In The War Zone

A war story writing exercise

Pv. Briggs surveyed the field in front of him, but saw nothing of the great number of enemy combatants he knew lay hidden below. His perch high on Hill 352 afforded him an expansive view of partially demolished foliage and housing, but there were still many places that the enemy could hide and they possessed great stealth.

“Malloy,” Briggs whispered. They were concerned that the enemy may have been outfitted with BBO Amplifiers so they minimized their verbal communications.

“Watch the range for a minute, I need a Convo with base,” he said after seeing Malloy’s eyes.

Malloy shifted position away from the scanner huddling on the gun port as Briggs crawled to the communication pack. Stevenson had been killed earlier that day and they had been too preoccupied with the advancing forces to remove his pack or place him in a dignified position, which Briggs now did. After covering his body with a tarp, Briggs dragged his roughly 55kg pack to the makeshift bunker that they’d formed from the remains of the service truck.

Their extraction point was still nearly four clicks away and there’d be no easy sleep until they either got there or got reinforcements so decisions had to be made and soon. Their unit had once comprised sixteen men: two sergeants and fourteen privates. They divided in half at the beginning of the mission. The mission had been dicey from the start: the known elements consisted of a tentatively safe extraction point, a route filled with landmines, and a rapidly dwindling supply of reinforcements available to fight the war. It seemed that the Army of Earth would soon be surrendering, but Gunnery Sergeant Jones had gone mad with the desire to fulfill an outdated objective. He pushed the mission forward even though the top brass had made it clear that the focus after the Battle of Samsara was to minimize loss of life on the side of the Army of Earth. Or was it called the Army of Turf?

In any case, Jones’ madness had extended beyond the realms of normal military madness and he had been shot and lost consciousness in their last skirmish with the enemy. It should be mentioned that hand to hand combat with the enemy is out of the question. Their species is, on average, 2.5 meters tall and weigh in the neighborhood of 25 stone.

That’s not true, but it was how it seemed fighting the terrorists in Central Africa. Right now of course, they were in Laos. Regardless of their dimensions, they had put some sizeable holes in Jones, who in a maddening rage had ran out into an open field. He was lucky in that the wounds were not fatal, but had lost consciousness after a bullet knocked him to the ground where his head made contact with a rock.

Briggs and Malloy were glad they didn’t have to deal with him right now, but feared what would happen when he awoke. Would he, in desperation to “win”, put all their lives in danger?

Briggs was just wondering how they would go about moving him if he remained unconscious, when he sputtered awake, coughing violently. He wiped his eyes reflexively and the privates turned to look at him.

“What’re you doing?!” he shouted. “Watch the range.”

And he was right, the combatants had somehow taken advantage their momentary lack of attention and changed to positions. Much nearer they saw to the rocket launcher.

Without stopping to think about it, Pv. Malloy unhooked a grenade and threw it as far as he could. It bounced a meter short of the rocket launcher and exploded showering the area with dirt and fragments of human remains. The moment after the sound of the grenade finished, the firing started. It came, not only from the direction they were watching, but also from the east, which was thoroughly wooded.

Gen. Jones got to his feet and shout, “The hell are you two doing down there, we need to run.”

Running, they found themselves beset on all three sides by the enemy; luckily, the exposed side was the presumed route to extraction. At first they ran all out, but after 5 minutes with over-filled packs (Briggs carrying the compack in addition to his own) practicality set in and a new strategy was devised. The three men would take turns in a modified “Indian Run” (flashbacks to Boot Camp were hard to shake for Briggs). Jones would sprint ahead of the two men, find cover and fire shots while Briggs and Malloy sprinted past Jones. They tried to make the distance between the covered soldier and the sprinters at least 10 meters before switching roles. As it was, visibility was an issue (the sun was setting), targeting was an issue (they had run into a dense jungle after all), and ammunition was dwindling.

After 45 minutes of this routine, Jones stopped the privates as they were passing and they found a more permanent cover behind two fallen trees. As Malloy adjusted his pack, a bullet entered his tricep. He inhaled sharply, but didn’t cry out. Briggs wordlessly extracted the med kit from Malloy’s pack and removed the bullet. He did his best to stitch Malloy’s arm, but he’d made a mess of the bullet removal and the wound was larger than one a real medic would have made.

The steady rain of bullets died after a half hour and the men didn’t know if their hunters had lost their trail or were resting for the night. Either way, they knew to keep quiet and take turns sleeping, without moving from the uncomfortable position behind the two logs. Through hand signals, Jones conveyed that he would take the first watch.

Briggs wondered if he could actually sleep in this position. His clothes were soaked in sweat, but somehow his a*s was finding a way to soak up more water from the ground, which was making him itch. The men had reapplied insect repellant, but it only was truly effective against the plasmodium-carrying mosquitoes. The black flies, spiders, and cockroaches seemed collectively unaware that he was coated with the stuff. Despite this, his exhaustion prevailed and in minutes he was fast asleep.

The first sound he recognized when he awoke was the murmuring voice of Gen. Jones:

“They’re hunting you … clever bird.”

