.047 Heart
The War Prayer
Sydney Alexis
[.047 Hearts]
AUish - Angst
The uniform was gritty beneath his touch. Wind whipped sand filling the crevices of the camo, or, rather, what was left of it; carrion birds had already had their way with the remains.
Routing around, he found the dog tags hanging from the skeleton's neck. Pulling the spare from the chain, he turned to look over his shoulder.
"Call it in, Private," he said, pocketing the tag.
Standing, he wiped his brow with his cap before taking his gun back into his hands.
The voice came through the line, staticy and hard to hear over the wind. "Report."
"Harris is dead, Sir. The jeep's been picked clean. There's nothing left."
"Cause of death?"
Nearing the remains, he turned the head slowly, noting with a grim expression the damage to the back of the skull and the bullet holes in the jeep's only remaining door.
"GSW. Close range. Several types of bullet frags."
White noise filled the line. Silence that stretched on as his CO considered their next orders.
"I don't think I need to tell you that we need that fucking intel, Kinney." A beat. "We're going to have to send your team in."
A collective gasp came from him and his men as he stared into the radio with disbelief.
"Sir, we aren't equipped for an assault on the enemy base. I'll loose half my team!"
"We ran the scenario prior to your deployment, Lieutenant. It's an acceptable risk. Now go out there, get the fucking disc, and get your ass back to base because, if you don't, they'll fucking hang you for treason. Is. that. clear?"
"Crystal," he spit into the line before throwing the gadget back at his radio operator.
He opted for a night assault. Slithering on their bellies through the sand and god knew what other creatures. Eyes covered with infrared, they inched towards the foreign soldiers who were gathered around the campfire.
Motioning with his hand, Kinney split off to the east with Britten, Camton, and Martenson while the other members of his team took off towards the west to surround the camp and cut off the exits.
Martenson flicked the switch on his radio, going dark approach as they inched towards the tent.
From his belt, Kinney drew the non-government sanctioned dagger. Clinching it in his hand, he cut through the camo'ed tent's silk fabric just enough to take an inventory--three sleeping figures and several weapons.
Drawing the blade from the hole he had just made to the base to make an opening large enough to enter, Kinney placed the blade between his teeth and edged into the tent. Britton and Camton followed suit while Martenson stayed outside to stand guard.
In the veil of absolute silence, Kinney inched towards the nearest man. Heart pounding heavily in his ears from fear, he slashed deep into the man's throat before a sound could be uttered in warning. Without giving the order, he heard his men follow his actions, taking out the other two in the tent.
Releasing a puff of air, Kinney dried his blade on the bedclothes of one of his victims before signaling for his men to near the entrance with them.
Careful steps and was at the tent's flap, using the target and zoom feature on his night vision goggles to view the other tents.
In the distance, he saw that three of the seven tents had already been taken and that two of his team were sneaking into the fourth.
He stood waiting, back rigid, gun resting against his side as the other tents were secured.
Five...
He released a sigh, re-sheathing the dagger.
Six...
His palms grew itchy with fear and anticipation against the stock of the rifle.
Shadowy figures neared the seventh and final exterior tent. Kinney's attention was drawn from that tent's entrance to the seventy or so soldiers milling about the compound. A sick feeling started in his gut as the moments ticked by. With eleven surviving men in his company against that many, the odds were stacked against them.
And then, the gun fire started.
Edging out from the tent's flaps, Kinney began aiming and firing at the grenadiers on the perimeter and then taking out the snipers that had taken refuge behind the enemy's fuel trucks.
The spare barrels of fuel pierced on the third shot and the explosion sent the truck-turned-torch into the center of camp, crushing and killing several.
"I've gotta get to that fucking tent," Kinney screamed over his shoulder. "You two cover me."
Before either of his men could protest, Kinney ducked out of the tent and crawl-walked across the open space.
Behind him, he heard Britton, Martenson, and Camton laying down cover fire as he dashed behind a piece of the exploded truck. The seventeen feet from his cover to the commander's tent was wide open.
Taking a deep breath, Kinney made a mad dash of it.
The second he cleared his safety spot, homemade grenades exploded around him. The sound of screams and crossfire faded to white noise as dug his long legs into the sand. His breath and rapidly beating heart were all he could hear as his eyes lock on the target.
