Someone once said that life is what you make it! Is that really so? Can one life cut short by petty disputes be rewarded in a later one?

  

The Ridge

by Ann O'Nonymous

  

From his foxhole, looking down towards the tree line, he could just about make out the advancing horde. In a minute or two, they would be swarming up the hill firing their weapons, and tossing grenades when close enough. Briefings said that the enemy artillery stopped just minutes before an imminent attack, and before any ground advance the enemy would fire a rolling barrage, and cease when their troops moved. (Now when they moved, they followed right behind the advancing fire.)

"Charley, toss a belt in, will ya!"

Charley opened the breech, fed a belt of .50 caliber in, locked down the breech and yelled, "SET."

He swung the weapon around, found the nearest target and fired.

Budda – budda – budda – budda. Three other weapons opened up, joining into the battlefield cacophony. The horde advanced, crouching and firing as they moved.

BLAM! A grenade went off close to the position. Whirrr – whang, zigged the sound of a nameless projectile fired from a too close rifle.

"Hey, Joe – give it up. Yo surrounded. They aint comin fo you," came from an enemy psywar loudspeaker, "Hey, Joe – we got nice warm beds and . . .". A shell took out the nuisance.

The enemy was closer now, close enough to see the ranks on their helmets. One soldier threw up his hands and his weapon went flying through the air as machine guns tore his stomach wide open. Soon the field held dozens of dead and dying; advancing troops were slipping and sliding on the blood spilling from their comrades.

Brrp, brrp, brrp – automatic weapons were now in use.

"Reload," was yelled. Charley grabbed a glove, opened up the smoking weapon and added a second belt. Meanwhile, another friendly gun chattered its deadly song into this nightmarish hell called battle.

Thrrrrrrrrw – blam. Thrrrw – blam. Artillery barrage by the enemy – short, but still a shower of shrapnel took out another position.

"Left, left," came an anxious cry from Charley. Two weapons converged on an attempted flanking attack by the enemy.

He remembered the orders: "Hold the ridge at all costs." Yeah, easy for them to ask – we're just stupid grunts who do the fighting and get killed, and most of the time we don't know why. Kill or be killed, for one miserable hill of about four hundred meters high. God, how he hated killing, the war, people who thought this was the right thing to do – especially the useless, senseless slaughter.

Tsinnng, another close one. He was panning now – left to right and back to left mowing down dozens. "Charley, another belt! Quick, damn it!"

His feeder, usually was quick, but as he turned, he could see frozen shocked look on Charley's face! His right arm and shoulder were missing. He was beyond any help he could render. With no feeder, he grabbed his rifle and started firing.

Feeewl, barrrooom. Fwwwppp. Another friendly gun gone. Whistles were sounding all over – enemy and friendlies. Screams of "incoming" on all sides.

Funny, the one that gets you seems to have no sound at all – just that sudden burst of pure hell as you realize you won't be eating tomorrow. He looked down at his stomach, wide open with guts imitating Swiss cheese hanging out, blood gushing in a miniature version of Niagara Falls and all he could think was, "Gee, I'm gonna get bawled out for having a dirty uniform." He started to reach towards the vast crater in his chest, took two steps and fell over dead onto a patch of bloody, worthless land in a country whose name he couldn't even pronounce.

… … … … … --- --- --- --- --- --- … … … …

Julie Stanton woke up from that dream, a nightmare life of long ago. She rested her head in her hands, and tried to get the smell of Cordite out of her mind. She knew what that dream meant – and it wasn't a dream. Still, she had to get ready for another long day.

Shower, shampoo and condition hair, dust with a scented powder – all those little things that make a woman glad she's a female. As she dressed, she never takes for granted the tug of bra straps, the feel of nylons, hair against nape of neck, the additional height of heels, the sway of a skirt – it was what made life worth living.

Today, however, was a workday and she dressed in a colorful sunflower yellow pants suit, clipped on her name tag, went down to her car and off to her job. Once there, she parked in her assigned space, locked up and proceeded to her station.

"Good morning, Tina! Okay, what do we have for today," she inquired.

The nurse looked up, and said, "Good morning, Doctor Stanton! For starters, auto accident just came in – two teenager girls tried to move a telephone pole with their car. We got a drug overdoses in three and four, and two smoke inhalation victims on oxygen. Jack's ambulance is picking up an attempted suicide – slashed wrists, and we have two stabbings – domestic quarrel, and a gunshot victim."

"Okay, let's get cracking," she replied. As she went to work, the smell of Cordite seemed to disappear.

Let there be Peace, everywhere!

Annie O

  

  

  

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