Briggs was shocked to see in the dim light of early morning, Jones sleepwalking into the open. His hands seemed pinned to his sides in an unnatural manner and his eyes were open just a couple of centimeters, as though he was only marginally interested in the ground beneath his feet. His mouth was an ugly frown which after a moment, started to tick and before Briggs could believe his eyes/ears, Jones was grinning ear to ear, shouting,

“They’re really real! They’re really real!”

He only got two shouts out before, the gunfire started. He started to say it a third time, when a two bullets got him, one hit his left shoulder and sent him tumbling backwards and another hit the backside of his head and caused him fall face first into the mud.

Briggs started forward to get him, a human instinct, but Malloy grabbed him. He shook him with his good arm and shouted, “He’s dead, let’s go!” and Briggs realized that Malloy was right and he was the commanding officer now.

***

“This senseless war, this noble fight, this senseless war, this noble fight,” went Briggs empty mind step after step up the rock embankment. They were close now, certainly less than a kilometer to the extraction point and mostly out of harms way. The compass pointed at Malloy’s chest like a ghostly arrow when he checked it, so he stayed on course, but worried if they were as close as he had told Briggs. This embankment was not on the map.

“F**k man, I’m tired as s**t,” Malloy said.

“I hear you. I’m gonna get a massage every day of the week when we get back.”

“I’m gonna eat a steak and drink a beer for every gun that’s been aimed at me on this mission”

“I’m gonna eat two steaks and f**k two chicks for every bullet that’s whizzed by me.”

“I’m gonna drink a handle of whiskey for every bullet that’s made it into my body.”

“How many is it for you now?” Briggs asked with a smile.

“Three. My right shoulder, my right bicep, and my right knee.”

“Damn, the enemy sure doesn’t want you using your right side.”

“If they really didn’t want me using my right side, they’d put a bullet in my center. That one that nicked my ear back in August was too close. I knew I had to get out after that. After that, s**t, I could feel the stars aligning against me.”

“I don’t wanna hear none of that astrological horseshit. You’ve tried it on me before and I just don’t buy it. It’s not real and what’s more, it’s un-Christian.”

“Fine, but we share the same luck, both astrologically and not.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, in addition to sharing the same sun and moon signs as me, we are the only ones left in the company, so our luck is the same.”

“That’s not true though is it.”

“Which part?”

“Well, if just because we are the only ones left, we share the same luck, would that mean that Jones shared the same luck as us. Shouldn’t all three of us be lying face down in the mud, all though kilometers back?”

“No, because two is a much more potent number for this era than three. With this era of instability, you must have a group of two or four to create a home for yourself.”

“Okay, first of all, I don’t want to create a f*****g home with you, homo, I’m perfectly fine with house with my wife and daughter in the states. Second, if we go back in time, you may recall that at one point there were four of us, and we were being very careful, when one was taken out with a double headshot.”

“Well, he asked for it.”

Briggs grabbed Malloy’s pack, causing him to stop and then he turned to face him. “How the f**k did Stevenson ask for a f*****g double-headshot? I don’t think that anybody-“

“That day, that day-“

“-could possible ask for that.”

“-but that day that Stevenson got shot, he said, and I quote, ‘Ain’t nothin’ gonna stop us now.’”

There was a pause then, Briggs said, pointedly, “But you say stuff like that all the time. We were just talking about what we’re gonna do once we get back on the block.”

“That’s different, when we talk about that, it’s more a theory. When I say, when I get back I’m gonna dance naked in the street, there’s an implied ‘if’ in the place of ‘when.’”

“So, when you say, ‘when I get back,’ you mean ‘when and if I get back.’”

“Absolutely, I don’t want to have to confront that every time we shoot the s**t.”

They walked for a while in silence. The sun was setting and they have to turn in soon, but for now, the idea that Malloy’s luck would protect Briggs, kept Briggs’ feet moving a fair bit better than the ‘senseless war/noble fight’ bullshit.

***

When another day had passed and they did not find anything resembling the extraction point as described in their briefing, Briggs and Malloy had to confront the hard truth that they were not where they had thought they were. The next logical question was where were they actually.

Most of their equipment had been faulty due to the length of the conflict and the high demands on their supplies. Briggs’ every attempt to convo with base had been unsuccessful and he carried it, without realizing this was what he was doing, as a talisman to protect him against the fates of the rest of his company, save Malloy.

Malloy had his talismans as well: he had Stevenson’s watch, Gerard’s Met’s cap, Sullivan’s picture of his ugly wife, Martinez’s cross necklace, Williams’ lucky sock (never worn, merely carried), and Jones’ sidearm. Briggs’ hadn’t seen him take items from Stevenson, Gerard, or Martinez, but the company had almost lost him when he spent 5 precious minutes digging in Williams’ pack for his lucky sock.

Briggs hated to think about it, but he knew what talisman Malloy would take from him if he bit the big one: his orange bracelet that his daughter Angela had made him. It was the only really personal thing that Briggs carried/wore so that must be what he would take not that he would mind, he would be dead.