Dropping to the ground as he entered the tent, he sprayed a steady stream of bullets into the enemy's CO and attendants, watching them fall and litter the ground.
This wasn't an urban training ground like his days in boot camp though; these were real men he'd just taken life from. Men that would have cut him down if given the chance. Another series of faces he wouldn't remember when all this was over; he'd killed far too many.
Dragging his hands along the blood soaked tunic of the CO, he located the hidden pocket and pulled the disc.
Eyes dashing around the room, he spotted the CPU on the crates beyond the bodies. Not taking a chance, he pulled the hard drive, shoved both into his pack, and ran out of the tent through the flaps.
The whirl and crash of the explosion might have been blocked out by his adrenaline rush, but the moment he was hit, the cacophony all came tearing back. Fragments tore through his flesh like butter, dragging a scream from his lips as he fell to the ground.
Bleeding heavily from the wound to his side and gut, Kinney pulled himself along through the blood slicked ground towards Martenson's corpse.
As he started to black out, he flicked the radio's switch back on and sounded the mayday.
The Black Hawk thundered around him bound for Ramstein in Germany, but Gus was only dimly aware of it all. He was more concerned with his men, completing the fucking mission than anything else.
Above him, the medic hollered into his headpiece.
"...massive interal bleeding...possible collapsed lung. Bullet and grenade frag."
A blood soaked hand clawed at the men hovering above him as Gus struggled to keep his vision from seeping to black.
"How many?"
"Just you and Britton, Sir."
The bed beneath him was hard and unforgiving. Chest rattling as he struggled for breath, Gus tried to sit up. Beside him, Britton stared up at the ceiling.
"Overheard the doc and the nurses this morning during rounds. I think they're moving us out this morning."
"Makes sense. Move out the walking wounded to make more space for the other people they destroyed."
Britton snorted, turning to looked at Gus.
"Think they'll discharge us?"
Gus tried to sigh, but it came out more of a wheeze. To be honest, nothing would make him happier; he wanted no part of this fucking war. But Britton? His family was career military. Like a fucking disease. And what did it get him? A leg blown off and a side full of bullets.
And Gus wasn't totally sure if the fucker was lucky or not. Probably lament being kicked out of the Corps.
"Dunno," he said, finally, air crackling beneath. "Very least they'll give us medical leave."
That afternoon, Gus was shipped off to Andrews on transport with several other ruined soldiers and a cargo full of coffins.
Sitting on the narrow benches, back against the heavy steel of the plane, he wheezed, trying to catch his breath. The infection he caught post-surgery to repair his collapsed lung left him struggling for air, and the stitches they used to sew his guts back into his abdomen fucking ached. At least he was heading home.
The men on the flight spent the multi-hour flight talking about what or who they'd do when they got back. All of them carefully avoiding anything to do with gauze-bandaged wounds and stubs where arms and legs used to be.
The plane touched down. Heavy steel screeching to a halt on the well-used tarmac.
Local news media were there, filming as he and the other boys were wheeled down the back.
One of the soldiers on family leave pushed him in the direction of the gang.
Debbie was there, of course, bright sign reading 'Welcome Home Gus.' It was the first warm smile he spotted.
"That your mom," the PFC pushing him asked.
"Nah. My Grams. The two beside her sobbing like little girls are my moms."
Just shy of the barricade, the whole Liberty Gang mobbed them. Deb was the one that tried to hug him first, but Gus threw up his hands to stop her.
"Mind the stitches. Last thing I need to do is wear my guts for garters again."
The moment he saw Deb's face pale and faux-smiles falter, he regretted the words. It was so fucking surreal to be stuck back States side were things like niceties were expected.
Turning his head, he saw the kid still hovering over his shoulder, waiting to be dismissed.
"Go see your girl."
"Sir, yes, Sir," he said, smiling and saluting before leaving Gus in the care of his well-meaning family.
Brian appeared from the sea of people's faces, hand lightly touching his kid's shoulder.
"What do you say we get you the fuck out of here?"
Gus offered a grateful smile.
"Lead the way."
The drive from Andrews to Pittsburgh was a long one. Gus sat in the backseat watching the scenery filter by. Cars with bumper stickers saying fuck the war and those supporting the president passed, and Gus tried to give a shit either way.
