In Which There is a Dream
I'm brought to attention by the sharp rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire burst to my right. My boots squelch in the mud as I duck and run for cover, not sure how I ended up on open ground, standing around like an idiot. I hit the deck in the scrub under some trees and quickly survey the battlefield. Where is the enemy? Where's my support? I see a small patch of digi-camo among the wet leaves, nearly invisible in the stormy conditions, but easily identifiable for someone who puts it on every morning. I creep over through the brush, identifying myself.
"Soldier," I hiss. "Engagement?"
The man turns his head and I lock eyes with deep pools of terror, verging on hysteria. I ease up beside him and talk calmly, with the voice of sure authority.
"Where's the enemy?"
He points. I see a loose group of shadows creeping through the brush on the other side of the field, mismatched arms glinting wetly in the gloom. I reach to my side.
Where's my gun? Where's my goddamn gun!? How the hell did I get into battle without my friggin' gun?! I sink lower into the scrub, feeling vulnerable -- a toothless tiger against a swath of gladiators. My companion is trembling, but keeps his weapon steady. I understand now why he hasn't taken the shot. We have no support -- the radio is dead, and we don't know if the enemy has back-up nearby. I turn, serpent-like, slowly but controlled, scanning the soggy vegetation for movement. After an agonizing eternity, I'm satisfied that we aren't about to be ambushed. I turn back to the soldier beside me in the mud.
"We have to get out of here, regroup."
He nods, and we slowly creep through the underbrush. True darkness has fallen, but I've always been good at finding my way. I hear nothing but the endless rain, rindles and rivulets of freezing water drizzling down from the canopy overhead. We're marginally protected in the underbrush, although the mud we're crawling through is just as cold, a stabbing freeze just this side of slush. I console myself briefly that at least I'm not jumping out of a plane and continue to creep along like silent worms in grave dirt. The thought reminds me of boot camp, and Sarge, and all the nonsense that got us here in the first place.
Where is my goddamn gun?
We crawl for what seems like hours. My companion has yet to speak, which is probably for the best. His breathing behind me is steadier, nearly imperceptible as my own as we wrap ourselves in an invisible shroud of silence. We can't keep this up for too long; we have to establish radio contact, get warm, and get our bearings. The ground is beginning to slope upward, and a flash of a topography map sparks in my memory. I know vaguely where we are, though I can't for the life of me remember when or where I'd seen the maps. Probably in recon, but I can't be sure. I reach back with my boot and tap his shoulder. We curve slowly to the left.
We set up a laughably small camp in the muddy hollow under a tree whose growth was diverted slightly upon hitting a small outcropping of rock. I found the entry nearly by accident, but we both managed to fit inside. I cover the tiny entry with the mud-smeared canvas tarp in my pack, ensuring our invisibility from the outside. My companion cracks open a small light as I set about making a quick meal from the self-heating MREs, feeling the heat sinking painfully into my numb fingers. We eat in silence, the heat seeping into our drenched and frozen bodies. After a measure, I feel the gaze of my companion weighing on me.
"So, where do you suppose we are?"
He just stares, looking a little puzzled. He points to his name tape. It reads "No."
I nod, and point to my own. "Sharp." It's all the introduction soldiers need.
Relief floods his face as he claps me on the shoulder. "This is my first English." He nods once, then sinks back into the muddy, root laden wall. I consider my situation. Obviously he understands English, but speaking it is difficult for him. The radio is dead silent, but it might be damaged. I have only a vague idea of where we are, and no idea how to get back to TOC.
Where is my gun?