So this I did up as a quick exercise for myself. I simply sat down and wrote, just to see what came out. The following has some basis in personal experiences though it is just a fictional account before anyone asks. Hopefully I'll have the next chapter in War of the Damned up soon.
Also to note, I wrote this up on Canada Day, which is July 1st. So belated Happy Canada Day to those Canadians that grace this page. And stay safe to all the soldiers of NATO serving overseas.

Story Archives

Contact Right

The blazing heat of the desert sun beat down on me. I could feel sweat down my back, making the tan undershirt beneath my armour stick to my skin. My feet kicked up clouds of dust as I walked along a simple path alongside a grape field, my eyes scanning the village that surrounded the platoon. In the distance I could see our LAVs awaiting out return from the settlement, guns scanning the area looking for any hostiles.
The fingers of my gloved hands curled around both the pistol grip and forward grip of my C7A2 assault rifle, the safety flicked on, but my thumb nestled nearby, ready in case anything happened. My TCCC bag, full of medical supplies, slapped lightly against my upper leg with each step, more sweat running down my neck.
I reached up to my shoulder, grasping the hose of my camelbak, and took a quick drink, feeling the refreshing water splash down my throat, rinsing away the dust collected there. A thought buzzed through my mind, of friends back home in Canada who wouldn't drink water. It was too tasteless they had told me, yet here I was treating it like a gift from whatever Gods were watching down over us this day.
As I let the hose drop back down against my tactical vest, laden down with ammunition, weapon cleaning supplies, map, compass, ration packs and even a small little toilet kit, the thought vanished, replaced only by vigilence. I had to keep an eye out, had to keep watching lest the enemy get the drop on us.
I was looking to the left when I heard it. A distinctive snap, and a whiz that made me think of an angry wasp rushing past my ear.
"Contact Right," my section mate in front of me yelled out, dropping to a knee behind the mud wall and raising his C9 LMG. His safety was off, and his finger squeezed the trigger. A burst of hot lead spewed from the barrel, bright red tracer rounds soaring over the desert sands. Over mud walls and through the alleys between compounds towards where he had seen the enemy.
"Where the fuck are they?" the sergeant yelled to the machine gunner, moving down the line, as I brought my rifle into my shoulder, thumb flicking the safety off, finger settling on the trigger.
"Right to my 12 O'Clock, in and around those grapehuts with the holes in the sides," came the answer, and I looked down my optical sight, searching for the enemy.
These bastards were like fighting ghosts, ambushing from no where, and vanishing into the daylight without a trace they had ever been there. I saw a muzzle flash inside one of the huts, and the machine gunner responded with a few more bursts. I saw the bullets smack against the structure raising small clouds of dust with each impact, and as I watched a man emerged from the side, an AK-47 clutched in his hands.
I squeezed my trigger, felt the bolt in my weapon kick back, the empty casing spit out the side of my rifle. I fired again, and again. My second two shots hit the man, I could see a spray of crimson against the harsh sunlight behind him as he collapsed to the ground.
The sergeant was talking on the radio, calling in artillery to help us with the bastards still entrenched in the hut. The rest of the platoon was firing, and the enemy was returning it. Tracers zipped across the fields between us, and I saw one bounce off the wall just in front of the machine gunner beside me, flicking up and pinging off his helmet. Out of reflex he jumped back, grasping at his throat, before pulling his hands away and looking down at his glooves.
"Holy shit," he muttered realizing he was still alive, glancing over at me in utter surprise, his eyes wide. I couldn't help but crack a smile at his fortune, just as something hit my chest with all the force of a sledgehammer.
All the air blasted out of my lungs, making me gasp desperately for oxygen as I fell off the raised walkway and into the grape field, smashing my helmet against the ground. For a moment I struggled for breath, hearing someone yell out my name, saying I was down. My eyes flicked back and forth taking in the sky, the clear blue of its expanse, the deadly glare of the yellow sun. I broke into a coughing fit, struggling to me feet.
"She's alive, hit the plates," I heard the sergeant say, before he fired a few rounds over the wall, and moved along the section, making sure everyone was okay. Suddenly he stopped, ducking down and putting a hand to his ear.
"Incoming arty, heads fucking down!" he yelled out, and I just stayed where I was, leaning against the edge of the walkway as I heard one hundred and fifty five milimetre rounds whistling through the sky overhead, streaking towards the enemy.
I heard the impact, heard the platoon cheering, and yelling at the enemy. I sat where I was for the moment, as what sounded like a very old truck shot over my head and landed somewhere in the grapefield. I cracked a smile, shrapnel had such an odd and out of place sound. As everything seemed to settle down, I could hear the sergeant talking on the personal radio to the platoon commander, passing on the information. I heard my name mentioned briefly. They were going to cut the patrol short, my plates had been compromised doing what they were designed to do, and I had to get new ones.
I started to climb up, the machine gunner offering me a hand up. With my feet on solid ground I cracked my neck.
"How you feeling?" he asked, while everyone else watched around us, keeping an eye out for any follow up attacks.
"Hurts like a mother fucker," I said, reaching into what should have been a map pouch on my vest and pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
The machine gunner chuckled, crouching again and I leaned back against the mud wall, watching in the opposite direction for a flank. With a smoke clamped between my lips I quickly lit it, feeling the smoke burn down my throat and swirl in my lungs.
"All right, we're moving, back to the boats," the Sarge said, walking past us.
I took another haul of my smoke and started walking again, following the sergeant.
Just another day on the job.
Just another day in the fucking sandbox.

End