't even try to pick up my launcher. I check to make sure all my limbs are in place first. Thankfully, so far they are. I feel like I've been stuck in this trench hole for days now. I wanna go home. More shots send dirt clods flying above my head and tinker against my helmet. Even those little dirt piles are enough to dispatch another wave of overwhelming headache. I look around but all I see are blurs of wavy figures spinning around me faster than a roller coaster. I feel a bump against my back and turn to point and shoot, but realize that my slow reaction does have its uses after all.
"How you holding up buddy?" One of my best friends since training. He's got a wicked load of luck. He's still alive, even though he looks after me all the time. "Headquarter says air strike in 12 minutes. We'z gotta take out that anti-air turret up there" He gestures his thumbs rapidly above the trench wall behind him. I push against my shaking knees to take a look. I'd say about 250 feet. That's still too far. I see yellow sparks flash incessantly around the turret and see men to my left and right fall at the same time like leaves assuaging to winter's cold, heartless temptations. A spark flies towards me and knocks my helmet away. I fall backward from the impact, but before I can hit the ground again, a hand grabs my gear's shoulder straps. He laughs at me as he pulls me back to my feet. "You're one lucky dude. That's why I stick around ya!"
I scratch my head at such absurdity and spin around to pick up my helmet again. It's got a black blotch right in the middle. As I readjust the helmet, he pulls me in close.
"Listen man, we got to take that turret down otherwise our flyboys got no chance! We got to take that blasted turret out!"
I stumble for the right words, but all I can make out are, "What-- Ha--How do you-- what shoul- what do we do?"
He bites his lips and stares at the ground. It's more red than brown now. Why am I here? I don't want to do this....
"Alright man, I'mma round up some more boys and see if we can't take it out from the sides. You with me?"
"I-I-I-" I wan't to scream no, I want to say I want to runaway and go back home. He smiles at me and ruffles my helmet around. "Of course, you're coming with me. I ain't leaving without my lucky charm."
Before I even have the chance to register what's going on around me, I see the turret once more, but its sideview this time. My friend uses his finger to gesture signatures that I can't decipher. What is he telling me? I can't think right now. My thoughts have reaches their limits. I just wanna go home. My friend rolls his eyes and smacks my helmet. "Get a grip bro! Listen up yeah? How many shots u got on that launcher of yours?"
I stare back at him, but I don't see him. His voice trails off and slowly disappears. I try to think how many rounds I've got left, but I just can't catch the number. Numbers scarmble around playing hide and seek in my head. I close my eyes and clench my teeth. I shake my head as hard as I can, trying to throw away as many numbers as possible. "Uh.. umm... two! Yeah two!" I stutter away a random number. Yeah, I think it's two.
He frowns at my response.
"Well, I guess we'll just have to deal with it. Make them shots count! We'll cover you while you take out that piece of junk yah?" I drop my launcher after his words. Me? I got to stand and shoot at the enemy by myself, while they empty their machine guns on me? I'm not gonna do that. I'm not risking my life just so some worthless pilots can manuever around, shoot some missiles, and take all the glory. No, I'm not gonna do that. I wanna go home. I can't stay here any longer. I got to go home. Soldiers around me pierce me with their eyes. Why are they looking at me? Why? Stop this. Stop all of this. I just wanna go home, that's all. I shake my head and step back. The soliders close in, their faces filled with judgment. They look at me as if I'm a coward, but I don't care. I just wanna go home, why can't people understand that? Then my friend pushes his way through the crowd and places his hand on my shoulder.
