Creative Writing

[Tacz]

If this should be in the RP forum, can someone go ahead and movie it? I wasn't sure, since it's not really anything to do with Anarchy Online.

Well, I did this story a long time ago for an English class, but I found it and read through it, and I thought I would share.

The light on the wet spots on Specialist Souza’s face glinted in the sun as he shaved. His carbine was propped up on the wall next to him, un-safed. His body armor and tactical vest were still on, despite the heat that the cumbersome equipment bestowed upon their tired bodies. He was on edge, and ready. All of them laid up against the wall were in similar conditions. Private Clemenson couldn’t polish his boots without scanning the windows across the street every few seconds, just to make sure they were safe. They had learned to keep their guard up at all times, because that moment you stop to think about how K-rations tasted when cold is the moment that the shadowy figure in the window pulls the trigger, and you’re sent back home with a purple heart, or worse.

Corporal Gibbons took a swig of his water and looked at his watch. It was time to move. Gibbons was about to speak when a load crack ripped through the air. The low caliber round hit Gibbons’ helmet at a low angle and was deflected off into the building behind them all, but it still had enough force to take Gibbons out cold. Before anyone else could even react, Picoli started raining ammunition with his squad automatic rifle on the window the shot came from. Souza let out a grunt as his razor made a deep cut in his cheek. He grabbed his carbine and ran as fast as he could across the street to the base of the target building. Before any of the other Americans could get across the street, Souza kicked open the weak wooden door. The door splintered and imploded easily under the force of the Americans boot, powered by the adrenaline of a gunfight. Immediately inside the door, no farther than four feet from Souza, was a hardened-looking Iraqi man, carrying a Kalashnikov.

It took no more than a quick reflexive roundhouse kick to dislodge the rifle from the hands of the man. Souza dropped his carbine and grabbed the startled man by the shoulders. He felt the now terrified man’s energy leave him as he became resigned to losing the fight. Souza’s training instinctively threw the other combatant against the near wall, knocking him out and putting him, hunched over, on the floor. He quickly pulled out his combat knife and held it to the cold and defeated man’s neck. Rogers rushed through the door and ran up the stairs to the second story, where the shots had come from. After a few seconds of machine gun fire and heavy footfalls, all noise ceased. There was a quick burst of angry Arabic, but the sentence was cut short by the crisp report of an American-made assault rifle in trained hands. Souza looked toward the stairs as he continued to hold the knife to the unconscious insurgents neck.

Rogers slowly walked back down the stairs Snayperskaya Dragunova across his back, and M-16 hanging loosely in one hand. His other hand reached over and wiped the fresh blood off of the American flag on his left shoulder. Rogers hated nothing more than the defaced flag of his home country and protector. He slowly took off his helmet and set it on the ground. He looked at Souza, but it was an empty stare. The man had just killed another human being at close range. None of them liked the killing. It was a terrible thing. There was nothing worse than watching a man die within an arms reach, with the possible exception if you are the one that caused his death. It was a gruesome thing, and Rogers would never fully recover. Rogers, the man who cursed the Europeans who voidaed the war every day, the man that made the entire squad say the pledge of allegiance each meal, the man who would gladly go home in a box for his country, was now about to cry.

He had made the ultimate sacrifice, short of his own death, for his country. He had killed a man. But Rogers would keep going. He will keep fighting, and he will be waving our flag until his death.

Clemenson, Gibbons, and Picoli came through the door, weapons raised, only to lower them at the sight of Rogers doubled over in a fetal position on the floor, helmet between his arms and his legs. Picoli slung his squad automatic around has back and paced over to where Rogers was crying. From the various blood splatters on the Rogers’ BDU’s, Picoli could guess what had happened. He bent down and put his hand on his best friends head.

"Mark, man, it’s going to be alright. Get up, man. What’s done is done, and you know that you had to do it. Come on, Mark." Gibbons walked up the stairs to see what had gone down, as Clemenson crouched down and waved his rifle around out the door. Clemenson was fresh from boot, and he was the ideal soldier. He was top of the line on his training, and Gibbons always used him as an example to the rest of the fire team. He was conditioned, and every action he did was thoroughly thought through. He would watch for other threats, as he was trained, while the others did what they had to.