“What’re you gonna do with all the stuff anyway?” Briggs suddenly asked.

“What stuff?”

“All the stuff you took from the fallen for luck. What’re you gonna do with it ‘when and if’ you get back to the States?”

“I’m gonna find their families and give it back to them, I guess. It depends what happens. I haven’t thought about it that much honestly, but I think it would be good to give it to their families.”

They were sitting on rock overlooking a sizeable clearing, with maps all around them. They were trying to figure out if this clearing resembled anything on their maps, but the geography seemed to change relatively quickly, due to frequent earthquakes and some flooding the region had suffered.

Malloy was on the verge of declaring that they should go west, because in the worst case scenario they might reach the border be able to use a working radio to call for pick up (and/or find out what the status is with the entire conflict).

Malloy didn’t get a chance to say anything, because the air left his lungs in a long exhale, as Briggs shouted exuberantly at the Bravo Company, who walked into the clearing.

There weren’t many of them left either, just Lt. Auster, Pv. Morales, Pv. Green, and Pv. Longfoot. Morales jumped up and did a dance waddle up to Briggs and they chest bumps.

“’Bout time, you showed up, we were beginning to worry that we were alone in this shithole.” Malloy said, grinning.

“I know, amigo. We were starting to feel like nothing was going to go right and they’d just keep taking us out one by one.” Morales said and suddenly looked around at the trees.

“What’re you looking at?” Malloy said, his smile fading as everyone in the Bravo Company scanned the trees, weapons ready.

“We’ve been ambushed six times,” Lt. Auster explained, “So, everybody is a lot more careful than when we started.”

“Yeah, man this muthafucker has been f****n crawling with those Antpeople. After Anderson, went down, my muthafuckin eyes was always f*****g open.” Green said.

Seconds ticked by as the reunited unit watched the trees in silence for signs of movement. In time, a thumping sound was heard.

“Is that what I think it is?” Morales asked.

“Chopper.” Longfoot said.

Everybody smiled the tense smiles of hopeful disbelief and looked for the source of the sound, but it must have been coming from their one blind spot: the wide hill blocking their southern view.

As the Hanzon Company chopper rounded the hill and the realities of the corporate motivated war set in again, the men were set upon by the enemy once more. Longfoot’s right thigh was catcher in the following fast-pitch game and his bone held the bullet tightly, with no intent on returning it to the player who cast it to him. Auster firing randomly into the woods, offered an arm to Longfoot for support.

Malloy was struck in the left eye and was dead before he hit the ground. Green caught a splinter from a tree in his left hand, and had a bullet graze his head. Briggs and Morales dropped: Briggs to one knee and Morales to his chest. Neither could spot the enemy, so they looked to Auster, who gestured towards the hill and the cover of the jungle.

A rocket went up towards the company chopper, but it was off-mark and the chopper dipped so that another rocket would have to directly underneath the chopper to have a clear shot. The men ran full-out to where they saw the chopper dipping not looking back when Green tripped. Briggs felt a pang of guilt at not going back to help him, but he knew Green from boot and knew that he wouldn’t have come back if he had been the one that’d tripped.

After about a half mile of all out sprinting, they neared a clearing and Green caught up to them, sweat dripping from his forehead. A rope ladder was dropped from the whirlybird and Auster, the highest ranking officer started to climb. Next was Green, who clearly didn’t want to be left behind a second time. After Green, the three remaining, hesitated for crucial seconds, on who should go next. The two old friends looked at the wounded Longfoot and decided to let him go. It was a slow climb for him, with his injured leg and by the time he was high enough for the next man to begin the climb, Green was ¾ up the ladder and Auster was targeting the woods with a rotary cannon. Briggs dropped to a knee and started firing at the shadowy forms in the woods and gestured with his head that Morales should start climbing. Morales was hesitant, for good reason: the air was like fizzy soda thick with leaden bubbles, but after giving Longfoot a head start and he quickly started his climb, followed by Briggs.

The slurry of bullets intensified as Auster had to reload the rotary, and Briggs felt seven strikes to his body: one, his right heel, two, his right calf, three, his left ear (clean off), four, his left a*s-cheek (across, not deep), five, his abdomen (the pain, scorching his every breath), six, his left forearm, and seven, his left foot. He continued to climb, somehow, pulling himself with his arms, delirious with pain. He was vaguely aware of Morales above him. Also hit twice below the waist, climbing near the top of the ladder. The chopper began to rise and once Morales was on-board, they started to pull the ladder in, shouting at Briggs to “Hold on! Hold on! Hold on!”

The ladder swung sickeningly over the jungle and Briggs vomited a reddish yellow fluid over his shoulder. They grabbed his hand and he was lifted into the craft. He labored to breath, his lungs heaving. As Longfoot and Green scrambled with the med supplies, he heard Morales’ awkward “You’re gonna be okay,” and then, blackness.

Author's Note

I'm not trying to be true to war, of which I know very little, so much as true to the genre of war stories. Does this succeed in that capacity?