At a street light, he listened to some talk show blather on about how the war was necessary. How it was protecting those that needed it.
Gus rolled up his window and closed his eyes, thinking of the mission he had to go on and the fact that it's details could never be discussed.
He'd lost ten men under his command that day and saved countless. All over a fucking piece of plastic. All in a war he wanted nothing to do with.
Brighton was dark when the SUV rolled to a stop in front of it.
"We moved you into one of the bedrooms on the bottom floor," Brian said, rolling the wheelchair through the house.
Gus nodded, easing himself out of the chair and onto the bed, watching impassively as his father bent to remove his combat boots.
Eyes unfocused and staring at nothing, Gus sat poolside, a full ashtray of cigarette butts and a nearly empty bottle of Jack Daniel beside him.
"Think you should be mixing liquor and pain killers," Brian asked, sitting on the deck chair beside his son.
The hollow-eyed expression Gus offered in return made him shiver.
"Because adding a little extra help to the numbing sensation is, in no way as deadly or iffy as spending a year deployed in a warzone," Gus replied, taking lighting yet another cigarette.
Brian's lips thinned as he gazed at his son--unnaturally thin not only because of his wounds but because of his refusal to eat, deep circles under his eyes, audible catch-breaths from lungs still fighting off infection. The easy going, snarky little kid that left for boot camp nearly two years before had disappeared and this version was too close to the broody, intentionally cruel Jack Kinney complete with alcoholic tendencies.
Brian had always heard of post traumatic stress. He'd seen it first hand post-bashing, but he never thought he'd see his own son suffering the affects.
"Do you want to talk about it," he asked quietly.
Gus took another pull from his cigarette as he considered his father's question. Breathing smoke out from his nose and mouth, he answered, "What do you want to discuss? The part where I got drafted fresh out of high school, the ten men I ordered to their deaths, or the fifty-six people I killed while I was over there?"
Three weeks after his return home, Gus received the letter he'd been expecting--honorable discharge for medical purposes.
What he hadn't expected was to be awarded a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart for his trouble.
He stared at the paper for a good long hour before bothering to open the heavy leathered cases--one for each award.
To be honest, he'd expected the Purple Heart; he'd been wounded in combat. But the Bronze Star?
He closed his eyes, mind swimming with the events of that night. The scent of copper from thick pools of blood and burning flesh. The screams of terror, and the rapid fire of rifles.
He slammed the box shut and threw it onto the counter as if the metal and ribbon burned his fingers.
The boxes remained in the kitchen until his fathers returned home from work.
Brian found his son poolside once again. The years spent out in the sunlight while on patrol had left Gus deeply tanned. So much so that the ugly, red scar tissue from his wounds stood out in contrast.
"They're letting me out," Gus said, not bothering to look up.
Brian nodded, taking his usual position on the deck chair.
"I was expecting you to be...I don't know...happy. Christ, it was all you talked about the last time you were here."
Gus blinked, looking out across the massive property.
"Yeah...well...things change." he said, quietly as he tried to remember it. A couple hundred rifle clips ago had he been any less bitter about it all?
Brian nodded, watching his son continue to stare at nothing.
"Got plans for tonight?"
He'd asked it to change the subject in an attempt to get his kid to come inside, to leave the house, to do anything but sit in that fucking deck chair and stare at the backyard. What he wasn't expecting, however, was the response he got. Lips curling into a sneer, Gus kept his attention on the grass and trees he'd missed so much in that fucking desert.
"I'm going to try to remember what it's like to be Gus and not Lieutenant First Class Kinney."
Gus would never be his old self.
The collapsed lung he'd suffered saw to it that he coughed a little too deeply in the winter. In every place he entered, he'd take count of where the exits were and who was a potential hostile. Backfiring cars made him jump and reach for a non-existent rifle, and he was slow as hell to trust new people.
Of all the wounds the Corps barely healed, his heart was the one that was the worst.
Terminology:
GSW = gun shot wound
CO = Commanding Officer
PFC = Private First Class
Title from Mark Twain's short story The War Prayer
fanfic100: 18/100
This one is unlike any of the others I've written.
Written from the perspective of a military brat who watched the armed services destroy her family.