"You know what? On second thought, I can't let my lucky charm take the front lead. You just keep backing me up yah?" He pats my shoulder and turns to pick up my launcher. Why's he doing this? Is he not afraid? Before I can reach out to him, to tell him that I'm gonna take that launcher back, he's already standing, his arms wrapped around the behemoth. The rest of us take either place next to him, aiming our guns towards any potential threats. He pulls the trigger. Spark fly behind him as a dense trail of smoke swirls its way towards the enemy turret. The rocket crashes, but it's not against the turret. I forgot to tell him: The launcher's scope is a little off. At least he hit a few enemy soldiers. Less sparks fly from that direction now. Bullets fly past him, grazing his face and leaving trickles of blood to flow down his chin. He doesn't back off. Even through the showers of bullet, he refuses to back down. He curses for his missed shot. I don't understand him. He should be cursing me instead. I forgot to tell him about the scope. Then he does something that shocks all of us: He runs forward towards the enemy line. We stagger to our feet to try to catch up with him, but he's just too fast. One of his steps equals three of ours. We fire away, hoping we hit at least something that'd reduce the chance of him getting shot at. He finally kneels on one knee. He's very close now. We're a few steps away from him, but even we're close enough to see how many 50mm armor piercing machine guns are aimed towards us. Thankfully, the enemy's still recovering from the last rocket shot. He doesn't have much time though, maybe half a second before the enemy gunner re-aim and shoot at us to make hives out of us. At this range, my friend doesn't need to aim. He pulls the trigger again. Some of the soldiers smile, before even the sparks fly and the trail of cloudy smoke reappears from the mouth of the launcher. Yes, all we need to do now is to watch that rocket twirl its way towards home and set off the grand fireworks. But there's none. No sparks. No smoke. No rockets. The turret still stands. I then realize. I forgot to also tell him something. I open my fist one at a time to count, and realize that I forgot to tell him that there was only one shot left, instead of two. He keeps pulling the trigger, but nothing comes out. He looks back. Our eyes meet. I wish I was blind at that moment. His eyes aren't filled with hatred or disappointment. He doesn't seem to blame me for misinforming him. No, I don't see any of that. All I see is fear. I realize at that moment that he's scared just as as much, if not more, than I am. When faced with death, even the bravest of the brave fall short of its overwhelming ominous presence. His eyes beg for sanctuary. His eyes cry for mercy. He is a lamb moments away from the slaughter. He wants me to save him, to switch places with him. He drops the launcher. I can hear it crash against the dirt ground, making little imprints as it bounces until it finally falls on its side. I want to look away, but his begging stare has hooked onto me and refuses to let go. His chest shoots forward as a bullet passes through his center. His arms flop like a marionette without a puppeteer. Bullets after bullets channel through him as if piercing through a pile of jelly. He collapses to his knees, blood splattered all over his uniform. There's enough holes through him for me to look through and see the enemy. Someone pulls my arm, but my legs stay planted. More arms grapple my shoulders and wrap around my neck and chest and pull me away. I refuse to move. How can I, when I can still see him lying there, double over and reaching out with his arms to us. His fingers beckon to be held, to be pulled away to safety. His coughs for air, but his mouth fills up with black blood. His eyes are still fixed at me. They still yearns, cry for help. They are speaking to me. He may not be able to yell or scream his thoughts, but I know exactly what he's saying. He tells me one last thing before I'm finally pulled away from the enemy's line of fire. I WANNA GO HOME.
The air support fails. The turret shoots our planes down before any of us even have the chance to spot them. You can't see dirt on the battlefield. Too much bodies to see any brown mass. Too much red to tell what's blood and what's dirt. It's a fly's heaven. Some of the soldiers send their condolences telling me that it wasn't my fault, that it was an accident or a simple miscalculation, that anyone could have said the wrong number, or that the launcher had a glitch that led to the misfire. But everyone of those cursed soldiers that tell me such things wear the same eye. The eye tells me everything that's they're thinking. They curse at me, mock me, insult me. They call me a coward, a murderer, that I should have been the one killed, that if it weren't for me, we'd have won the battle today. Those eyes don't disturb me. I hardly notice them. What makes me, at 4:00 in the morning, stay awake are the eyes that my friend looked me with for the last time. They still call out to me, begging to be saved. They yearn for safety like a new born child yearns for its mother. I'm a murderer. I killed my friend. I couldn't tell the difference between one and two. I couldn't swallow my fear and sacrifice myself so that my country could return to piece, so that my comrades, my friend, could return home. I'm a murderer. He wanted to go home. I took that away from him.
