Dialogue with Death

The Soldier and Death

Beneath grand speeches of Glory and Duty
Lies the bitter stench of those who've fallen,
In the shadow of loud words of heroic deeds
Rest silently, those who paid the price.

The alarm's buzzer shattered the night silence of the soldiers' barracks. My body acted on instinct, and by the time my consciousness kicked in to assess the situation soberly, I was already dressed. Three tours in a hot zone leave their mark. The motley crew of fighters stationed with me mostly stood at attention. Their state of readiness immediately revealed the veterans from the green rookies. We were being pulled out of Afghanistan in parts, mixing experienced soldiers with young punks who hadn't even served half their term. This nonsense from the staff rats caused a huge wave of indignation. Most of us lost our well-deserved leave. Many had to cancel long-awaited family reunions. Double pay and hefty bonuses somewhat dampened the anger, but the resentment remained. Each of us prayed there wouldn't be any serious skirmishes these days. Going into battle with an unprepared rookie is deadly dangerous. Doubly so for me. A sniper vitally needs a good spotter. One mistake and you're dead. There won't be a second chance. But today, just a day before my departure, someone had the itch to fight.

My musings were interrupted by a young lieutenant calling the senior staff to a briefing at headquarters. As luck would have it, I was one of the officers on replacement duty. The senior sergeant had been demobilized yesterday, and all his headaches fell on the shoulders of the junior staff. The HQ was close to the main barracks, so it wasn't far to go. Despite the late hour, it was crowded and unbearably stuffy. A map of one of the nearby villages was spread out on the table, with a bunch of photos and reports on the briefing board. One of the screens was broadcasting a scene of brutal violence. A quick analysis showed that our platoon was in deep shit.

"Good morning, princesses. I understand most of you are already mentally drinking cold beer while fondling a beauty back home, but those wet dreams will have to wait," the huge colonel looked terrible. The bags under his bloodshot eyes showed how deeply the high command had been loving him these past couple of months, and what a headache he'd earned with this troop withdrawal from Afghanistan. "A couple of reporters went missing about a week ago in this sector." He jabbed a finger at a village on the map. "We've turned over every lousy shack, but found no one. And yesterday, these Taliban scumbags came out with a loud statement and demands."

He turned on the broadcast. A typically wrapped-up Taliban terrorist was ranting on camera about the greatness of his people and the American pigs who had invaded his land. He was demonstratively threatening three hostages. "And if you don't meet my demands, they'll face a fate even worse than their friend's." The frame switched to bloody violence against a young girl. The colonel closed the feed.

"This piece of shit didn't just kidnap reporters, he's publicly posting it on all channels. They've already rolled up a tanker of Vaseline to my ass, but when it turned out that one of the reporters is the daughter of a channel owner, they've shoved so far up my ass they're reaching my throat. The only upside in this moral rape is that Langley sent the exact location of these bastards." He circled a small area near the village. "It's a former school built by the States. There's a bomb shelter. Intelligence thinks the hostages are there. We're operating by the standard scenario. Come in quietly, get our people, and leave quietly. No air support. No support from locals either. So, maximum caution. If possible, take this bastard alive." The colonel passed the terrorist's photo to the guys. "If not possible, make him suffer. Everyone, disperse to the vehicles!" The briefing was over. It was time for the assault team to go hunting.