Post by coorash on Sept 8, 2008 2:25:35 GMT -5
((Another one of those things I post to alleviate the odd creativity stirring in my mind. Enjoy, or not. Constructive criticism is enjoyed and encouraged!))
"Get down!"
The captain of the squad, Kenneth, had sacrificed a precious second to shout the warning. The artillery shell hurtling at them tore off his head and upper body as the rest of the team dove headlong into the dirt floor of the bunker. The bunker, such as it was, was really just a roofed trench. A poorly roofed trench. Said roof rumbled slightly under the impact.
Shells rained against the ground, shrill screams advertising their approach. Each scream sounded like music to Josh, it meant he was alive for another moment, another heartbeat. He'd heard somewhere you never heard the shell that killed you. Each shell he heard was another inexplicable extension to his heartbeats...
Abruptly, the explosions stopped. Josh poked his head out of the trench, only to have Steven jerk him roughly back into cover as bullets began stitching the dirt near the newly exposed target. Steve, Josh, Will, Charlie, Zach, the only survivors of the squad holding the trench. Elsewhere, other living combatants began to return fire, staccato bursts reaching the soldiers' ears.
Josh was the first to join his fellow soldiers in shooting, spraying bullets from a worn AK47 into the dirt and air. Steve, who had retained his issued M4 and even some of the ammo for it, quickly followed Josh's example. Zach had also looted an AK101, in slightly better condition than his comrade's AK47. He squeezed the trigger, now calm, death flying from the barrel. Soon everyone was firing, ignoring the lead whipping around their heads, ducking in and out of cover.
Charlie blinked, only surprise registering as a stray round tore through his right arm and sent him spinning to the ground. Will spared a glance, catching a bullet through his left cheek as he did so. He dropped, clutching his face and screaming. More enemy fire danced around their bobbing heads, keeping the three remaining combatants shooting.
Zach was thrown down by a trio of bullets hitting his upper right chest in a tight spread. Steve and Josh kept shooting, throwing the occasional grenade at the now-uncomfortably close enemy line.
But the enemy was, however slowly, thinning. Steven broke from the two-man firing line to administer first aid, breaking open a trauma kit and treating the wounds. Josh continued to place rounds into soldiers, now calm and committed. Each three shot burst he fired brought down an enemy, lessened the hail of return fire. Along the line, he heard his fellow soldiers firing.
He tried not to think that with every squeeze of the trigger, every three bullets, every kill, he was ending a life. A person that was simply doing their job, who was being paid to kill, who might have a wife or a husband or a family. That he held the power of life or death, that he was almost a god. No. That wasn't his job to contemplate, though it was his burden to know.
The incoming bullets slowly lessened, finally stopping altogether. Josh barely noticed. He was no longer green, no longer new. Josh had been integrated into his unit, now had friends bonded to him by trauma. He had experienced loss, and power, and gain. He had been baptized by fire.
"Get down!"
The captain of the squad, Kenneth, had sacrificed a precious second to shout the warning. The artillery shell hurtling at them tore off his head and upper body as the rest of the team dove headlong into the dirt floor of the bunker. The bunker, such as it was, was really just a roofed trench. A poorly roofed trench. Said roof rumbled slightly under the impact.
Shells rained against the ground, shrill screams advertising their approach. Each scream sounded like music to Josh, it meant he was alive for another moment, another heartbeat. He'd heard somewhere you never heard the shell that killed you. Each shell he heard was another inexplicable extension to his heartbeats...
Abruptly, the explosions stopped. Josh poked his head out of the trench, only to have Steven jerk him roughly back into cover as bullets began stitching the dirt near the newly exposed target. Steve, Josh, Will, Charlie, Zach, the only survivors of the squad holding the trench. Elsewhere, other living combatants began to return fire, staccato bursts reaching the soldiers' ears.
Josh was the first to join his fellow soldiers in shooting, spraying bullets from a worn AK47 into the dirt and air. Steve, who had retained his issued M4 and even some of the ammo for it, quickly followed Josh's example. Zach had also looted an AK101, in slightly better condition than his comrade's AK47. He squeezed the trigger, now calm, death flying from the barrel. Soon everyone was firing, ignoring the lead whipping around their heads, ducking in and out of cover.
Charlie blinked, only surprise registering as a stray round tore through his right arm and sent him spinning to the ground. Will spared a glance, catching a bullet through his left cheek as he did so. He dropped, clutching his face and screaming. More enemy fire danced around their bobbing heads, keeping the three remaining combatants shooting.
Zach was thrown down by a trio of bullets hitting his upper right chest in a tight spread. Steve and Josh kept shooting, throwing the occasional grenade at the now-uncomfortably close enemy line.
But the enemy was, however slowly, thinning. Steven broke from the two-man firing line to administer first aid, breaking open a trauma kit and treating the wounds. Josh continued to place rounds into soldiers, now calm and committed. Each three shot burst he fired brought down an enemy, lessened the hail of return fire. Along the line, he heard his fellow soldiers firing.
He tried not to think that with every squeeze of the trigger, every three bullets, every kill, he was ending a life. A person that was simply doing their job, who was being paid to kill, who might have a wife or a husband or a family. That he held the power of life or death, that he was almost a god. No. That wasn't his job to contemplate, though it was his burden to know.
The incoming bullets slowly lessened, finally stopping altogether. Josh barely noticed. He was no longer green, no longer new. Josh had been integrated into his unit, now had friends bonded to him by trauma. He had experienced loss, and power, and gain. He had been baptized by fire.
