War ⇔ Cashton ✓

Fort

ASHTON

At some point of the night, the bombs stopped exploding and the screams stopped piercing the air. Everyone is grateful, for the silence and this fragment of peace in the middle of hell.

It doesn't take too long for one of the lieutenants to arrive at the top of the trench, hollering down at us to get moving. We all react like puppets on a string, jerkily grabbing the weapons and supplies before one by one climbing out of the trench. It's pitch black outside, but none of us can tell if it's because of the night or if it is because of the bomb's smoke. A few lieutenants use flashlights to see, shining them in front of us and at other soldiers' backs to make sure everyone is in line. I can tell by the flashes of light that all of us are drenched in mud and dirt from the trenches, the whites of our eyes shining like glass.

The hike back to the helicopters is treacherous, stumbling over dead forms and bloodless limbs that have been separated from people's bodies. We are constantly tripping over something and fumbling to keep our balance in the dark. Overall, we are just grateful that we get to fly back to our base camp. We stayed here, sleeping in trenches and a few scattered forts for weeks, drawing out to be months, and we have all been slowly going insane.

We start to hear the whirring of the helicopter blades, and they get deafening with each step our tattered boots take. Bodies press closer to watch other as we huddle into separate groups to file into the huge helicopters. I spot Luke's familiar broad shoulders in the mass of bodies, and I push through until I get behind him, knowing Michael must be somewhere close by.

The small group of soldiers lessen as they climb into the helicopter, and I shove myself forwards behind Luke, placing my boot on the ledge and gripping the hand rails to pull myself up. The helicopter is silent, other than the roar of the blades. I'm thankful for the noise, all of us are. It's the sound of something hopeful, so different than the sound of gunshots and shells.

Luke slides beside me and releases a breath, tearing off his helmet. I do the same, my filthy fingers unbuckling the strap and ripping it off my head. I hold the bulky helmet in my hands as the helicopter doors shut close.

Luke bows his head, running his fingers through his short hair that we had to chop short.

"That was a rough one." Luke comments. It was. The shelling was bad this line. Too many weapons, not enough defenses.

I feel the helicopter lift shakily off the ground, swaying a bit as it rises up into the air. Luke is pressed against me while the helicopter straightens itself out in the air.

Michael, who had been seated at the other side of the helicopter, stands up and carefully walks over to us, sitting down beside me. He takes off his helmet and sighs, rubbing small circles over his pale fists.

"How is your leg doing?" Luke asks me. I look at him, at his pale face marked with mud and blood that may or may not be his. His blue eyes, faded from seeing too much pain and grief, gaze down at the wound on my leg.

It isn't too bad, just a bit bloody. At telling him this, Luke nods, straightening his shoulders and leaning back to look at Michael.

"How about you, Mikey?" He asks. "You doing okay?"

Michael turns at Luke's voice and nods, giving him a small smile. He stops clenching his fists and loosens them, stretching out his short fingers.

"Yeah. I'm alright."

We sit in silence, because that is the one thing we continue to cherish in such a hell-driven place.

The helicopter ride back to base camp takes a while. It mostly consists of complete quiescence and a few murmurs here in there, the sound of the helicopter blades filling the empty air. None of us move until the helicopter slows down and begins lowering itself back down to the ground. We then grab our helmets in our rough hands and prepare to step off the chopper.