This morning Pvt. Peter Marshall was told his unit would be moving into the suburbs north of Bashram. Reports had come in of Insurgent elements bullying their way into the area and it was his job to help root out the unfriendlies. On his way out, he had rushed to the vending machine and purchased a candy bar and a soft drink, stuffing them in a free pocket. He would have to eat the chocolate soon because of the heat, but the soft drink could wait. He had gotten used to drinking them warm. Usually he didn't bother grabbing any because water quenched the thirst must better, but he felt the urge this time.
They had travelled by convoy for the first four miles, and then disembarked to foot it. Traffic on these roads was relatively busy and people were out. Boys were kicking around a soccer ball. The sound of a radio playing a typically middle eastern tune could be heard in some recessed doorway. It seemed people here talked at a distance. Two young men could be heard talking loudly to one another from a good 20 yards distance. They used their arms and hands a lot to emphasize their points. Occasionally could be heard the horn of an impatient driver. It was a typical day. Hot beyond distraction, but this was a tempting lull. There was an impression that things moved slower and nobody had the energy to do anything particularly energetic. It was a dangerous temptation because heat never stopped chaos, but it led people into complacency.
Now, Pvt. Peter Marshall stared up at the sky. He was on his back and he couldn't recall how he got there. There was no sound except this loud buzzing all about him. He was disoriented as through the haze of smoke and dust he would see people rushing by. He could hear dull thudding and through his stupor realized that these were the muted sounds of gunfire. It seemed so far away. He could feel his body shaking and from some premordial consciousness, he fought to regain a hold on reality. His face felt numb and cold and wet and he had trouble catching his breath. Then, the sound came back and it was all of a sudden and it rocked his sense. There was just too much. What was going on? It was sensory overload. He looked around frantically and bent over him and looking at him was another man in his unit. He could hear him shouting something at him, but couldn't figure out the words. Looking at his lips didn't help. He was saying something to him but Peter couldn't understand the words. Why couldn't he understand the words? His face was so very cold. He could feel his body shaking and he felt so vulnerable and helpless. He could only stare helplessly at the man he knows he should know but can't place the face. Then, things clear up a little and he remembers where he is and who this is.
"Pete, can you hear me?", he hears as through an hollow tube.
It's Brad Mulvern, from down the street. Peter's known him all his life and the two of them had joined up together. Now, they were here, on some dusty anonymous street on the far side of Hell, far from home. He looked up into Brad's face and clung to it hungrily, as a familiar face. It was his hold on reality. It was his connection with home. It was a way to help him out of his miasma.
"Pete, are you okay? Where are you hurt?".
Things are coming into sharper focus now. The sound of gunfire can be heard. Some are single shots and others are burts of fire. Peter grabs Brads arm at the elbow and clings hard. He will not let go.
"Hard.. to breath.", he says. He can barely raise his head and around him the street is mostly disserted. The cars are gone, except for one that looks like it had been riddled with bullets and had come to a stop against a tree beside the street. The boys playing soccer were gone. The radio was off. The gunfire was more sporadic now. Whatever had happened seems to have passed, for the most part. On the ground around him are the bodies of two boys. Were they the ones kicking around the soccer ball or were they the ones talking loudly from afar? It could have been neither. It could be anyone.
Peter lay there still. He could tell members of his unit had fanned out and he could hear the sound of the radio going off as orders were relayed back and forth. Reinforcements were en route. The perimeter had to be secured.
Peter found it hard to relax. The chaos was gone, but he still had a hard time breathing. Some kind of IED must have gone off and he must have been a little close to it. He must have broken some ribs or something. It was very hard to breath, but if taken in shallow gasps, it was passable. He would just have to relax and wait for medics to come and get him back. He tried to relax and closed his eyes.
Were all battles like this? What did people think? On what anonymous battlefield in the past had so many countless warriors and soldiers lay on their backs and stare up at the sky waiting to be rescued? What had gone through their minds? What did a Visigoth think when he had a Roman Pilum sticking out of his chest? Did he think of his wife and children? Did he wonder who was going to harvest the crops if he weren't there to help? Did he wonder how his woman would get along without him? How about on some World War I field in France? What did these men think about? What kind of lives do they have left? Will they live or not? If not, what could they have done if they hadn't? Was it a life lost senselessly, or for a purpose?
Peter could hear the sound of trucks coming. He would be lifted soon and brought back. He would be given an IV to hydrate him, probably some pain killers and would spend a couple of days recovering before heading back to the mess hall to rehash the experience with his friends. He might email a letter back home telling a few people that he got in a fire fight and it was scary, but cool and all's well. Be home before long, and save a seat at the bar and all that.
