Post by 2nd Lt. John P. McCreary on Jun 29, 2011 16:41:05 GMT
John looked over at Greg, seeing him firing blindly. He could tell he was nervous and he understood—he wasn’t used to this. It was easy for anyone to lose their nerve under fire, even a soldier with experience. Countless times he’d felt fear during firefights, but he’d kept his nerves in check, for the sake of his men. If he hadn’t he was sure he’d go crazy and make a mistake, a mistake that could cost lives. He leaned out slightly to get a good view of the shooter, and, spotting him, fired off a few rounds to keep him suppressed. It was one of the most important laws of combat—if you couldn’t get an accurate shot at the enemy, keep him pinned so he can’t shoot back at you. So far it was working, but John knew this couldn’t go on for much longer. He hadn’t brought too many magazines, as he hadn’t expected this to escalate into a full scale firefight. He should have known better, though, as he’d been trained for so long to be prepared for anything.
John fired off his last round and reloaded, his back slamming into the wall as he darted aside to avoid the stream of bullets the man fired. Great, now I’m suppressed. The man wasn’t taking time to aim, he was simply firing for effect, and it was working. All he could do was wait until he ran out of ammo, but by that time he probably would have moved up again. It was a horrible thing, being pinned. Of course it could be much, much worse—it could be an MG42. He’d been pinned by MG42s dozens of times and it was quite an unnerving experience. The blasted thing fired so fast, there was nothing you could do but keep your head down and hope you don’t get torn apart by its bullets. He’d seen men go crazy under fire from machine gun nests. Until you suppressed them you were simply helpless, and that was one of the worst feelings he’d ever experienced—complete and utter helplessness. Every time he saw a man die the feeling seized him.
It felt terrible knowing fathers, sons, husbands, brothers—men and boys—under your command were killed, and you’d been powerless to stop it. Every time it happened, he couldn’t help but feel guilty. Those men had been under his command. It was his fault—or so he’d thought. He’d first started telling himself that during the invasion, but as the casualties mounted up he could no longer believe that—he’d go mad if he did. It was all chance, all luck. Yes, precautions could be taken but it boiled down to this: if your number’s called, there’s nothing you can do about it. That went for himself as well, and he was constantly aware of it. It didn’t matter who you were or what your background was—you had just as much a chance of surviving as the next guy.
That was most likely why his mother had been so upset when she’d learned he was joining the paratroopers. She was nearly heartbroken when he’d graduated from West Point, because by that time the war was already well underway. By that time Frank had died, and she didn’t want the same thing to happen to her son. It was always the same with her—this was ‘someone else’s’ job, it was better for ‘someone else’s’ son to die. When he’d joined the paratroopers she was nearly devastated, as the life expectancy wasn’t all that high. It was much lower than the average soldier, that was for sure—but it didn’t matter to John. Whether sailor, foot soldier, pilot, or Marine, death was a huge possibility, it was to be expected with a war. Somehow he didn’t think his family—or at least his mother—understood that. She was probably bragging about her ‘handsome, grown up son in uniform’ to all the other mothers back home, but she didn’t understand—none of them did. None of them would.
Odds were they all expected him to come back a decorated hero. He’d count himself lucky if he came back at all. They thought war was all about the glory, the medals, the uniform—and he’d thought that too before this all began, when he was still young, while he was still a child. By age and appearance he was of course still young, but in a way he felt much, much older than he really was because of all he’d seen and done. It was his mind that had aged and changed. His mind was always on the alert, and yet it felt so tired and frail. All those sleepless nights, all those endless days had taken a toll on mind, spirit, and body. His mother and his family expected him to come back in one piece, the same old Jack that left them. But he’d come back in pieces if he even returned. His soul would be in pieces, his optimism gone, his faith in humanity snuffed out, all because he’d seen humanity at its worst.
His eyes found the car Greg was taking refuge behind, and suddenly a hand shot up, firing a pistol. There was the chance he needed. He dashed down an alleyway and through a house’s yard, leaping over the wall and passing by a boy playing with a model airplane, briefly catching the look of awe on his face. He waved for him to get inside before kicking open the fence leading out to the other side of the street. If his calculations were correct, he should come out right behind—ah, yes. The drunkard’s back was to him, and he was looking every which way except behind, trying to find where John had went. He stepped forward carefully, silently, wordlessly and emotionlessly, pressing the barrel of his pistol against the man’s skull. “Don’t move or I pull this trigger and your brains are spilled all over this sidewalk.” The words were so strange, so foreign to his tongue—like something out of a gangster movie from the previous decade. He saw the man’s muscles tense and he snapped, “Careful now. Drop the gun, slowly, and put your hands up.” The man obeyed and John continued, “That’s a good kid. Now start walking. Try anything and I won’t even blink.” he threatened. He sounded cruel but he’d had enough of this fool’s games. He’d almost killed two people, maybe more, and that wasn’t something he took lightly.
