Operation: Creek Bed

Just make it to the creek.

In the twilight, a shadowy figure darted from tree to tree, resting momentarily behind each knotted trunk.  The shadow, ever alert, ever conscious of his surroundings, surveyed the dark landscape with intensity.  No matter what, he could not afford to be seen, heard, or found.  He wore black clothing and black boots, and had smudged camouflage paint on his face.  The only color noticeable on his body was the white of his eyes.  In his gloved hand he carried the treasure he had sought and found after the entirety of his team had been captured.  He was the sole free teammate, and if he could only cross the creek without being noticed by the enemy, he could ensure the safe return of the rest of his unit.  But the creek was more than five hundred feet away, and the woods between his current location and that creek was infested by the enemy.  He was only one person against a unit of twenty men.

 

The lone man scratched his gloved hand through his dark hair and sighed inaudibly.  He was hot and tired and thirsty.  His body and mind were fatigued beyond all reason.  He felt as though he had been hiding from the enemy for days.  Had it only been an hour or two?

 

The sound of snapping twigs roused him from his thoughts and refocused his mind on his objective.  The target had been acquired.  He only lacked completing his escape.  But he did not know which direction to escape to.  To his right he knew he would find his captured companions, and part of him yearned to go set them free.  But they would be well-guarded.  He might as well surrender if he went that way.  To his left, the woods grew thicker and he knew he would have more cover and refuge, but he also knew that half of the opposing unit was deployed to that area in search of him.  And then there were the handful of enemies who had successfully invaded his safe zone beyond the creek bed.  If they saw him making a mad dash for safety and intercepted him before he crossed the creek, the whole mission would  be for naught.

 

Sweat dripped down his forehead, smudging the face paint and stinging his eyes.  He fought the urge to rub his eyes, and blinked several times hoping to stop the sting.

 

Another twig cracked in the thicker parts of the woods.  They were getting closer.  He needed to figure out what to do.  He was defenseless, and was relying solely on stealth.  They could capture him easily, should they overtake him at his current location.  Scanning the wood through the darkness, he spotted a cluster of bushes beside a sapling that appeared to give ample cover.  The bushes were twenty-five feet away: quite a distance to cover in one move, but as another twig snapped, he decided to take the chance.  Looking left and right and behind and in front and left again, the lone man darted on tip-toe out from behind the tree in a feverish dash to the bushes.

 

During those five seconds the world seemed to stand still.  He did not breathe.  The wind did not blow.  The crickets did not chirp.  The earth seemed to halt on its axis.  When the five seconds elapsed, the man found himself sitting with his back against the sapling, his lungs heaving nervously, his eyes dancing and darting from one object to another in order to ascertain his level of safety.

 

He saw no one, heard no one, and after a few moments was convinced of his momentary safety.  He rested in those bushes with his back against the sapling for a few seconds before pushing himself to a crouching position so he could survey the terrain and plan his next move.

 

As he did, he wondered if that handful of enemies had located his base camp and taken the object he knew they sought.  If they had, and if they made it back to this side of the creek bed, all of his effort would have been in vain.  No!  He wouldn’t think about that.  He had to focus on the remaining five hundred or so feet between him and safety.

 

As he did, his eyes landed on another line of trees slightly toward his left, that would allow him to hop, skip, and jump himself about sixty feet closer to the creek bed.  Each tree was of substantial size, and they were only about five feet apart.  The problem was that the first tree was more than ten yards away, and he was so unsure about exposing himself for that long.

 

The only other option that presented itself, though, would be to crawl on his belly from his current position for some two hundred feet of wide open field to the next patch of trees.  He would be seventy-five feet closer to the cluster, and seventy-five feet is a long distance when a person has to crawl it.

 

Once again, he elected to take his chances with a mad dash, and staying alert to all of his surroundings, darted in a hunkered form out from beneath the sapling, toward the line of trees.  And once again, all of nature ceased until he made it safely to the line of trees.  Those trees, however, were very close to the thicker part of the woods where ten or so sentries were searching for him.  He could now clearly hear several twigs cracking beneath boot-shod feet.  Leaves rustled and branches creaked as the enemy moved carefully and tactfully through the woods.  They were drawing ever nearer to his position.