The sound of heavy brakes could be heard as one of the trucks came to a stop close to Peter. The sound of boots scuffling on dirt came to him. Two pairs of eyes looked down on him.
"You okay? How many fingers am I holding up?" Three.
"What month is it?" September.
"Does anything hurt?" I'm having a little trouble breathing, but I feel okay.
"Does it hurt anywhere else?" No.
"Do you feel well enough for us to move you?" Yes.
"We're going to put you on this stretcher to get you back." Okay.
A few minutes later, Peter could feel the bumps and sway of the wheels on uneven streets. The medics had given him something to dull the pain in his chest. He still had to be very careful with his breathing, but at least the sharp pain was gone. They had run an IV line and looked at him, occasionally asking him how he felt. He felt fine. They shared a look with each other that Peter missed.
Peter thought about home. He was tired of this place. It was fine at the base. It was nicely air conditioned. The food was pretty much the same as home. They even had a couple of fast food joints he liked to frequent from time to time. Everything was nice and clean. But when you ventured outside, it was hot and dusty and miserable. He couldn't recall how much time he had left. Two months. Three? He was ready to go home. Maybe the doctors will find a small piece of shrapnel of something in his chest and it'll be enough to send him home. That would be nice. Peter was feeling more relaxed about it by the moment. He might even be relaxed enough to go for a short snooze. He wondered what was for dinner.
The ticking sound of keyboard keys could be heard echoing in a sterile office. The sound of heels could be heard click clacking on the tiled floor. A young woman in a white shirt and long grey skirt handed a superior officer a printed sheet. He scanned down it's length and nodded his approval.
At dinner, Brad Mulvern was laughing loud in his usual guffawed manner. He snorted shortly as he caught his breath. One of the others at the table whimsically quiped: "Well, at least he didn't go like Pete did", and Brad's smile vanished. He stared silently down at his cup of coffee, his thumbs pressing hard against it's rim, tracing it's pattern as he reflected. His face flushed and felt numb and he could feel his emotions well up as memories of his best friend flooded back.
"Oh God, I'm sorry Brad. I'm so sorry, man. I didn't mean it that way. "
Brad sat silently still for a moment while the other men looked at one another.
"I knew he was gone. I saw the tire fly up and hit him in the chest when the IED went off.", he whispered horsely. A single tear streamed down his face and off his chin. His eyes stared at his coffee but his gaze was far away. His voice trembled.
"I'll miss him."
They had travelled by convoy for the first four miles, and then disembarked to foot it. Traffic on these roads was relatively busy and people were out. Boys were kicking around a soccer ball. The sound of a radio playing a typically middle eastern tune could be heard in some recessed doorway. It seemed people here talked at a distance. Two young men could be heard talking loudly to one another from a good 20 yards distance. They used their arms and hands a lot to emphasize their points. Occasionally could be heard the horn of an impatient driver. It was a typical day. Hot beyond distraction, but this was a tempting lull. There was an impression that things moved slower and nobody had the energy to do anything particularly energetic. It was a dangerous temptation because heat never stopped chaos, but it led people into complacency.
Now, Pvt. Peter Marshall stared up at the sky. He was on his back and he couldn't recall how he got there. There was no sound except this loud buzzing all about him. He was disoriented as through the haze of smoke and dust he would see people rushing by. He could hear dull thudding and through his stupor realized that these were the muted sounds of gunfire. It seemed so far away. He could feel his body shaking and from some premordial consciousness, he fought to regain a hold on reality. His face felt numb and cold and wet and he had trouble catching his breath. Then, the sound came back and it was all of a sudden and it rocked his sense. There was just too much. What was going on? It was sensory overload. He looked around frantically and bent over him and looking at him was another man in his unit. He could hear him shouting something at him, but couldn't figure out the words. Looking at his lips didn't help. He was saying something to him but Peter couldn't understand the words. Why couldn't he understand the words? His face was so very cold. He could feel his body shaking and he felt so vulnerable and helpless. He could only stare helplessly at the man he knows he should know but can't place the face. Then, things clear up a little and he remembers where he is and who this is.
"Pete, can you hear me?", he hears as through an hollow tube.
It's Brad Mulvern, from down the street. Peter's known him all his life and the two of them had joined up together. Now, they were here, on some dusty anonymous street on the far side of Hell, far from home. He looked up into Brad's face and clung to it hungrily, as a familiar face. It was his hold on reality. It was his connection with home. It was a way to help him out of his miasma.
