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The Stig
02-25-2011, 01:24 AM
Sacrifice


Copyright The Stig – No Reproduction Without My Consent

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Terror has odd way of effecting people. In some cases people freeze and are unable to move even in the face of certain death. Other people become fixated on the source of the fear and don’t avert their attention. A solution may be six inches to the right of a person’s field of view but that solution will remain unseen. Tunnel vision they call it.

There are rare breeds of humans, however, that transcend their normal abilities in the face of danger. The fear pushes them to regions of their psyche they never knew existed. Physical acuity is magnified and strength increased beyond all rational understanding. It is these rare souls that are able to accomplish acts of heroism that inspire throughout the decades.

He could hear the rumble and clatter of armored vehicles approaching on the horizon. While he had busied himself preparing his men and moving them to different positions, no unlike a football quarterback, he now had a surplus of time to wait and ponder the coming fight. He had time to think about it.

Warning of the clash had come over the group’s radios but it didn’t register on the men. A quiet, back area of an internal war that erupted suddenly became the front line. Civil war was about to become very real. After initial doubt his men had responded ably. A major enemy offensive was relentlessly approaching their positions and US Highway 62 had suddenly been promoted from a road nobody knew to the avenue leading military success.

“Jeezus Sarge, what the hell is this?” asked a young solider. Good kid. Had joined the Army to pay for college. Unlike many of his peers the solider had grasped the honor and integrity of serving ones country. College faded in importance.

“This is war Private. Get to your position, check and recheck that you are ready for a fight. Just remember your training.”

The Sergeant had little to work with. The unit wasn’t even supposed to be there. A young Lieutenant had misread a map and the small group of warriors ended up camped just outside a small town. They had been on their way to a frontline several hundred miles distant. The frontline had found them.

The young Lieutenant meant well. Experience was earned and the young man hadn’t put in the required time yet. The Sergeant had worked with him. He’d be a good man, if he survived long enough for his years to translate into experience.

Intel was non-existent. Nothing new. Drills and exercises never quite captured the chaos and wool blanket of confusion that permeated actual combat situations. He knew all those drills were valuable, he never doubted that. But he knew his young troops hadn’t tasted battle. Their frame of reference was rifles fitted with adaptors to allow the use of blanks and referees ruling units out of action.

Today there would be no blanks. Referees decisions would be final.

The men were dug into what defensive positions they could muster with the hour of notice they were given. The orders came down: slow the advance of the enemy. No mention of any pertinent details. Just engage and slow them down. “No shit” the Sergeant thought to himself. “What are we going to do, help direct traffic?”

Like a scene out of a war movie, men in ACU uniforms hurried about like ants. Frantic movements digging foxholes, throwing up obstacles, preparing offensive weapons. He’d seen combat before. The clatter of armored vehicles tracks made clear their preparations would be laughable against the onslaught.

His fighting position was with a small group of his men. A young private was breathing heavy. Not normal breathing but more spasmodic. Fear was overtaking him.

“Dickerson, square breath” advised the Sergeant. With a reassuring hand on his back he demonstrated. Soon the Private mimicked the cycle of taking in oxygen, holding the breath followed by a slow exhale. “Fear’s ok, just don’t let it get you. Breathe. Front sight, press trigger. Copy that?

The Private looked up at his instructor. “Copy that Sarge”

The Stig
02-25-2011, 01:25 AM
The first shot startled him. It was close. A young man twenty yards to his left fired at a target, likely imagined. Like horses in a barn spooked by a nervous stallion, more shots followed. It took repeated calls of cease-fire by those in charge to rebuild the calm.

“It won’t be long now,” he muttered under his breath.

He was right. Lead elements of the enemy’s forces soon began emerging through predawn haze. Some in humvees, most walking, they advanced with a combination of excited exhaustion and confidence. SAW machine guns erupted with short bursts of fire and soon enough targets were available that each of the men had joined the fray.

The Sergeant had been here before. He knew some would fail in the stress of the crucible of what they were about to encounter. Others would remember all the hard won lessons from all those hours on training fields. Vomit and urine were common responses from those lucky enough to survive the test. There was no shame in losing control of one part of your body to focus maximum attention to the more critical task of survival.

It was a like an old comfortable chair for him though. “Front sight, press trigger, breathe” he repeated in the midst of the pop and crack of infantrymen’s rifles and roar of machine guns. He never heard his own rifle report as he killed two enemy men in succession. Soon he heard very little of the rifle fire. But he heard the first cry of a man somewhere to his right. Lead and copper had found its mark and a young life ended. It was as simple as that. The coming minutes and hours would be marked by the death of many men.

“Shit there’s too fucking many,” yelled the Corporal next to him. He had fought the urge to unleash the full firepower of the SAW machine gun and limited himself to aimed bursts. Training. “Good” he thought. “The training stuck”.

Looking over briefly, he yelled back. “Keep engaging. Aimed fire. Don’t burn out that barrel.”

The Corporal was right. There were too many.

The overwhelming number of enemies left no choice but to stand and fight. There would be no maneuver. No small unit tactics. Captains wouldn’t manipulate their men like chess pieces today. The enemy was coming, they were coming down this road and the Sergeant and his men weren’t moving out of the way.