 

Not waiting long at the first tree, he began darting up the line of trees until he was at last crouched at the foot of the tree closest to the creek bed.  And now a forty-yard crawl from his current location was his next move.  He dropped slowly to his stomach and began crawling with his elbows and feet toward the cluster of trees in the distance.  Halfway into the crawl, he heard voices behind him and flattened himself on the ground.

 

“Where do you think he is?”

 

“I don’t know, but he can’t be too far.  There aren’t very many good places to hide on this side of the woods.”

 

“Do you think we missed him?  Do you think he circled back around us when we were in the woods?”

 

“I don’t know.  I don’t think so, and even if he did, someone else would have found him.”

 

There was a brief silence that passed between the pair during which the prostrate man held his breath, closed his eyes, and thanked God that there were several layers of clouds that night blocking the half moon.

 

“Do you think our guys over there have found it?”

 

“No.  We would have heard by now if they had.”

 

The conversation continued as the two sentries walked toward the prison, and the lone man lay still until their voices faded into the sounds of the night.  Then, taking a deep breath, he crawled on.

 

Finally, after what seemed like years, he arrived at the final cluster of trees tired, nervous, and covered in dirt, mud, and animal excrement.  This was the last bit of cover possible before he crossed the creek bed, and he took a moment to catch his breath and get his mind ready for the sprint that awaited him.  He could hardly believe he had made it that far, and now the only thing standing between him and success was the one-hundred meter dash.  And it would be a dash.  He knew that the moment he took off running from those trees, he would be exposing himself to his enemies.  He had no more ammunition, and he knew that his enemies had ammo to spare.  He would be a sitting duck…or a running duck.  Crawling was an option, but not a truly feasible one.  If someone saw him crawling across the open area, they would have more than enough time to take him out.  But if he sprinted there was a slim chance that the enemy could shoot behind or ahead of him and miss him completely.  He had to take the risk of being totally exposed.  It was the only viable option.

 

After taking a few moments to gather his thoughts, he pushed himself off the ground, and placed his body in a four-point take-off stance.  Toes dug into the earth, right foot behind the left, hands placed on the ground shoulder width apart, only the fingertips touching the earth.  He took one deep breath, set himself to take off in a sprint, and in his mind said, “On your mark, get set, go!”

 

On “go” he erupted forth into a blinding sprint.  He barreled from those trees down the hill toward the creek bed like a man possessed.  He heard his gun knocking and rattling against his back, heard the leaves and twigs cracking and crunching beneath his feet, heard his breath sucking in a whooshing out, felt his heart pound within his chest, and heard the yells of the enemy as a sliver of moonlight filtered through the clouds and illuminated his body.  He heard the guns in the distance, knowing that they were aimed at him, praying and hoping that everyone missed.  He heard a whizzing sound as a shot missed him by mere inches to his right.  Altering his course, he zigged and zagged back and forth to make himself a more difficult target, always aiming his body in the general direction of the creek bed.  He heard the sounds of tramping footsteps racing, chasing after him as he drew closer and closer to the safe zone, all the while telling himself to not look back and to run faster.

 

The creek bed was so near now.  Forty feet…thirty feet…twenty feet…ten feet.  And then, CRACK!  He felt a sharp pain in the back of his neck, and lost his balance, propelling his body forward to the ground face first.  Reaching back with his left hand, he felt a sticky, wet substance oozing, and he knew he was defeated.  Sitting up, he saw he safe three feet from the creek bed.  As he did this, there was a shout from the opposite side of the creek, where the enemy had at last located his base camp and completed their mission.

 

The solitary man sighed in defeat and dropped the treasure he had only moments ago held in his fist.  As the enemy surrounded, he said, “Well, I guess you guys win.”

 

One of the opposing shooters walked up to him and slapped him playfully on the shoulder, “I guess we do, Joey, but man, you played a heck of a game.  How in the world did you manage to find our flag and get back here after we caught everyone else?”

 

Joey shrugged.  “Luck, I guess.”  He chuckled and reaching back again to feel the wetness on the back of his neck, he asked, “So, whose paint am I wearing anyway?”