A lone man sat on a plane heading back from a war torn region of the world, a shaky pen in his hand as he wrote down on blank sheets of paper into a note book, the beginning of every word on the paper shook with emotion as the man's hand flowed from the left to the right, word after word spilling out of the pen as he wrote.
He was recounting his story of what had happened to him, and eight other men. The memories of what had happened forever imprinted onto his head. The images were still crisp in his mind, as if he was at a cinema watching a war film. The day was different from all the others, every man he led with pride collapsed around him, lives ended short, and unfairly. The gruel consequences of Guerrilla warfare was emphasized every time a casket came back from war torn countries, draped with the homeland's flag around it, family members shedding tears for their loved ones who had their lives ripped from their grasp.
The smell of the sand still clung to his nose, his nostrils hated the smell of burnt flesh that had flooded his sense of smell that morning, and that burning feeling he had gotten. Rubbing his left shoulder as he placed down the pen, he ran his thumb over the bandages that covered the healing wound, where the round had pierced his armor, and left a mark on him for the rest of his life, physical proof of the horror's that war carried.
Each line on the paper he wrote brought back the memories, he began to read over what he had written as he placed the pen down, each word stood out to him.
He had woken up on that morning like any other, he had woken up, and led his me on a run around the base outside of Kandahar Afghanistan, his men trusted him, and he trusted them. They were on their second last week in this hell hole, today was supposed to be their last trip into the city, the rest of the time was to be spent on base, packing up, and preparing for the trip home for the loved ones who awaited them.
Sargent Micheal Johnston had finished briefing his men on the actions of the day when the first mortar shell ripped through the air, hitting the base with deadly accuracy, the energy of the blast tossed around bodies as if they weighed as much as a lone feather. Taking cover behind a flimsy plywood board, Shane ordered his men to pile into the two Humvee's that they were taking into town, they'd get their mission done, even if it put them into danger, anywhere right now would be better then sitting in a base, counting the yards that each mortar had between each other, and waiting for the one that would hit you.
Their target was clear, and close. It was that mortar battery that decided to pimple their base with craters. The encampment they had to assault was up on a hillside, overlooking their base. Four men to a Humvee, one man on the main gun, while another drove, another gave directions, and the last one got to relax.
The first sign that thing's weren't going to be good was the sight of a small boy running into the house at the sight of the Humvee's distinct shape in the distance, they had thought nothing of it, but the boy's father was a scout for the local terrorist cell that was famous for bothering the American's for their occupancy of their lands.
They trucked on, and didn't stop there. They were only two miles out when trouble really hit them hard. The black road turned back into sand as the poor infrastructure of the country highlighted itself. In the distance, a lone rock on the side of the road sat, a trip wire ran across the road, ready to be set off by the passing Humvee's.
Luckily, Sargent Micheal Johnston was in the second Humvee, he had wished time and time again that he was in the one in front though. Terrified yells of horror enveloped the second Humvee as they watched the first on trip the wire of the bomb on the side of the road. A complete fireball burst out of the ground, engulfing the vehicle in front of them, tossing it through the air, the heavy steel, and biological life forms within it rolled in the air twice, before it hit the hill side with a thud, and continued down for five hundred yards before the heap of metal came to a halt as it hit the bottom of the hill.
The radio that one of the soldiers had lit up with chatter as the echo of the explosion hit the base, assistance was on it's way, but it was too late, three men with Kalashnikov's opened fire onto the Humvee from several hundred meters up the hill side, the men poured out of the safe side of the car, taking cover behind the vehicle, they valiantly returned fire towards the three men who chose to ruin their day. Emotion pumped through Micheal's body as the first round tore through his left shoulder, the feeling of the sting, and the burn ran through his nerves, and exposed flesh as he screamed from the pain, dropping to his knees, right hand clenched over the wound as his men rushed over for assistance. Covering fire was given, but to no avail, Micheal's world blacked out as he watched two of the remaining four men receive their death blow's, rounds rocketed through their upper body, above their own armor. The sand that day was stained with the blood from the eight men, Sargent Micheal Johnston was saved though as a support column came to their aid just in time to save his life.