Sydney Alexis
[.047 Hearts]
AUish - Angst
The uniform was gritty beneath his touch. Wind whipped sand filling the crevices of the camo, or, rather, what was left of it; carrion birds had already had their way with the remains.
Routing around, he found the dog tags hanging from the skeleton's neck. Pulling the spare from the chain, he turned to look over his shoulder.
"Call it in, Private," he said, pocketing the tag.
Standing, he wiped his brow with his cap before taking his gun back into his hands.
The voice came through the line, staticy and hard to hear over the wind. "Report."
"Harris is dead, Sir. The jeep's been picked clean. There's nothing left."
"Cause of death?"
Nearing the remains, he turned the head slowly, noting with a grim expression the damage to the back of the skull and the bullet holes in the jeep's only remaining door.
"GSW. Close range. Several types of bullet frags."
White noise filled the line. Silence that stretched on as his CO considered their next orders.
"I don't think I need to tell you that we need that fucking intel, Kinney." A beat. "We're going to have to send your team in."
A collective gasp came from him and his men as he stared into the radio with disbelief.
"Sir, we aren't equipped for an assault on the enemy base. I'll loose half my team!"
"We ran the scenario prior to your deployment, Lieutenant. It's an acceptable risk. Now go out there, get the fucking disc, and get your ass back to base because, if you don't, they'll fucking hang you for treason. Is. that. clear?"
"Crystal," he spit into the line before throwing the gadget back at his radio operator.
He opted for a night assault. Slithering on their bellies through the sand and god knew what other creatures. Eyes covered with infrared, they inched towards the foreign soldiers who were gathered around the campfire.
Motioning with his hand, Kinney split off to the east with Britten, Camton, and Martenson while the other members of his team took off towards the west to surround the camp and cut off the exits.
Martenson flicked the switch on his radio, going dark approach as they inched towards the tent.
From his belt, Kinney drew the non-government sanctioned dagger. Clinching it in his hand, he cut through the camo'ed tent's silk fabric just enough to take an inventory--three sleeping figures and several weapons.
Drawing the blade from the hole he had just made to the base to make an opening large enough to enter, Kinney placed the blade between his teeth and edged into the tent. Britton and Camton followed suit while Martenson stayed outside to stand guard.
In the veil of absolute silence, Kinney inched towards the nearest man. Heart pounding heavily in his ears from fear, he slashed deep into the man's throat before a sound could be uttered in warning. Without giving the order, he heard his men follow his actions, taking out the other two in the tent.
Releasing a puff of air, Kinney dried his blade on the bedclothes of one of his victims before signaling for his men to near the entrance with them.
Careful steps and was at the tent's flap, using the target and zoom feature on his night vision goggles to view the other tents.
In the distance, he saw that three of the seven tents had already been taken and that two of his team were sneaking into the fourth.
He stood waiting, back rigid, gun resting against his side as the other tents were secured.
Five...
He released a sigh, re-sheathing the dagger.
Six...
His palms grew itchy with fear and anticipation against the stock of the rifle.
Shadowy figures neared the seventh and final exterior tent. Kinney's attention was drawn from that tent's entrance to the seventy or so soldiers milling about the compound. A sick feeling started in his gut as the moments ticked by. With eleven surviving men in his company against that many, the odds were stacked against them.
And then, the gun fire started.
Edging out from the tent's flaps, Kinney began aiming and firing at the grenadiers on the perimeter and then taking out the snipers that had taken refuge behind the enemy's fuel trucks.
The spare barrels of fuel pierced on the third shot and the explosion sent the truck-turned-torch into the center of camp, crushing and killing several.
"I've gotta get to that fucking tent," Kinney screamed over his shoulder. "You two cover me."
Before either of his men could protest, Kinney ducked out of the tent and crawl-walked across the open space.
Behind him, he heard Britton, Martenson, and Camton laying down cover fire as he dashed behind a piece of the exploded truck. The seventeen feet from his cover to the commander's tent was wide open.
Taking a deep breath, Kinney made a mad dash of it.
The second he cleared his safety spot, homemade grenades exploded around him. The sound of screams and crossfire faded to white noise as dug his long legs into the sand. His breath and rapidly beating heart were all he could hear as his eyes lock on the target.