John fired off his last round and reloaded, his back slamming into the wall as he darted aside to avoid the stream of bullets the man fired. Great, now I’m suppressed. The man wasn’t taking time to aim, he was simply firing for effect, and it was working. All he could do was wait until he ran out of ammo, but by that time he probably would have moved up again. It was a horrible thing, being pinned. Of course it could be much, much worse—it could be an MG42. He’d been pinned by MG42s dozens of times and it was quite an unnerving experience. The blasted thing fired so fast, there was nothing you could do but keep your head down and hope you don’t get torn apart by its bullets. He’d seen men go crazy under fire from machine gun nests. Until you suppressed them you were simply helpless, and that was one of the worst feelings he’d ever experienced—complete and utter helplessness. Every time he saw a man die the feeling seized him.
It felt terrible knowing fathers, sons, husbands, brothers—men and boys—under your command were killed, and you’d been powerless to stop it. Every time it happened, he couldn’t help but feel guilty. Those men had been under his command. It was his fault—or so he’d thought. He’d first started telling himself that during the invasion, but as the casualties mounted up he could no longer believe that—he’d go mad if he did. It was all chance, all luck. Yes, precautions could be taken but it boiled down to this: if your number’s called, there’s nothing you can do about it. That went for himself as well, and he was constantly aware of it. It didn’t matter who you were or what your background was—you had just as much a chance of surviving as the next guy.
That was most likely why his mother had been so upset when she’d learned he was joining the paratroopers. She was nearly heartbroken when he’d graduated from West Point, because by that time the war was already well underway. By that time Frank had died, and she didn’t want the same thing to happen to her son. It was always the same with her—this was ‘someone else’s’ job, it was better for ‘someone else’s’ son to die. When he’d joined the paratroopers she was nearly devastated, as the life expectancy wasn’t all that high. It was much lower than the average soldier, that was for sure—but it didn’t matter to John. Whether sailor, foot soldier, pilot, or Marine, death was a huge possibility, it was to be expected with a war. Somehow he didn’t think his family—or at least his mother—understood that. She was probably bragging about her ‘handsome, grown up son in uniform’ to all the other mothers back home, but she didn’t understand—none of them did. None of them would.
Odds were they all expected him to come back a decorated hero. He’d count himself lucky if he came back at all. They thought war was all about the glory, the medals, the uniform—and he’d thought that too before this all began, when he was still young, while he was still a child. By age and appearance he was of course still young, but in a way he felt much, much older than he really was because of all he’d seen and done. It was his mind that had aged and changed. His mind was always on the alert, and yet it felt so tired and frail. All those sleepless nights, all those endless days had taken a toll on mind, spirit, and body. His mother and his family expected him to come back in one piece, the same old Jack that left them. But he’d come back in pieces if he even returned. His soul would be in pieces, his optimism gone, his faith in humanity snuffed out, all because he’d seen humanity at its worst.
His eyes found the car Greg was taking refuge behind, and suddenly a hand shot up, firing a pistol. There was the chance he needed. He dashed down an alleyway and through a house’s yard, leaping over the wall and passing by a boy playing with a model airplane, briefly catching the look of awe on his face. He waved for him to get inside before kicking open the fence leading out to the other side of the street. If his calculations were correct, he should come out right behind—ah, yes. The drunkard’s back was to him, and he was looking every which way except behind, trying to find where John had went. He stepped forward carefully, silently, wordlessly and emotionlessly, pressing the barrel of his pistol against the man’s skull. “Don’t move or I pull this trigger and your brains are spilled all over this sidewalk.” The words were so strange, so foreign to his tongue—like something out of a gangster movie from the previous decade. He saw the man’s muscles tense and he snapped, “Careful now. Drop the gun, slowly, and put your hands up.” The man obeyed and John continued, “That’s a good kid. Now start walking. Try anything and I won’t even blink.” he threatened. He sounded cruel but he’d had enough of this fool’s games. He’d almost killed two people, maybe more, and that wasn’t something he took lightly.
