Rules of War
Posted: 2008-03-07 01:20am
'Ello. Had to write a short story for English class. This is the first rough draft so if you can rip it up some and give me some feed back I'd appreciate it. The proff didn't have too many rules minus a rough size and that it needed a moral. We'll see I guess.....
Rules of War
Sweat poured off of Gunnery Sergeant John Black’s forehead into his eyes as he tried to peer down his scope, focusing upon a possible target. While the camouflage netting and his own personal ghillie suit took the blazing desert sun off of him, the sheer heat of the environment starting to take its toll on his body.
“Target.” Whispered Sergeant Bailey, slightly off to his left.
Bailey, his spotter, was snuggled up close under the same cameo netting that John was, sharing this hide. Instead of the rifle and scope that John was using, his spotter looked out into the desolate terrain using spotting scope. Both were looking down the small rise they had set up on to the village the sprouted up out of the desert. Little more than a handful of shacks that lined the road passing through it, the village was more an outpost than a living space for civilians.
‘Civilians. This war is against nothing but civilians.’ Thought the sniper. Though the war started out standard enough five years ago, it had rapidly devolved from there into the trickier guerilla war. But he guessed that didn’t change the rules much, even if they were dressed like civilians, the people he hunted were hardly innocent people just trying to live their simple life, they were the enemy who hid like civilians. As such, they fell into both the rules of war his superiors followed and his own personal rules of war.
The people in that village were the enemy of his nation. That they masqueraded as civilians to do their evil deeds instead of proper military dress made them cunning monsters. That they were monsters made it easier for John to dispose of them. Very simple rules that John had followed for almost twenty years in his service to his country, the same rules John’s father followed when he served the country years before that. A long line of Blacks have had to see a long list of horrors in war to develop these simple rules, the last of which was to sacrifice yourself if need be to save your comrades. John himself had followed that rule in his youth, was highly decorated for following his rules of war his father taught him. Won medals and awards for killing the enemy, won more awards and medals for personal sacrifice in the face of danger. He had built a career on these simple rules, and though he was close to retiring from his military service, he had one more war to fight and one more war to apply his rules to.
So, wiping the sweat off his brow, the sniper got back to the business at hand and peered down the scope of his weapon, aiming for the target his spotter had picked out for him.
“Target identified.” He said back to Bailey in a hushed tone.
Sergeant Bailey wrote the information down in the small notebook sitting in front of him, keeping a careful log of the mission as most professional snipers do. Bailey himself was old enough and experienced enough to have been the shooter, but Gunny Black got the mission and he chose Bailey as his spotter so he had that experience with him.
Within in the field of vision of the scope, John could see the person that he labeled a target. He pretty much looked like all the others in the village, loose clothing, dark skin and long beard, but both John and Sgt. Bailey recognized the face from hundreds of faces the snipers looked at daily back in the Green Zone of those people they were authorized to shoot at on sight. John knew the guys name, though only more as a factoid, something to write down in a report rather than a recognizable trait. To John, this guy was a face, the face of a monster that killed his friends here in the sand box and if this monster could, he would kill John’s family back home if John did nothing about it.
30 years earlier
Little John Black knelt between some trees deep in the southern forests that he called his home. He had his father’s rifle in his shoulder looking down the scope to a buck some four hundred yards away. The deer had no idea John or John’s father were there, just across a small clearing. The predators were preparing their attack as the pray bent down to nibble on some odd grass by its feet.
“Slow now John. Keep relaxed. Between breaths and squeeze.” His father reminded him with quite whispers as John lined up his shot.
It almost came as a surprise when the weapon jerked in his hands and Johnny let the recoil spread through his body. As it dissipated and his body returned to its original position, Johnny looked back down the scope to see his target kick and wheel-about in a frenzy before disappearing through the trees. He looked up towards his father, disappointed that the first time his father let him take a shot at a deer, he had not had a clean kill. But his father hand a small smile on his face and a gleam in his eye as he looked down at his boy.
“Don’t worry, son. You got him, got him pretty good.” He seemed to sense what Johnny was thinking and added, “Few people get a head shot, especially on their first hunting trip boy.”
His father smiled big then, almost a predatory grin, “You got him good and he’ll bleed out in a bit. We’ll have to track him some down the mountain, but don’t worry son, you’ve bagged your first deer.”