Dropping to the ground as he entered the tent, he sprayed a steady stream of bullets into the enemy's CO and attendants, watching them fall and litter the ground.
This wasn't an urban training ground like his days in boot camp though; these were real men he'd just taken life from. Men that would have cut him down if given the chance. Another series of faces he wouldn't remember when all this was over; he'd killed far too many.
Dragging his hands along the blood soaked tunic of the CO, he located the hidden pocket and pulled the disc.
Eyes dashing around the room, he spotted the CPU on the crates beyond the bodies. Not taking a chance, he pulled the hard drive, shoved both into his pack, and ran out of the tent through the flaps.
The whirl and crash of the explosion might have been blocked out by his adrenaline rush, but the moment he was hit, the cacophony all came tearing back. Fragments tore through his flesh like butter, dragging a scream from his lips as he fell to the ground.
Bleeding heavily from the wound to his side and gut, Kinney pulled himself along through the blood slicked ground towards Martenson's corpse.
As he started to black out, he flicked the radio's switch back on and sounded the mayday.
The Black Hawk thundered around him bound for Ramstein in Germany, but Gus was only dimly aware of it all. He was more concerned with his men, completing the fucking mission than anything else.
Above him, the medic hollered into his headpiece.
"...massive interal bleeding...possible collapsed lung. Bullet and grenade frag."
A blood soaked hand clawed at the men hovering above him as Gus struggled to keep his vision from seeping to black.
"How many?"
"Just you and Britton, Sir."
The bed beneath him was hard and unforgiving. Chest rattling as he struggled for breath, Gus tried to sit up. Beside him, Britton stared up at the ceiling.
"Overheard the doc and the nurses this morning during rounds. I think they're moving us out this morning."
"Makes sense. Move out the walking wounded to make more space for the other people they destroyed."
Britton snorted, turning to looked at Gus.
"Think they'll discharge us?"
Gus tried to sigh, but it came out more of a wheeze. To be honest, nothing would make him happier; he wanted no part of this fucking war. But Britton? His family was career military. Like a fucking disease. And what did it get him? A leg blown off and a side full of bullets.
And Gus wasn't totally sure if the fucker was lucky or not. Probably lament being kicked out of the Corps.
"Dunno," he said, finally, air crackling beneath. "Very least they'll give us medical leave."
That afternoon, Gus was shipped off to Andrews on transport with several other ruined soldiers and a cargo full of coffins.
Sitting on the narrow benches, back against the heavy steel of the plane, he wheezed, trying to catch his breath. The infection he caught post-surgery to repair his collapsed lung left him struggling for air, and the stitches they used to sew his guts back into his abdomen fucking ached. At least he was heading home.
The men on the flight spent the multi-hour flight talking about what or who they'd do when they got back. All of them carefully avoiding anything to do with gauze-bandaged wounds and stubs where arms and legs used to be.
The plane touched down. Heavy steel screeching to a halt on the well-used tarmac.
Local news media were there, filming as he and the other boys were wheeled down the back.
One of the soldiers on family leave pushed him in the direction of the gang.
Debbie was there, of course, bright sign reading 'Welcome Home Gus.' It was the first warm smile he spotted.
"That your mom," the PFC pushing him asked.
"Nah. My Grams. The two beside her sobbing like little girls are my moms."
Just shy of the barricade, the whole Liberty Gang mobbed them. Deb was the one that tried to hug him first, but Gus threw up his hands to stop her.
"Mind the stitches. Last thing I need to do is wear my guts for garters again."
The moment he saw Deb's face pale and faux-smiles falter, he regretted the words. It was so fucking surreal to be stuck back States side were things like niceties were expected.
Turning his head, he saw the kid still hovering over his shoulder, waiting to be dismissed.
"Go see your girl."
"Sir, yes, Sir," he said, smiling and saluting before leaving Gus in the care of his well-meaning family.
Brian appeared from the sea of people's faces, hand lightly touching his kid's shoulder.
"What do you say we get you the fuck out of here?"
Gus offered a grateful smile.
"Lead the way."
The drive from Andrews to Pittsburgh was a long one. Gus sat in the backseat watching the scenery filter by. Cars with bumper stickers saying fuck the war and those supporting the president passed, and Gus tried to give a shit either way.
