BLACK HAWK DOWN Fic: Training
Title: Training
Author: Magz
Rating: PG
Characters: Kurt Schmid, OMC.
Author's Note: Written for fanfic100's challenge #71: broken.
TRAINING
After awhile, the drill sergeant's voice was nothing but another roaring wind. The soldiers pressed on through the obstacle course, half-blind for the cold rain that beat down on them mercilessly.
Across the balance beams. Under the wire. A hundred yards of muddy, cloddy track. Then the bars. The tires. The wall. The tires were new. They killed the momentum the men usually had coming off the bars, so they couldn't run up the wall like usual.
Fingers scrabbled against drenched, splintered wood as they lost their grip on the thick climbing rope.
Up and over. Up and over. Just like old times. Except old times were dry times, and not in the middle of the night in a torrential rainstorm.
Private Schmid quick-footed through the tires and ran for the wall, his boots slipping in the mud. He leapt and caught the rope halfway up, kicking at the boards and using his arms to haul himself over the wall. Lost his balance on the over and caught himself, hard, with his left arm when he landed.
He pushed himself to his feet and ran the last hundred yards of the course. Crossed the finish. Nearly collapsed under one a bright floodlight, the beam of which was diffused by rain.
"Schmid!"
"Sir!" the private replied, and saluted.
"Go to the infirmary. Your wrist is turning purple."
Schmid saluted again, and headed in the direction of the buildings.
"And Schmid!"
The private jogged back to his superior officer, and skidded to a stop in the mud. "Yes sir?"
"A cast this time."
Author: Magz
Rating: PG
Characters: Kurt Schmid, OMC.
Author's Note: Written for fanfic100's challenge #71: broken.
TRAINING
After awhile, the drill sergeant's voice was nothing but another roaring wind. The soldiers pressed on through the obstacle course, half-blind for the cold rain that beat down on them mercilessly.
Across the balance beams. Under the wire. A hundred yards of muddy, cloddy track. Then the bars. The tires. The wall. The tires were new. They killed the momentum the men usually had coming off the bars, so they couldn't run up the wall like usual.
Fingers scrabbled against drenched, splintered wood as they lost their grip on the thick climbing rope.
Up and over. Up and over. Just like old times. Except old times were dry times, and not in the middle of the night in a torrential rainstorm.
Private Schmid quick-footed through the tires and ran for the wall, his boots slipping in the mud. He leapt and caught the rope halfway up, kicking at the boards and using his arms to haul himself over the wall. Lost his balance on the over and caught himself, hard, with his left arm when he landed.
He pushed himself to his feet and ran the last hundred yards of the course. Crossed the finish. Nearly collapsed under one a bright floodlight, the beam of which was diffused by rain.
"Schmid!"
"Sir!" the private replied, and saluted.
"Go to the infirmary. Your wrist is turning purple."
Schmid saluted again, and headed in the direction of the buildings.
"And Schmid!"
The private jogged back to his superior officer, and skidded to a stop in the mud. "Yes sir?"
"A cast this time."