The M60s shot round after round onto the far bank, as the men came into full view.
I did not see any other children, or Mike and Jake, as the carnage continued.
Walls of bullets flew in both directions, and screams came from both sides.
I kept my head down as they passed right over my hole, popping up to shoot at each lull. The first time I shot one of these guns in Texas a few years back, I was shooting across a river at tennis balls. I remember feeling a bit like Rambo back then, but that’s easier to do, I realized now, when nobody is shooting back.
We had the advantage of the foxholes and fireworks, and I was sure we were the only ones carrying automatic weapons, at least for this round.
“Cease-fire,” called Lonnie over the radios as the river and valley, as far as we could see, filled with smoke.
I kept low, not seeing any signs of people crossing the river.
For nearly three minutes there was no shooting from either side, only screams of the wounded, hoping to go home alive tonight.
Another five minutes went by as I crawled towards the closest wounded man on our side. It was one of Nate’s guys. He had been shot multiple times, and I was sure he couldn’t be saved. He was young, maybe eighteen or nineteen, with a wife and one-year-old twin girls. I got down low and put pressure on the chest wound that took his breath, and most of his voice, away. He wouldn’t answer my questions about where he had been hit and only wanted to speak of his family.
“My wife and two girls,” he started, “are all I have and they mean everything to me. If I don’t make it back, I need your word that they will be taken care of and added to your group.”
“You’re going to make it,” I told him. “But yes, we can honor your request, and they would be added to one of our groups.”
He died in my arms, right there in a dirt hole, and I realized I didn’t even know his name. “I will find your wife and girls, and I promise we will take care of them,” I whispered in his ear as I closed his cold, open eyes.
Lonnie made his way cautiously from one side to the other, assessing wounded and casualties on our end.
I laid my new friend down gently in the soft dirt and met Lonnie halfway, hoping to hear he was the only casualty on our side. I told him we were one man down that I knew of.
“We’ve got another one of Nate’s guys killed down the way,” he responded. “Mel has a graze on his ear that may need a few stitches and a second-degree burn on his right hand from one of the big fireworks. Vlad and David are fine, and we don’t know anything about Jake or Mike.”
“As bad as that was,” I told him, “we’ve got five times that number, or more, likely headed here right now.”
“We’ll have to stop them,” he said. “We don’t have a choice.”
“I know,” I responded, “and we will, somehow… We will!” as I reloaded the M60.
Lonnie’s radio chirped, and Steve was on the line, relaying a message from Jim.
“The Colonel just called, and he’s in the air after spending some time in Fort Collins at that place we were talking about before. He’s up in the Chinook, and he says they are about 90 minutes out. That was five minutes ago, so let’s call it 85.”
“Fine,” said Lonnie. “If you guys talk to him, let him know we’ve got at least a hundred not so friendlies likely headed our way, arriving about his same time, and any help would be greatly appreciated!”
“I’ll relay the message, sir.”
“Mel,” called Lonnie, “let’s get another visual now. I’m sure they are moving and I want to know which direction.”
“I’m on it,” he replied, starting the second climb up the tree. His right hand had a crude gauze bandage Lonnie had wrapped around it quickly, making the second climb more difficult.
Mel thought he just might see the next wave headed back towards the highway, having run into more trouble than they bargained for.
His hopes were dashed, seeing them on the move in this direction, and several trucks coming from the Interstate, headed here as well.
Several shots rang out as the drone neared the first group, still flying high overhead. With none hitting the flying machine, he brought it back in hopes to live long enough to fly it again someday.
Mike crossed the river first with his precious find. The girl didn’t seem at all frightened by Mike’s head-to-toe camo dress and painted face.
I wondered if she knew he was going to help her or if it was just not scary compared to what she had already seen with the soulless group who held her captive.
“One more,” I said, looking up to the sky.
Jake appeared and we all covered him as his crossed the river.
“We did some quick recon, and most over there are dead,” said Jake, “with only a few running back towards their group.”
“Mike and I gathered up 15 or so rifles and ammo from the downed men, and one unarmed woman, sadly,” he said, lowering his voice, so the small girl didn’t hear.
“Everything is hidden fairly well in some brush for now.”
My stomach ached as I thought about the likely scenario of this girl’s mother ending up a casualty of cowardly aggression, and I prayed she had not died by my bullet. I wanted to shelve the whole conversation for now, but I could not.
“Where’s your mommy?” I asked her.
Without answering, she pointed straight across the river. Tears rolled down her
