Sweat pours into my eyes, a salty, cutting sting.
Not enough to stop me, just enough that I have to squint constantly.
Under my armour, the wind cuts unpleasantly along the edge of the chest plate where it presses against my body, and my right ear can barely hear anymore.
I’d love to wipe my eyes.
But that’s for later.
Later.
I roll under the stub of a ruined mud brick wall.
I come out of the roll and press my back against it.
For some reason I remember my very first battle.
It was a lot like this.
The same whistling, noise, and clamor, something banging, the commander shouting orders I couldn’t make out.
And I was sitting the same way, except scared out of my mind, keeping my scope tucked under my armor so it wouldn’t get damaged, working up the nerve to lean out.
Because when they’re shooting all around you, it feels like they’re shooting only at you, and you sit there thinking, how do I get out of here, fast, and far away.
And time stretches.
Seconds turn to hours.
It feels like ten minutes have passed, but it might as well have been three.
So many years have gone by, and now things are a little different.
No, it’s just as frightening.
I don’t want to die, and I don’t want to be a hero either.
Because you come out of a firefight one of two ways: whole, or not.
And in the second case, you might also come out as a corpse, and honestly, that’s the better outcome, better than coming out crippled in pieces.
Because then nobody has any use for you anymore.
Not even the people closest to you.
They’ll grieve, suffer for a year, and eventually realize their heartache doesn’t change the fact that it’s easier to build a life with someone whole than with someone broken by the war.
I don’t remember the exact moment I stopped caring, when the war just turned into work.
Dangerous work, but work all the same, no different from any other job.
Then I lean out and, running on adrenaline, empty the magazine at everything that moves.
Idiot.
But it’s always like that the first time.
Now it’s starting to get hot.
My gloves are caked in dust, the cloth under my helmet is soaked through, and I still can’t wipe my eyes.
The wind is cold.
I don’t like running.
I never have.
But there’s no choice.
There’s a head above cover, wearing black.
Not one of ours.
Someone is shouting something I can’t understand.
I come up fast, the stock finds my shoulder out of habit.
“Crack,” says the rifle.
A stranger’s head, some kind of marking on the wrap over his helmet, comes apart in a way that isn’t pretty.
But don’t shout in my direction.
I’ve disliked that since I was a kid.
The seals in the barrel need changing; it’s getting loud when I fire.
That’s a problem for later, back at base.
I wouldn’t want to forget.
So what’s coming over the radio?
Something, something…
yes, they’re pressing us.
Command sounds tense.
Smoke’s up; they can’t see.
I should take a look around.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Back to work.
Roll, fire, roll, up, drop onto all fours and throw myself left behind a chunk of broken concrete, onto my stomach.
Whoever left the rebar sticking out here like that deserves to be shot themselves.
Contact.
One runs the length of the wall, another cuts right.
Hey, where do you think you’re going?
Fire, roll to cover, up from a crouch, a couple of steps, a dive around the torn corner of a wall, into a crater from an old strike, onto one knee, fire, roll, behind the wall again.
Breathe in, breathe out.
On the other side of a gap in the wall, seven meters off, more shouting, closer now, they’re coming.
The pin comes off the grenade on autopilot.
Three, two, catch.
I lean out to check.
Two down.
The third is on his back, half his face gone, hands pressed over what’s left of it, howling.
His leg has been torn off, the stump still twitching; he can’t see anymore.
“Crack.” Quiet again.
Whoever calls war noble and beautiful should have their teeth knocked out.
It’s blood, filth, the smell, and nothing else.
Where’s the rest of my squad?
There’s a heap of rubble to the right; I move behind it.
Trying to remember the map.
There should be a low channel near here, and past it, a three story building still standing.
I lean out.
Yes, there it is, a hundred meters off, further right than I remembered.
I’ve drifted too far.
I need to get back to the others.
And what in the world is that?
Ouch.
Damn it.
The first thing you feel when a round gets through is surprise, more than anything.
Like, how is that possible?
It’s a brutal hit even when it catches the plate from that range, like getting run over by a speeder.
And whoever that was caught me clean in the turn.
Two hits out of half a magazine.
One took the armor.
The second is killing me right now.
It hurts, damn it.
Raise the barrel.
“Crack, crack.” Got him.
Down.
I settle back into the rubble, my spine against the wall.
That’s enough for one day.
I should get this armor off, see what’s underneath, try to pack the wound.
It’s not working.
A clean hit, straight through the armor.