"How you holding up buddy?" One of my best friends since training. He's got a wicked load of luck. He's still alive, even though he looks after me all the time. "Headquarter says air strike in 12 minutes. We'z gotta take out that anti-air turret up there" He gestures his thumbs rapidly above the trench wall behind him. I push against my shaking knees to take a look. I'd say about 250 feet. That's still too far. I see yellow sparks flash incessantly around the turret and see men to my left and right fall at the same time like leaves assuaging to winter's cold, heartless temptations. A spark flies towards me and knocks my helmet away. I fall backward from the impact, but before I can hit the ground again, a hand grabs my gear's shoulder straps. He laughs at me as he pulls me back to my feet. "You're one lucky dude. That's why I stick around ya!"
I scratch my head at such absurdity and spin around to pick up my helmet again. It's got a black blotch right in the middle. As I readjust the helmet, he pulls me in close.
"Listen man, we got to take that turret down otherwise our flyboys got no chance! We got to take that blasted turret out!"
I stumble for the right words, but all I can make out are, "What-- Ha--How do you-- what shoul- what do we do?"
He bites his lips and stares at the ground. It's more red than brown now. Why am I here? I don't want to do this....
"Alright man, I'mma round up some more boys and see if we can't take it out from the sides. You with me?"
"I-I-I-" I wan't to scream no, I want to say I want to runaway and go back home. He smiles at me and ruffles my helmet around. "Of course, you're coming with me. I ain't leaving without my lucky charm."
Before I even have the chance to register what's going on around me, I see the turret once more, but its sideview this time. My friend uses his finger to gesture signatures that I can't decipher. What is he telling me? I can't think right now. My thoughts have reaches their limits. I just wanna go home. My friend rolls his eyes and smacks my helmet. "Get a grip bro! Listen up yeah? How many shots u got on that launcher of yours?"
I stare back at him, but I don't see him. His voice trails off and slowly disappears. I try to think how many rounds I've got left, but I just can't catch the number. Numbers scarmble around playing hide and seek in my head. I close my eyes and clench my teeth. I shake my head as hard as I can, trying to throw away as many numbers as possible. "Uh.. umm... two! Yeah two!" I stutter away a random number. Yeah, I think it's two.
He frowns at my response.
"Well, I guess we'll just have to deal with it. Make them shots count! We'll cover you while you take out that piece of junk yah?" I drop my launcher after his words. Me? I got to stand and shoot at the enemy by myself, while they empty their machine guns on me? I'm not gonna do that. I'm not risking my life just so some worthless pilots can manuever around, shoot some missiles, and take all the glory. No, I'm not gonna do that. I wanna go home. I can't stay here any longer. I got to go home. Soldiers around me pierce me with their eyes. Why are they looking at me? Why? Stop this. Stop all of this. I just wanna go home, that's all. I shake my head and step back. The soliders close in, their faces filled with judgment. They look at me as if I'm a coward, but I don't care. I just wanna go home, why can't people understand that? Then my friend pushes his way through the crowd and places his hand on my shoulder.