At a street light, he listened to some talk show blather on about how the war was necessary. How it was protecting those that needed it.
Gus rolled up his window and closed his eyes, thinking of the mission he had to go on and the fact that it's details could never be discussed.
He'd lost ten men under his command that day and saved countless. All over a fucking piece of plastic. All in a war he wanted nothing to do with.
Brighton was dark when the SUV rolled to a stop in front of it.
"We moved you into one of the bedrooms on the bottom floor," Brian said, rolling the wheelchair through the house.
Gus nodded, easing himself out of the chair and onto the bed, watching impassively as his father bent to remove his combat boots.
Eyes unfocused and staring at nothing, Gus sat poolside, a full ashtray of cigarette butts and a nearly empty bottle of Jack Daniel beside him.
"Think you should be mixing liquor and pain killers," Brian asked, sitting on the deck chair beside his son.
The hollow-eyed expression Gus offered in return made him shiver.
"Because adding a little extra help to the numbing sensation is, in no way as deadly or iffy as spending a year deployed in a warzone," Gus replied, taking lighting yet another cigarette.
Brian's lips thinned as he gazed at his son--unnaturally thin not only because of his wounds but because of his refusal to eat, deep circles under his eyes, audible catch-breaths from lungs still fighting off infection. The easy going, snarky little kid that left for boot camp nearly two years before had disappeared and this version was too close to the broody, intentionally cruel Jack Kinney complete with alcoholic tendencies.
Brian had always heard of post traumatic stress. He'd seen it first hand post-bashing, but he never thought he'd see his own son suffering the affects.
"Do you want to talk about it," he asked quietly.
Gus took another pull from his cigarette as he considered his father's question. Breathing smoke out from his nose and mouth, he answered, "What do you want to discuss? The part where I got drafted fresh out of high school, the ten men I ordered to their deaths, or the fifty-six people I killed while I was over there?"
Three weeks after his return home, Gus received the letter he'd been expecting--honorable discharge for medical purposes.
What he hadn't expected was to be awarded a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart for his trouble.
He stared at the paper for a good long hour before bothering to open the heavy leathered cases--one for each award.
To be honest, he'd expected the Purple Heart; he'd been wounded in combat. But the Bronze Star?
He closed his eyes, mind swimming with the events of that night. The scent of copper from thick pools of blood and burning flesh. The screams of terror, and the rapid fire of rifles.
He slammed the box shut and threw it onto the counter as if the metal and ribbon burned his fingers.
The boxes remained in the kitchen until his fathers returned home from work.
Brian found his son poolside once again. The years spent out in the sunlight while on patrol had left Gus deeply tanned. So much so that the ugly, red scar tissue from his wounds stood out in contrast.
"They're letting me out," Gus said, not bothering to look up.
Brian nodded, taking his usual position on the deck chair.
"I was expecting you to be...I don't know...happy. Christ, it was all you talked about the last time you were here."
Gus blinked, looking out across the massive property.
"Yeah...well...things change." he said, quietly as he tried to remember it. A couple hundred rifle clips ago had he been any less bitter about it all?
Brian nodded, watching his son continue to stare at nothing.
"Got plans for tonight?"
He'd asked it to change the subject in an attempt to get his kid to come inside, to leave the house, to do anything but sit in that fucking deck chair and stare at the backyard. What he wasn't expecting, however, was the response he got. Lips curling into a sneer, Gus kept his attention on the grass and trees he'd missed so much in that fucking desert.
"I'm going to try to remember what it's like to be Gus and not Lieutenant First Class Kinney."
Gus would never be his old self.
The collapsed lung he'd suffered saw to it that he coughed a little too deeply in the winter. In every place he entered, he'd take count of where the exits were and who was a potential hostile. Backfiring cars made him jump and reach for a non-existent rifle, and he was slow as hell to trust new people.
Of all the wounds the Corps barely healed, his heart was the one that was the worst.
Terminology:
GSW = gun shot wound
CO = Commanding Officer
PFC = Private First Class
Title from Mark Twain's short story The War Prayer
fanfic100: 18/100
This one is unlike any of the others I've written.
Written from the perspective of a military brat who watched the armed services destroy her family.