My collarbone is shattered, my left arm won’t respond.
This is bad.
My lung is collapsing.
Don’t- you can’t pull it out yourself.
My hand reaches for the radio.
My fingers won’t cooperate; my whole hand is shaking, and I need to get this report out on adrenaline before I start slurring, if I can even keep breathing long enough.
“Garden, this is Hare Four.” It’s bad; I’m coughing blood.
This won’t last long.
“Garden, I’m hit, wounded, sector B-three, behind the building with the blue doors, a hundred and thirty west of the marker.” “Copy, Hare Four.
Hold position.” Easy for him to say.
He’s sitting behind a terminal ten kilometers from here, pushing buttons, while we’re out here dancing.
Ground troops, always us.
Did you make it, Kell?
Did you get there, Captain Voss?
Whoever’s out there shooting at us will make an example of you soon enough.
Ahead of schedule, so to speak.
It’s good to think about nonsense; it keeps the mind off things.
It hurts, but you push through it.
The nearest team with a medic will pull me out soon.
My hands fall onto the dirt of this godforsaken ground.
I wonder if it’s the blood loss or the collapsed lung that finishes me first.
I wanted to finish out my contract by the end of the month, get off this rotation, and head somewhere with a coastline.
Buy a house, plant a tree, maybe an apricot- no, forget the apricot; I’ve had enough of that fruit for one lifetime out here.
And maybe make things right with Mira.
No, my hand’s gone numb, as if it’s already trying to slip away from me.
If only I could survive.
My mother won’t survive it if I come home like this, in the dirt.
They say your whole life flashes before your eyes right before the end.
I’ll tell you now, that’s not true.
All I’ve got is the question of how that shot got behind me in the first place.
A fool, and now a half dead fool.
It hurts, damn it, and breathing is getting hard.
My eyesight keeps skipping.
I’m about to pass out.
If you’re out there, whatever you are, I’m sorry I never believed.
But I want to live, damn it.
Do you hear me?
I want to live.
Mom, I’m sorry.
Breathe.
You have to breathe.
The others will be here soon.
There, there they are.
All right, let’s run again, brothers.
I can’t talk anymore.
Stay calm.
They’ll get me out of here now.
Anyone would.
I can barely feel the pain anymore.
That’s the blood loss.
It’s cold.
Just breathe.
You have to.
Breathe, useless body, breathe.
Breathe, I said.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
In.
The first thought was, I think I’m still alive.
Cogito ergo sum.
Ugh, my head.
And then it seems he passed out again.
The second waking, if you can call it that, hurt less.
In fact, if the first time his head simply exploded with pain and he blacked out, this time, right before going under again, he managed to register that feeling pain is good.
It means he’s definitely alive.
Then darkness again.
The third time he woke because his body was being twisted and hauled somewhere.
He opened his eyes, or tried to, but saw nothing.
Just a blur.
His head hurt sharply again, and this time the cause, it seemed, had nothing to do with the pale shapes working over him, with cold blue lights where their eyes should be.
The last thing he made out looked like it was seen through gelatin.
Something was wrong with his vision.
And just as he was about to voice all the outrage and relief building inside him, he took a deep breath and: “Waaah!
Aah!
What is going on?
Let go of me!
No, not you, you thing with claws!
Here, I’m slipping!
What is happening here?
AAAH!
“Y-yyaaa!
Uyaaa!
I’m a baby.
I’m a child!
AAAAAAA!
What is going on?!
All right!
Set that aside.
Enough shouting.
I need to stay calm and figure out what happened to me.
Calm, cal-al-al-al-al.
Except I can’t see a damn thing.
And I’m not the only one crying out here.
A birthing ward?
Then what are these pale shapes leaning over me, the ones that just poked at my head?
And where, exactly, is whoever is supposed to have just given birth to me?
Children usually come from a living person.
It’s strange, my hearing is a mess from all the noise, if it’s even working right, but past a few thin mechanical squeals I can’t make anything out.
Do I even have working ears right now?
So, they set me down, wrapped me fast in something that definitely wasn’t a blanket, and what is this, a tube?
A vacuum hose?
Get this thing out of my mouth!
“Waaa!
I’d like to hit somebody with something, but let me catch my breath first.
Is that a conveyor belt under me?
The last thing I remember is my thoughts turning to mush, and some kind of mask with a soft hiss coming down over my eyes.
Everything around me went quiet, and I fell into a sleep that felt like it was saving me.