Born on the battlefield. I’ve shown nothing but superiority in combat, tactics and intelligence; which is precisely the reason I am yet a private. This man’s army has no room for those with an ego, especially when it is well deserved. At the academy I was top of the class. They always said that my fighting prowess wasn’t necessary because my superior intellect would avail me to be a general. At the age of eighteen I was shipped to the front as a captain of course, but my pride had me decommissioned time and time again. I would refuse orders if I knew they meant the slaughterhouse. Here at the rank of a private if I were to pull that, it meant the line for me.
We march onward, pushing the enemy toward the eastern lines of their country. Its amazing that with today technology we are still made to walk dozens of miles toward an objective, while those in charge have the luxury of riding to and from in the blink of an eye. In the past two weeks we have pushed the enemy back about three miles. Encountering heavy casualties along the way. Our company is now a platoon, and as of yet we have no reinforcements. The constant hum of planes above has gone from maddening to reassuring. For we know now the sounds of our planes from that of the enemy.
We march , and it is quiet to quiet. We are all tense because we are waiting for the attack that we know is imminent. The counter that may very well put us on the defensive. The only sound heard is that of boots on a hard ground. The country air is still, and even the birds know what is coming and have stopped their song. The air is heavy, and we wait. It is a matter of time, who has death come to claim this time we wonder. Is it me?
Clouds pass by under the sun and the sky is darkened. The distant roar of planes can be heard. It grows louder, and we march on. The rumble is now above is and, it is only now that we realize the planes are not our own. The discontent at the lack of noise had maddened us. It made us soft and we forgot the sounds the keep us alive. Now, it was to late.
The whistles of artillery come from overhead, and as we were out in the open we had nothing to do but scatter and kiss the ground. Those lucky enough to survive would pick themselves up and look to making sure the wounded were “taken care of”. It was a grisly practice but for practicality sake it had to be done. Four planes had flown over, each dropping two to three bombs out of its payload. The scattered war flakes hit the ground around us. Morrison, Burgess, and Lennon didn’t make it. Cobain, and Myers both were mortally wounded on the side near the kidney. Myers and I were close, and so the duty fell to me. My heart shattered as I watched him beg me to leave him and just go on. Of course this was where my heart was, but he knew to much. The last report was that of my AK-74, and all was silent again.
All stood, seven of us now in total. The lieutenant dead, and none of any authority in charge. We look at each other and then toward our prize. We march.
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