His father’s eyes unfocused a bit then, as if he was thinking of something else far away either in distance or time before he looked back at his son, “We did the same back in ‘Nam. Snipe your target in the chest or gut, let them feel it. Let them dance around in the trees, go looking for help or let the help come to them. Gave us more targets to shoot at, too bad deer don’t work that way, huh boy? We could have five or six bucks by the end of the day.” He laughed again, done with this trip to the past.
Present day
“Hit!” Exclaimed Sgt. Bailey half a second after Gunny Black’s rifle jumped as the sniper took his shot.
Both men studied their optics, watching the effects of the bullet John had unleashed upon the unknowing target. The monster that John had shot was on the ground, his legs kicking at the dirt and sand throwing dust up into a cloud. All other activity in the small outpost stopped immediately as half a dozen other men that didn’t look all that much different than John’s target, leaped for cover behind anything that was close.
“Upper torso.” Bailey reported in a calm even voice most military people used when they reported either something dangerous or horrible to see. “Do you plan on taking a second shot? Wind is picking up.”
Gunny Black was looking through his scope, surveying the area around the dying man. “No, he’ll bleed out soon. Let’s see if any of the others are heroes.”
“Aye Gunny.” Replied the spotter, “Recommend one click of windage, right.” Bailey went about his job seemingly indifferent to John’s plan.
The seconds ticked by as both men studied their scopes, waiting for some poor fool to try to rescue the dying man lying on the desert floor, kicking and screaming.
“Target, off to the left behind the burnt out truck.” Sergeant Bailey said just loud enough for John to hear.
Gunny Black shifted ever so slightly and saw the target hunching behind the pile of twisted metal. The new target would occasionally pop his head up, looking at his fallen comrade.
“He’s going to go for it.” Gunny Black said to no one in particular.
Through his scope John could see the intension of the second target play out on his face. His features where contorted some, whether in confusion, rage or concern was up to debate. But his body movement was one of someone building up the courage to run out into enemy fire to save his friend. It was here that Johnny Black paused.
Eighteen years ago
The old military truck bounced up and down as it navigated the path through the desert. The passengers in the back periodically thrown about in a haphazard way as the old suspension of the truck failed to buffer the bumps and dips of the road.
Sitting in the back, comfortably in the corner was Lance Corporal John Black. For the most part, John was happy. Six months into his first war and only two years into John’s military career, John had finally seen combat. He had faced the enemy and heard the crack of weapons fire as it flared around him. It was confusing and it was scary as hell, but he had come through it and in his estimation, he’d done well. His Platoon leaders had ordered him to go here, go there and to shoot this and to shoot that. He had done his duty, done what he was instructed to do and done what he was trained to do. At the end of the fight, all of his friends and companions were alive and four enemy soldiers were dead. Yes, John was happy. He couldn’t wait to write his father about it, the sounds, the blurred vision, and his thoughts upon it afterwards. If anyone could understand, his father would.
He would write his father as soon as this lumbering old truck could get his platoon back to the camp where they called home was. A boring drive out to the middle of nowhere, just miles from the boarder. He glanced around, noting some small terrain features that were rare in the desert. Most of the navigation marks anymore were the charred remains of enemy tanks and other assorted vehicles that littered the desert. From what John could tell, they were still an hour away from home camp and so Lance Corporal Black settled back down, using his pack of equipment as a pillow and tried to go to sleep.
Whether he ever actually made it asleep or not, he never knew but he had to have been close because he never heard the approach of the small rocket that slammed into the old truck. Never heard any exclamations of those awake warning of its approach. He honestly didn’t hear anything until his second battle was over.
The truck pitched up as the explosive force tore into it and then slammed back down into the earth hard. A handful of men around John were simply scattered over the sides and thrown to the sands of the desert. A majority of the troops in the back stayed, however, and scrambled over the back side of the truck when the wounded beast finally came to a halt. It seemed that as soon as the truck stopped and as his fellow Marines tried to leap to safety, gunfire exploded around them.
The ringing in his ears prevented him from hearing any of the orders being screamed around him, it also prevented him from hearing the screams of his friends that were wounded. But even still, John Black knew his duty, lining up by the edge of the truck where some other Marines had lined up, pointing their rifles toward the unseen enemy. He joined in with them, laying flat against the hardened sand near the truck and put down some cover fire not really seeing the bad guys.