"You know what? On second thought, I can't let my lucky charm take the front lead. You just keep backing me up yah?" He pats my shoulder and turns to pick up my launcher. Why's he doing this? Is he not afraid? Before I can reach out to him, to tell him that I'm gonna take that launcher back, he's already standing, his arms wrapped around the behemoth. The rest of us take either place next to him, aiming our guns towards any potential threats. He pulls the trigger. Spark fly behind him as a dense trail of smoke swirls its way towards the enemy turret. The rocket crashes, but it's not against the turret. I forgot to tell him: The launcher's scope is a little off. At least he hit a few enemy soldiers. Less sparks fly from that direction now. Bullets fly past him, grazing his face and leaving trickles of blood to flow down his chin. He doesn't back off. Even through the showers of bullet, he refuses to back down. He curses for his missed shot. I don't understand him. He should be cursing me instead. I forgot to tell him about the scope. Then he does something that shocks all of us: He runs forward towards the enemy line. We stagger to our feet to try to catch up with him, but he's just too fast. One of his steps equals three of ours. We fire away, hoping we hit at least something that'd reduce the chance of him getting shot at. He finally kneels on one knee. He's very close now. We're a few steps away from him, but even we're close enough to see how many 50mm armor piercing machine guns are aimed towards us. Thankfully, the enemy's still recovering from the last rocket shot. He doesn't have much time though, maybe half a second before the enemy gunner re-aim and shoot at us to make hives out of us. At this range, my friend doesn't need to aim. He pulls the trigger again. Some of the soldiers smile, before even the sparks fly and the trail of cloudy smoke reappears from the mouth of the launcher. Yes, all we need to do now is to watch that rocket twirl its way towards home and set off the grand fireworks. But there's none. No sparks. No smoke. No rockets. The turret still stands. I then realize. I forgot to also tell him something. I open my fist one at a time to count, and realize that I forgot to tell him that there was only one shot left, instead of two. He keeps pulling the trigger, but nothing comes out. He looks back. Our eyes meet. I wish I was blind at that moment. His eyes aren't filled with hatred or disappointment. He doesn't seem to blame me for misinforming him. No, I don't see any of that. All I see is fear. I realize at that moment that he's scared just as as much, if not more, than I am. When faced with death, even the bravest of the brave fall short of its overwhelming ominous presence. His eyes beg for sanctuary. His eyes cry for mercy. He is a lamb moments away from the slaughter. He wants me to save him, to switch places with him. He drops the launcher. I can hear it crash against the dirt ground, making little imprints as it bounces until it finally falls on its side. I want to look away, but his begging stare has hooked onto me and refuses to let go. His chest shoots forward as a bullet passes through his center. His arms flop like a marionette without a puppeteer. Bullets after bullets channel through him as if piercing through a pile of jelly. He collapses to his knees, blood splattered all over his uniform. There's enough holes through him for me to look through and see the enemy. Someone pulls my arm, but my legs stay planted. More arms grapple my shoulders and wrap around my neck and chest and pull me away. I refuse to move. How can I, when I can still see him lying there, double over and reaching out with his arms to us. His fingers beckon to be held, to be pulled away to safety. His coughs for air, but his mouth fills up with black blood. His eyes are still fixed at me. They still yearns, cry for help. They are speaking to me. He may not be able to yell or scream his thoughts, but I know exactly what he's saying. He tells me one last thing before I'm finally pulled away from the enemy's line of fire. I WANNA GO HOME.
The air support fails. The turret shoots our planes down before any of us even have the chance to spot them. You can't see dirt on the battlefield. Too much bodies to see any brown mass. Too much red to tell what's blood and what's dirt. It's a fly's heaven. Some of the soldiers send their condolences telling me that it wasn't my fault, that it was an accident or a simple miscalculation, that anyone could have said the wrong number, or that the launcher had a glitch that led to the misfire. But everyone of those cursed soldiers that tell me such things wear the same eye. The eye tells me everything that's they're thinking. They curse at me, mock me, insult me. They call me a coward, a murderer, that I should have been the one killed, that if it weren't for me, we'd have won the battle today. Those eyes don't disturb me. I hardly notice them. What makes me, at 4:00 in the morning, stay awake are the eyes that my friend looked me with for the last time. They still call out to me, begging to be saved. They yearn for safety like a new born child yearns for its mother. I'm a murderer. I killed my friend. I couldn't tell the difference between one and two. I couldn't swallow my fear and sacrifice myself so that my country could return to piece, so that my comrades, my friend, could return home. I'm a murderer. He wanted to go home. I took that away from him.
No comments:
Post a Comment