enemy. Close.
There is that dude from Bravo Company, the one who used to brag about all the pussy he got. He won’t be getting any more. Took a slug right between the eyes. All that yuk leaking out of his head.
Suddenly, too quickly, you’re mixing it up hand to hand. This is stupid; the enemy looks just like you. His mouth is open, his eyes are wide with a combination of fear and excitement, and he is dirty and smells bad. Your eyes meet. Brains send the message. Kill.
You’re off your knees. (how did I get on my knees? What the fuck was I doing, praying?) Legs support you. You’re going to be all right.
Squeeze the trigger. The enemy is dead. No, he isn’t! The goddamn rifle is empty! Slam the butt of the M-16 into his balls. He doubles over, puking. Bring the butt down on his neck and pray the goddamn plastic stock doesn’t break. If it’s from Mattel, it’s swell. Hear the neck pop. He’s dead. A fresh clip in the weapon.
Shoot him just to be sure.
Turn in a crouch, trying to suck air into your lungs, can’t get enough air. Another Rebel has just killed that guy … what’s his name? Third platoon. You notice the strangest things. The guy needs a shave. Force your bayonet into the Rebel’s back. (when did you fix the bayonet on the lug?) Damn-it’s not as easy as in the movies; the guy is screaming and jerking around and pissing on himself. Oh, shit! The bayonet is stuck in the guy’s back. Blow it free. There it is.
Suddenly, you’re on the ground, flat on your back. How’d that happen? Am I hit? Oh, God! Don’t let my balls be gone!
“Get up, you yellow son of a bitch!” a sergeant is yelling.
Is he yelling at me? Hell, I’m not yellow. I just killed a couple of Rebs. Damn, Sarge, I didn’t get down here deliberately, you know. The sergeant takes a slug in the back. Must have gone right through the spine. He falls funny. You can’t remember his name.
Get to your feet to face the enemy. What is this, a replay? You just did this.
Some troops have captured a Rebel woman, pulling the pants off her. Aw, come on, guys! She’s screaming as they mount her. They’re hurting her. That’s not right, guys; we’re not animals.
“Want some pussy, Jake?”
They’re talking to you, stupid. “No.” Turn away. Don’t have to look at this.
The woman is really screaming in pain.
A man is on the ground. A Rebel. Some government troops are sticking him with bayonets.
“Beg, you mother-fucker!” they yell at him.
“Go to hell!” the Rebel shouts his defiance.
The Old Man said no prisoners. So the Reb is shot. But they didn’t have to shoot him there. He’s screaming in pain.
It’s quiet. You look around you. Is it over? Yeah-almost. Holy-Mother-of-God-Jesus-Fucking -Christ-Almighty! Look at the bodies. All the blood and stuff. Oh, Lord-the sergeant is walking around, shooting the wounded Rebels in the head. Someone tells you that you’re now a sergeant. Battlefield promotion. Somehow it doesn’t seem like such a big deal. You want to scream: “But I don’t want the promotion!” Then suddenly there is a .45 in your hand an you’re stepping through the gore and the pain and the moaning and the pistol is jumping in your hand, ending the moaning and the screaming ands the pain.
No prisoners.
That was the rule on both sides of the conflict.
That woman Reb was still screaming. They were sodomizing her. And calling out crudely as they did so.
You walk away from the sights and sounds of the rape. You could tell them to stop and they would have to. You’re a sergeant. But you don’t want to lose the respect of your men this early in the game. What the hell? She’s only a Rebel. The enemy.
All around you the enemy is lying dead on the ground. And that woman is still screaming. Wish she would shut up.
A Rebel is still alive, shot hard in the chest. He’s looking up at you, defiance in his eyes. You shoot him in the head and try not to look at the wedding band on his left hand, third finger. Maybe that was his wife the guys are screwing up the ass.
Don’t think about that.
Rationalize the situation. Look, you say silently to the dead man, don’t blame me. I’m just following orders, man.
The enemy is defeated, most dead, and it’s just too quiet around here. Somebody say something. But everybody you look at averts their eyes. Guys are breathing too hard; somebody tosses his breakfast, puking on the ground. Someone else is praying. The Lord’s Prayer. You feel like laughing. Man … you think God is listening to this shit? “It’s too goddamned quiet!”
You spin around. “Who said that?” you demand in a harsh voice.
Nobody will answer.
Our Father which art in Heaven …
A Rebel is moaning in pain.
Hallowed be Thy name…
You point to the Rebel. “Shoot him!” you order.
Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done… Bam!
The gunshot is so goddamned loud.
In earth, as it is in Heaven …
There is a guy from your platoon, kneeling, holding a tiny, blue-colored bird in his dirty hand.
Give us this day our daily bread …
The bird is dead.
And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors…
Everybody gathered around to look at the bird. No one speaks. It’s quiet.
And lead us not into temptation …
There isn’t a mark on the bird. No blood. Seems
funny to see something with no blood on it. Wonder what killed the bird?
But deliver us from evil…
“Hey, Sarge?”
“Yeah?” Your voice sounds funny. Odd.
For thine is the kingdom, and the power …
“You know what, Sarge?”
And the glory…
“What?”
Forever…
“We won.”
Amen.
CHAPTER THREE
Gale was silent for a time that evening of the IPF’S first major defeat on American soil. Then, after an hour had passed, with Ben leaving her alone to work it all out in her mind, she came to him.
She stood looking at him for a moment before speaking. “We did the best we could, didn’t we, Ben? I mean, the fighting?”
“Better than I thought we’d do, Gale. Better than I could ever imagine, in fact.”
“You’re not just saying that?”
“No.”
“Your people-our people, the Rebels-they knew they would suffer losses, didn’t they?”
“Yes.”
“But still they laid their lives on the line for people they had never met?”
“That is correct.”
There were tears in her eyes as she said, “Then I won’t nag you about it again, about doing anything