It was then that he saw one of his friends lying out in the sand, far from the protection of the wreckage of the truck. He didn’t necessarily know which person from his platoon it was, the Marine facing away from him, but it was a member of his platoon laying there wounded. Three of the four limbs were flailing around and John assumed the fourth either didn’t work or perhaps was no longer there.
“Where the hell is Doc!” He tried to yell but he couldn’t even hear himself over the ringing in his ears.
He kept his position and kept shooting at an enemy he couldn’t see waiting desperately for someone to go get the fallen Marine. But as the seconds rushed by, no one was doing it. Gritting his teeth and wishing that he could have written that letter to his father before he died, John leaped off the ground and charged into enemy fire to bring back his friend.
Present
It all flashed through his mind in an instead, the eighteen years in-between not diminishing it one bit, the memory as clear as day. He had brought the Marine back to the truck, had got him to where the Doc could work on him only to watch him die. He himself had been wounded on his reckless charge into fire, and lived to tell about it. He had barely recovered from his wounds when he had to stand in a ceremony as officers awarded him medals for his effort. Stood there with bandages as he was called a hero, the same bandages he’s had when they buried his friend. All crisp and clear memorize all starting with him running into fire to save a fellow Marine, his own face steeled with determination against the fear.
The same determination against fear that was on the face of his second target as he leaped out from behind the burnt out truck and raced almost heedlessly toward the dying man lying upon the sand. His crystal clear memory of his second battle could have been laid upon this one and the only difference to Gunnery Sergeant Black would be where he himself was in the picture.
These people were monsters, he thought as he put the crosshairs on the second target running towards the first. They are the enemy of my nation and if they could they would kill me and kill all those I love.
But the more he looked down his scope at the would be rescuer, the more the dark skinned, heavily bearded Arab looked more and more like a young and impulsive John Black, running to save a doomed man.
The conflict raged in his mind and though it was only seconds, it seemed like years. All the while John sighted in and his finger started to squeeze the trigger. The moral dilemma continued to play out in his head as the mirror image of himself charged out to save a man that was already dead. The young John Black reached the first target, grabbing his harness as if to drag him back to safety and Gunnery Sergeant Black put the cross hairs on his head, not needed to have more bait. As if sensing his doom, the young Black looked up at where the sniper was, right into the scope and John Black saw himself and for the first time hesitated before taking a shot.
Rules of War
Sweat poured off of Gunnery Sergeant John Black’s forehead into his eyes as he tried to peer down his scope, focusing upon a possible target. While the camouflage netting and his own personal ghillie suit took the blazing desert sun off of him, the sheer heat of the environment starting to take its toll on his body.
“Target.” Whispered Sergeant Bailey, slightly off to his left.
Bailey, his spotter, was snuggled up close under the same cameo netting that John was, sharing this hide. Instead of the rifle and scope that John was using, his spotter looked out into the desolate terrain using spotting scope. Both were looking down the small rise they had set up on to the village the sprouted up out of the desert. Little more than a handful of shacks that lined the road passing through it, the village was more an outpost than a living space for civilians.
‘Civilians. This war is against nothing but civilians.’ Thought the sniper. Though the war started out standard enough five years ago, it had rapidly devolved from there into the trickier guerilla war. But he guessed that didn’t change the rules much, even if they were dressed like civilians, the people he hunted were hardly innocent people just trying to live their simple life, they were the enemy who hid like civilians. As such, they fell into both the rules of war his superiors followed and his own personal rules of war.
The people in that village were the enemy of his nation. That they masqueraded as civilians to do their evil deeds instead of proper military dress made them cunning monsters. That they were monsters made it easier for John to dispose of them. Very simple rules that John had followed for almost twenty years in his service to his country, the same rules John’s father followed when he served the country years before that. A long line of Blacks have had to see a long list of horrors in war to develop these simple rules, the last of which was to sacrifice yourself if need be to save your comrades. John himself had followed that rule in his youth, was highly decorated for following his rules of war his father taught him. Won medals and awards for killing the enemy, won more awards and medals for personal sacrifice in the face of danger. He had built a career on these simple rules, and though he was close to retiring from his military service, he had one more war to fight and one more war to apply his rules to.
So, wiping the sweat off his brow, the sniper got back to the business at hand and peered down the scope of his weapon, aiming for the target his spotter had picked out for him.
“Target identified.” He said back to Bailey in a hushed tone.