Souza pulled the unconscious man out into the middle of the room, only to find out then that he had killed him. There was no pulse or respiration. He let out a sigh. He’d had hoped that he hadn’t killed the other man, but he had. Souza had killed before. He, Picoli, and Gibbons had been in the sandbox since it all started. Their division of the 101st was the first into Baghdad. They were hard men. They had killed, were killing, and would continue killing. It never got easier for them, but they learned to hide their pain. Rogers and Clemenson, though, were cherries, new replacements. Rogers was crying. He would cry the next time, and quite possible the time after that. But then he would become used to the pain of doing what he had to do. Even America-boy would at some point question his orders, but not for long. They all did what they did for the higher goal, the goal of helping the people in this country. They also did it for the country that had protected them since they were born, the country they loved.

Gibbons paced down the stairs slowly, in a similar fashion to how Rogers had. His helmet was off, but as he was walking down he put it back on. He unslung his rifle and walked to the door that Clemmy was in, with that royal I’m-higher-rank-than-you strut of his. He took his own look out the door as Rogers finally stopped crying and sat up, tears still slowly rolling down his cheeks. Gibbons looked back at Rogers, and it was clear that he was about to tell him to suck it up, when Picoli shot him a hard stare. Gibbons was about to make fun of Rogers, and Picoli wouldn’t stand for it. Although he would never admit it, Gibbons had such an emotional breakdown when he got his first kill that he had to be carried out of the HMMW after the fight, and almost slit his wrists with shaving razors the next day. Picoli had stopped him before he could kill himself, and the two of them had never told anyone else. Calling Gibbons arrogant would be a gross understatement. The man would likely try to slit his wrists again if the word got out that the high-and-mighty of Fire Team Bravo, Charlie 90, 101st Airborne had attempted suicide. Picoli is a nice guy. He didn’t like Gibbons, not many did, but he would never bring that kind of fate on another without a choice.

Still, Picoli wasn’t about to let the man be hard on his best friend for crying over the killing of another, when Gibbons had such trouble himself.

Souza rubbed the now scabbing razor scar on his cheek, and imagined how many millions of times worse the pain of being shot at close range was. He pushed the thoughts out of his mind and watched the staring battle between Gibbons and Picoli. Clemmy was still watching through the door, as the perfect soldier did. Gibbons hung his head, and turned around, having lost the sub-vocalized argument. Picoli put on a relieved face, and gave Rogers a hug. He picked up Rogers’ helmet and settled it lightly on Rogers’ head, and then rested the M-16 back in the lap of the sniffling man. Rogers hung his head down, but then attached the chin strap of the helmet and slowly stood up. Gibbons’ radio cracked and buzzed.

"Charlie 90 Bravo, this is Charlie 90 Alpha what’s the hold up?" came over the radio into the headset of each man clearly.

"Charlie 90 Alpha, this is Charlie 90 Bravo. Encountered sniper. Threat eliminated. On our way to your location. Charlie 90 Bravo, over."

Clemmy stepped out into the street and scanned windows and rooftops. Souza dropped the dead mans body, picked up his rifle, and got in his place in the staggered column. Gibbons followed Souza, and got to the head of the column. Picoli took his arm off of Rogers’ shoulder, got his machine-gun in hand, and followed the others out the door. Rogers now stood alone in the room. He couldn’t move. He slowly turned his head to look up the stairs. After a moments contemplation, he slowly walked out the door and got in column.

Rogers would get better. He would get used to the killing and the death. Not only the death of your enemies, but of your friends, too. In the war, people died. They all got used to it. It took time. Still, the pain of watching friends die, while you are helpless to stop their pain, and worse, the pain of being directly responsible for their death, is hard to bear. After the man dies, all that is left is his memory. To those who killed him, all that there is, is the memory of their death. The memories of those who they killed would be with them forever. The memories would haunt them forever. They would never fully escape it. It was the sick revenge of the dead of war.