“Miracles do exist,” he yelled out as a dull gray F16 shrieked overhead. Two canisters tumbled to the earth and unleashed a catastrophic succession of explosions. Like a string of deadly Chinese Firecrackers the destruction caused the onslaught to hesitate.

He took the respite to encourage his men. Directions were given. Firm commands honed from experience. The Sarge would take care of them.

They didn’t know it. Wouldn’t know it. He was terrified. He wished he would have seen his baby grow up. Teach her to ride a bike and take her to school. Prom. Boy troubles. She was already gone. His military life resulted in a lot of missed opportunities. That was one he regretted.

The screams of agony soon raised in pitch making themselves heard over the rifle shots. Blood, organs, vomit, dirt and fear all mixed into a nauseous stew.

“Shit” was all he could muster. The clatter of armor vehicles had reached an apex. Soon pop and crack were replaced with boom and roar. Something about frying pans and fire. A TOW missile from somewhere in a wood to his right stormed across the field and reduced a M1A1 Abrams tank to fire and scrap metal. More death.

“Sergeant” yelled out his Lieutenant. “Fall back. Get the men to fall back to safety. Regroup at the rally point”

Maybe the Lieutenant had become experienced sooner than scheduled. Rifles and bullets against tanks and armor was lunacy.

Like a schoolmarm and her students the Sergeant and his fellow shop foremen began the process of extracting their men from harms way.
“Corporal!” he said sharply. “Covering fire and then fall back to the rally point,” he yelled over the din of the clash. “Stay low”.

“Stay low” what a dumb thing to say. “NO! Stand up straight and exhibit proper posture”.

Moving to the pit to his left he helped one solider pick up his wounded buddy. The wound wasn’t too bad. A compression bandage and tourniquet kept the man from bleeding to death. The Private who lost sight of college had become a good solider. He carried his buddy, under fire, to safety when he could have easily fled. Honor had been displayed. The Sergeant was proud.

Rounds whistled and cracked as the enemy solders advanced. They were only three hundred yards away now. Under the protection of armor their march forward had continued. No stopping them now.

Smoke grenades danced across the battlefield as they filled the air with haze. It was a futile attempt to disguise what was happening. Everybody knew they were retreating. Why keep it a secret now?

It was time to go. Glancing around he took off running to the rear. He willed his legs to pump and move quicker but they seemed cased in cement. He was sure he was running as fast as Jessie Owens but it sure didn’t feel like it.

The guttural cry rocked him from his escape. “Idiot” he chastised himself. “Godammit, keep your head in the game” he commanded the rising fear in his stomach. He had forgotten some of his men.

The SAW gunner’s assistant was down. Realizing their mistake simultaneously both the Sergeant and his Lieutenant reversed course to assist their men. They nearly crashed on top of each other diving back into the small pit.

“Dickerson’s down” yelled the Corporal as he relentlessly kept up the fire. Like the dieing embers in a fire his barrel glowed in the gray haze of dawn. Time was almost out. Worse yet, so was the ammo.

One hundred yards were between them and those who meant to do them harm. Great harm. His decision was made.

“LT, take Dickerson and get fucking out of here” Looking at the Corporal the words seemed to come out in slow motion. “Go. Help the LT.”

“Fuck that Sarge.” He didn’t want to understand what his Sergeant was doing.

Seventy five yards.

Bullets crashed around them as door was almost shut. “Get the hell out of here” he ordered his Lieutenant. Wasting no time the young Lieutenant hefted Dickerson over his shoulders and ran. Like a divinely protected running back the officer carried his man to safety.

The Sergeant was right; LT would have the time to gain the experience he needed. He’d be a good Solider. His men would be lucky to have him.

Fifty yards was the margin between the group of enemy soldiers and the pit. SAW was useless now. “Front sight, press trigger, breath,” he reminded himself as his M4 carbine fired in rapid succession.

The Corporal tried to stay. He wanted to stay. When he first came to the unit he hated his Staff Sergeant. Despised him really. The man did nothing but ride his ass all day long. Counseling sessions were only interrupted by PT or more drills. Why the hell was the Sarge so fixated on all the little things anyway? Now the Corporal understood it. He was ready to die with the man who had turned him into a solider.

“Guess I’ll have to kick his ass one last time.”

Physically pulling the Corporal back he looked him square in the eye. “GO. Now. You did good”. Tears in his eyes the Corporal took the opportunity to seek safety. He’d live a long life.

The door was shut now.

He continued to fire as his M4 heated up from the repeated use. Well into his third thirty round magazine his enemy had closed to half the distance again. All over but the shouting now.

He missed his wife. Their marriage died a long time ago. Deployments and long times apart saw to that. Losing their baby girl was the last wedge. She was a good woman. Would have been a hell of a mom. If only he could have one last kiss.

The rounds fell in around him as the enemy realized he was alone. He had positioned himself so that they would be nearly on top of him before they’d be able to hit him. Over the continuous bursts of his weapon, the dull thud of the approaching finality showered him with dirt and fragments of stone and brass.

“Wonder if the farm did well this year” he thought as he inserted a final magazine into his rifle. Of course it did. His wife had a passion for farming that surprised everyone.

He missed her deeply.

“Front sight, trigger press, breath.”

He hoped it wouldn’t hurt too badly. No hallways with white lights. No floating visions of Grandpa Jim. Sudden. Painless.

It was. He deserved that much.