Sergeant Bailey wrote the information down in the small notebook sitting in front of him, keeping a careful log of the mission as most professional snipers do. Bailey himself was old enough and experienced enough to have been the shooter, but Gunny Black got the mission and he chose Bailey as his spotter so he had that experience with him.
Within in the field of vision of the scope, John could see the person that he labeled a target. He pretty much looked like all the others in the village, loose clothing, dark skin and long beard, but both John and Sgt. Bailey recognized the face from hundreds of faces the snipers looked at daily back in the Green Zone of those people they were authorized to shoot at on sight. John knew the guys name, though only more as a factoid, something to write down in a report rather than a recognizable trait. To John, this guy was a face, the face of a monster that killed his friends here in the sand box and if this monster could, he would kill John’s family back home if John did nothing about it.
30 years earlier
Little John Black knelt between some trees deep in the southern forests that he called his home. He had his father’s rifle in his shoulder looking down the scope to a buck some four hundred yards away. The deer had no idea John or John’s father were there, just across a small clearing. The predators were preparing their attack as the pray bent down to nibble on some odd grass by its feet.
“Slow now John. Keep relaxed. Between breaths and squeeze.” His father reminded him with quite whispers as John lined up his shot.
It almost came as a surprise when the weapon jerked in his hands and Johnny let the recoil spread through his body. As it dissipated and his body returned to its original position, Johnny looked back down the scope to see his target kick and wheel-about in a frenzy before disappearing through the trees. He looked up towards his father, disappointed that the first time his father let him take a shot at a deer, he had not had a clean kill. But his father hand a small smile on his face and a gleam in his eye as he looked down at his boy.
“Don’t worry, son. You got him, got him pretty good.” He seemed to sense what Johnny was thinking and added, “Few people get a head shot, especially on their first hunting trip boy.”
His father smiled big then, almost a predatory grin, “You got him good and he’ll bleed out in a bit. We’ll have to track him some down the mountain, but don’t worry son, you’ve bagged your first deer.”
His father’s eyes unfocused a bit then, as if he was thinking of something else far away either in distance or time before he looked back at his son, “We did the same back in ‘Nam. Snipe your target in the chest or gut, let them feel it. Let them dance around in the trees, go looking for help or let the help come to them. Gave us more targets to shoot at, too bad deer don’t work that way, huh boy? We could have five or six bucks by the end of the day.” He laughed again, done with this trip to the past.
Present day
“Hit!” Exclaimed Sgt. Bailey half a second after Gunny Black’s rifle jumped as the sniper took his shot.
Both men studied their optics, watching the effects of the bullet John had unleashed upon the unknowing target. The monster that John had shot was on the ground, his legs kicking at the dirt and sand throwing dust up into a cloud. All other activity in the small outpost stopped immediately as half a dozen other men that didn’t look all that much different than John’s target, leaped for cover behind anything that was close.
“Upper torso.” Bailey reported in a calm even voice most military people used when they reported either something dangerous or horrible to see. “Do you plan on taking a second shot? Wind is picking up.”
Gunny Black was looking through his scope, surveying the area around the dying man. “No, he’ll bleed out soon. Let’s see if any of the others are heroes.”
“Aye Gunny.” Replied the spotter, “Recommend one click of windage, right.” Bailey went about his job seemingly indifferent to John’s plan.
The seconds ticked by as both men studied their scopes, waiting for some poor fool to try to rescue the dying man lying on the desert floor, kicking and screaming.
“Target, off to the left behind the burnt out truck.” Sergeant Bailey said just loud enough for John to hear.
Gunny Black shifted ever so slightly and saw the target hunching behind the pile of twisted metal. The new target would occasionally pop his head up, looking at his fallen comrade.
“He’s going to go for it.” Gunny Black said to no one in particular.
Through his scope John could see the intension of the second target play out on his face. His features where contorted some, whether in confusion, rage or concern was up to debate. But his body movement was one of someone building up the courage to run out into enemy fire to save his friend. It was here that Johnny Black paused.
Eighteen years ago
The old military truck bounced up and down as it navigated the path through the desert. The passengers in the back periodically thrown about in a haphazard way as the old suspension of the truck failed to buffer the bumps and dips of the road.