"Pete, are you okay? Where are you hurt?".
Things are coming into sharper focus now. The sound of gunfire can be heard. Some are single shots and others are burts of fire. Peter grabs Brads arm at the elbow and clings hard. He will not let go.
"Hard.. to breath.", he says. He can barely raise his head and around him the street is mostly disserted. The cars are gone, except for one that looks like it had been riddled with bullets and had come to a stop against a tree beside the street. The boys playing soccer were gone. The radio was off. The gunfire was more sporadic now. Whatever had happened seems to have passed, for the most part. On the ground around him are the bodies of two boys. Were they the ones kicking around the soccer ball or were they the ones talking loudly from afar? It could have been neither. It could be anyone.
Peter lay there still. He could tell members of his unit had fanned out and he could hear the sound of the radio going off as orders were relayed back and forth. Reinforcements were en route. The perimeter had to be secured.
Peter found it hard to relax. The chaos was gone, but he still had a hard time breathing. Some kind of IED must have gone off and he must have been a little close to it. He must have broken some ribs or something. It was very hard to breath, but if taken in shallow gasps, it was passable. He would just have to relax and wait for medics to come and get him back. He tried to relax and closed his eyes.
Were all battles like this? What did people think? On what anonymous battlefield in the past had so many countless warriors and soldiers lay on their backs and stare up at the sky waiting to be rescued? What had gone through their minds? What did a Visigoth think when he had a Roman Pilum sticking out of his chest? Did he think of his wife and children? Did he wonder who was going to harvest the crops if he weren't there to help? Did he wonder how his woman would get along without him? How about on some World War I field in France? What did these men think about? What kind of lives do they have left? Will they live or not? If not, what could they have done if they hadn't? Was it a life lost senselessly, or for a purpose?
Peter could hear the sound of trucks coming. He would be lifted soon and brought back. He would be given an IV to hydrate him, probably some pain killers and would spend a couple of days recovering before heading back to the mess hall to rehash the experience with his friends. He might email a letter back home telling a few people that he got in a fire fight and it was scary, but cool and all's well. Be home before long, and save a seat at the bar and all that.
The sound of heavy brakes could be heard as one of the trucks came to a stop close to Peter. The sound of boots scuffling on dirt came to him. Two pairs of eyes looked down on him.
"You okay? How many fingers am I holding up?" Three.
"What month is it?" September.
"Does anything hurt?" I'm having a little trouble breathing, but I feel okay.
"Does it hurt anywhere else?" No.
"Do you feel well enough for us to move you?" Yes.
"We're going to put you on this stretcher to get you back." Okay.
A few minutes later, Peter could feel the bumps and sway of the wheels on uneven streets. The medics had given him something to dull the pain in his chest. He still had to be very careful with his breathing, but at least the sharp pain was gone. They had run an IV line and looked at him, occasionally asking him how he felt. He felt fine. They shared a look with each other that Peter missed.
Peter thought about home. He was tired of this place. It was fine at the base. It was nicely air conditioned. The food was pretty much the same as home. They even had a couple of fast food joints he liked to frequent from time to time. Everything was nice and clean. But when you ventured outside, it was hot and dusty and miserable. He couldn't recall how much time he had left. Two months. Three? He was ready to go home. Maybe the doctors will find a small piece of shrapnel of something in his chest and it'll be enough to send him home. That would be nice. Peter was feeling more relaxed about it by the moment. He might even be relaxed enough to go for a short snooze. He wondered what was for dinner.
The ticking sound of keyboard keys could be heard echoing in a sterile office. The sound of heels could be heard click clacking on the tiled floor. A young woman in a white shirt and long grey skirt handed a superior officer a printed sheet. He scanned down it's length and nodded his approval.
At dinner, Brad Mulvern was laughing loud in his usual guffawed manner. He snorted shortly as he caught his breath. One of the others at the table whimsically quiped: "Well, at least he didn't go like Pete did", and Brad's smile vanished. He stared silently down at his cup of coffee, his thumbs pressing hard against it's rim, tracing it's pattern as he reflected. His face flushed and felt numb and he could feel his emotions well up as memories of his best friend flooded back.
"Oh God, I'm sorry Brad. I'm so sorry, man. I didn't mean it that way. "
Brad sat silently still for a moment while the other men looked at one another.
"I knew he was gone. I saw the tire fly up and hit him in the chest when the IED went off.", he whispered horsely. A single tear streamed down his face and off his chin. His eyes stared at his coffee but his gaze was far away. His voice trembled.
"I'll miss him."
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