Foster

Chapter 3

"Get up, Foster," A gruff voice spoke from behind him. Calvin turned as his general nudged him with his boot, "Ain't no time for cryin' yet. We have to move."

Calvin couldn't move. He didn't want to. Leaving his friend's body was the last thing he could think about. His body, however, seemed to have other plans. His legs stood themselves up, and he dropped the dog tag in his hand back where they belonged. He knew he didn't have the luxury to grieve, if he stayed, he would die too.

"General Abrams, sir?" Calvin asked cautiously. His voice was hoarse.

"Yeah, Foster?" the general turned, the remainder of their troop watching him lead them off into the depths of the jungle.

"What'll happen to those bodies? The ones that were blown to bits?"

"Choppers will come for 'em. Just like the rest, and decide what to do with them."

Calvin walked close behind him, silent for a long moment before speaking again, "And they'll take real good care of 'em, sir?"

"I won't make any promises. But we take care of our own back home. Our men won't leave them behind if it can be helped," he nodded.

Calvin figured that was the best answer he was going to get, and let the conversation drop. He marched with the other men and stayed quiet. No one spoke, they simply treaded on. Whatever needed to be said was carried out with hand signals, and not one of them dared to snap a branch from under their feet. The soldiers feared disturbing the silence. It could mean they would have to fight again if they were heard by the enemy, or that they would have to remember the events of the day. So side by side they trudged on, staring forward at what lied a head of them.

It was hot and humid. The rain that poured gave them no relief, as it was only as hot as the air around them. They were all drenched from head to toe, but no one made a complaint. The more they acted like nothing was wrong, it was just that. Calvin was sweaty and tired, but he was more grateful for the rainfall than the others. He felt as though he were being washed clean of the muck, dirt, and sadness he had been carrying with him. He pushed his helmet back so that the water could soak his hair and drip down his face. For a while he forgot why he had been so troubled. The simplicity of the marching and the silence brought him comfort. Even if he knew it wouldn't last.

Each step Calvin took caused his boots to slide up from the heel. The mud beneath him was so thick, it stuck to him and consumed his boots up to the ankles. He had to curl in his toes each time he lifted a foot for a better grip. There wasn't much that Calvin hated in the world, he had always thought there wasn't enough room for hatred in his heart, but he did have a very strong dislike for mud. In fact he was a bit of a clean freak.

The troop came to halt by the edge of a ravine, a makeshift bridge was drawn narrowly across it. General Abrams motioned forward and began to carefully make his way across. Once he was halfway to the other end, the next soldier followed him, taking slow steps. General Abrams reached the other side, not having looked down a single time. Three more soldiers followed close behind the first. Many of them did not do the same as Abrams had. They wobbled and lost their footing many times, but no man fell. Those who would have were caught by the comrade behind them.

By the time it was Calvin's turn, he had lost all awareness of where he was. He only knew where he was going. So he walked. Step by step, making his way over the bridge alone until he was on the other side. His brothers in arms stared at him for only moments before they all were forced to continue the journey back to camp. All he could focus on was that he had to keep moving. Despite all of his setbacks, the only thing that mattered to him now was getting home.

Home was far, far away.