As his eyes read over the words that he wrote down, tears streamed down his face as he remembered the moments that led up to the death of the men who he loved, and cared for as his own.
He was recounting his story of what had happened to him, and eight other men. The memories of what had happened forever imprinted onto his head. The images were still crisp in his mind, as if he was at a cinema watching a war film. The day was different from all the others, every man he led with pride collapsed around him, lives ended short, and unfairly. The gruel consequences of Guerrilla warfare was emphasized every time a casket came back from war torn countries, draped with the homeland's flag around it, family members shedding tears for their loved ones who had their lives ripped from their grasp.
The smell of the sand still clung to his nose, his nostrils hated the smell of burnt flesh that had flooded his sense of smell that morning, and that burning feeling he had gotten. Rubbing his left shoulder as he placed down the pen, he ran his thumb over the bandages that covered the healing wound, where the round had pierced his armor, and left a mark on him for the rest of his life, physical proof of the horror's that war carried.
Each line on the paper he wrote brought back the memories, he began to read over what he had written as he placed the pen down, each word stood out to him.
He had woken up on that morning like any other, he had woken up, and led his me on a run around the base outside of Kandahar Afghanistan, his men trusted him, and he trusted them. They were on their second last week in this hell hole, today was supposed to be their last trip into the city, the rest of the time was to be spent on base, packing up, and preparing for the trip home for the loved ones who awaited them.
Sargent Micheal Johnston had finished briefing his men on the actions of the day when the first mortar shell ripped through the air, hitting the base with deadly accuracy, the energy of the blast tossed around bodies as if they weighed as much as a lone feather. Taking cover behind a flimsy plywood board, Shane ordered his men to pile into the two Humvee's that they were taking into town, they'd get their mission done, even if it put them into danger, anywhere right now would be better then sitting in a base, counting the yards that each mortar had between each other, and waiting for the one that would hit you.
Their target was clear, and close. It was that mortar battery that decided to pimple their base with craters. The encampment they had to assault was up on a hillside, overlooking their base. Four men to a Humvee, one man on the main gun, while another drove, another gave directions, and the last one got to relax.
The first sign that thing's weren't going to be good was the sight of a small boy running into the house at the sight of the Humvee's distinct shape in the distance, they had thought nothing of it, but the boy's father was a scout for the local terrorist cell that was famous for bothering the American's for their occupancy of their lands.
They trucked on, and didn't stop there. They were only two miles out when trouble really hit them hard. The black road turned back into sand as the poor infrastructure of the country highlighted itself. In the distance, a lone rock on the side of the road sat, a trip wire ran across the road, ready to be set off by the passing Humvee's.
Luckily, Sargent Micheal Johnston was in the second Humvee, he had wished time and time again that he was in the one in front though. Terrified yells of horror enveloped the second Humvee as they watched the first on trip the wire of the bomb on the side of the road. A complete fireball burst out of the ground, engulfing the vehicle in front of them, tossing it through the air, the heavy steel, and biological life forms within it rolled in the air twice, before it hit the hill side with a thud, and continued down for five hundred yards before the heap of metal came to a halt as it hit the bottom of the hill.
The radio that one of the soldiers had lit up with chatter as the echo of the explosion hit the base, assistance was on it's way, but it was too late, three men with Kalashnikov's opened fire onto the Humvee from several hundred meters up the hill side, the men poured out of the safe side of the car, taking cover behind the vehicle, they valiantly returned fire towards the three men who chose to ruin their day. Emotion pumped through Micheal's body as the first round tore through his left shoulder, the feeling of the sting, and the burn ran through his nerves, and exposed flesh as he screamed from the pain, dropping to his knees, right hand clenched over the wound as his men rushed over for assistance. Covering fire was given, but to no avail, Micheal's world blacked out as he watched two of the remaining four men receive their death blow's, rounds rocketed through their upper body, above their own armor. The sand that day was stained with the blood from the eight men, Sargent Micheal Johnston was saved though as a support column came to their aid just in time to save his life.
As his eyes read over the words that he wrote down, tears streamed down his face as he remembered the moments that led up to the death of the men who he loved, and cared for as his own.