Sitting in the back, comfortably in the corner was Lance Corporal John Black. For the most part, John was happy. Six months into his first war and only two years into John’s military career, John had finally seen combat. He had faced the enemy and heard the crack of weapons fire as it flared around him. It was confusing and it was scary as hell, but he had come through it and in his estimation, he’d done well. His Platoon leaders had ordered him to go here, go there and to shoot this and to shoot that. He had done his duty, done what he was instructed to do and done what he was trained to do. At the end of the fight, all of his friends and companions were alive and four enemy soldiers were dead. Yes, John was happy. He couldn’t wait to write his father about it, the sounds, the blurred vision, and his thoughts upon it afterwards. If anyone could understand, his father would.
He would write his father as soon as this lumbering old truck could get his platoon back to the camp where they called home was. A boring drive out to the middle of nowhere, just miles from the boarder. He glanced around, noting some small terrain features that were rare in the desert. Most of the navigation marks anymore were the charred remains of enemy tanks and other assorted vehicles that littered the desert. From what John could tell, they were still an hour away from home camp and so Lance Corporal Black settled back down, using his pack of equipment as a pillow and tried to go to sleep.
Whether he ever actually made it asleep or not, he never knew but he had to have been close because he never heard the approach of the small rocket that slammed into the old truck. Never heard any exclamations of those awake warning of its approach. He honestly didn’t hear anything until his second battle was over.
The truck pitched up as the explosive force tore into it and then slammed back down into the earth hard. A handful of men around John were simply scattered over the sides and thrown to the sands of the desert. A majority of the troops in the back stayed, however, and scrambled over the back side of the truck when the wounded beast finally came to a halt. It seemed that as soon as the truck stopped and as his fellow Marines tried to leap to safety, gunfire exploded around them.
The ringing in his ears prevented him from hearing any of the orders being screamed around him, it also prevented him from hearing the screams of his friends that were wounded. But even still, John Black knew his duty, lining up by the edge of the truck where some other Marines had lined up, pointing their rifles toward the unseen enemy. He joined in with them, laying flat against the hardened sand near the truck and put down some cover fire not really seeing the bad guys.
It was then that he saw one of his friends lying out in the sand, far from the protection of the wreckage of the truck. He didn’t necessarily know which person from his platoon it was, the Marine facing away from him, but it was a member of his platoon laying there wounded. Three of the four limbs were flailing around and John assumed the fourth either didn’t work or perhaps was no longer there.
“Where the hell is Doc!” He tried to yell but he couldn’t even hear himself over the ringing in his ears.
He kept his position and kept shooting at an enemy he couldn’t see waiting desperately for someone to go get the fallen Marine. But as the seconds rushed by, no one was doing it. Gritting his teeth and wishing that he could have written that letter to his father before he died, John leaped off the ground and charged into enemy fire to bring back his friend.
Present
It all flashed through his mind in an instead, the eighteen years in-between not diminishing it one bit, the memory as clear as day. He had brought the Marine back to the truck, had got him to where the Doc could work on him only to watch him die. He himself had been wounded on his reckless charge into fire, and lived to tell about it. He had barely recovered from his wounds when he had to stand in a ceremony as officers awarded him medals for his effort. Stood there with bandages as he was called a hero, the same bandages he’s had when they buried his friend. All crisp and clear memorize all starting with him running into fire to save a fellow Marine, his own face steeled with determination against the fear.
The same determination against fear that was on the face of his second target as he leaped out from behind the burnt out truck and raced almost heedlessly toward the dying man lying upon the sand. His crystal clear memory of his second battle could have been laid upon this one and the only difference to Gunnery Sergeant Black would be where he himself was in the picture.
These people were monsters, he thought as he put the crosshairs on the second target running towards the first. They are the enemy of my nation and if they could they would kill me and kill all those I love.
But the more he looked down his scope at the would be rescuer, the more the dark skinned, heavily bearded Arab looked more and more like a young and impulsive John Black, running to save a doomed man.
The conflict raged in his mind and though it was only seconds, it seemed like years. All the while John sighted in and his finger started to squeeze the trigger. The moral dilemma continued to play out in his head as the mirror image of himself charged out to save a man that was already dead. The young John Black reached the first target, grabbing his harness as if to drag him back to safety and Gunnery Sergeant Black put the cross hairs on his head, not needed to have more bait. As if sensing his doom, the young Black looked up at where the sniper was, right into the scope and John Black saw himself and for the first time hesitated before taking a shot.
