The Sound of War

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat!

I dive for cover as the bullets fly overhead, narrowly skimming past. I glance to my left and see my compatriot huddled behind a crumbling wall. It’s barely enough to cover him - definitely too small to be much use for the both of us.

He mouths something to me, but I can’t make it out as the next shots throw up the grass and the mud into my face.

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat!

The fire is unrelenting as it rains down on us. I attempt to manoeuvre myself so I can get a better view - they must be elevated somewhere - but, CRACK, something reverberates off the ground, not two inches from my left foot. That was too close.

I’m frozen. They’ve got us surrounded, that’s for sure. I glance over and my compatriot is huddled up now, knees pulled into his chest, gently rocking back and forth. Is he praying? I never took him for religious before but extreme circumstances can push you into that zone I guess. No judgement, whatever gets you through to fight another day.

Me, I’m more pragmatic, so I think and assess. If they’re up there, then they can see our every move.

I have an idea, a theory maybe. If I can distract them somehow… I look around me for something, anything I could use. There’s a bit of chipped tile a few feet away that’d be perfect. It must be from the roof. As I reach for it, it hits me - the roof!

Of course, that’s where they must be! I look over to my compatriot and excitedly try to gesticulate toward him. I’m flailing my arms trying to indicate the roof and my plan and where I think they’re hiding and what we should do but he’s clearly not understanding me so he shuffles himself in my direction.

I hear it before I see it - whistling as it cuts through the air, everything slowing down as I see him instinctively turn towards it.

There’s an awful thud as it smacks him straight in the chest, and he’s thrown backwards from the sheer force of it, crashing down in the grass, arms spilling out to his sides.

His weapon is now in my reach. And I no longer care about the plan. I no longer care about tactics and pragmatism and the Geneva fucking convention. I grab his gun, leap up and let rip.

Taka-taka-taka-taka-taka!

Put-put-put-put-put!

I unload on them, screaming as I do so. I am Commando. I am Kurtz. I am Death, destroyer of worlds.

Fut-fut-fut-fut-fut.

My guns are empty and still spinning.

My scream has morphed into a cackle. Ha ha! Take that, you little fuckers!

“Oh, Dad!”

My son is forlorn on the balcony. His head drooped in disappointment. My compatriot is on his feet and doing his happy dance, wiggling his backside to his friend in taunt. “We win, we win!”

My victory grin fades, I drop the Nerfs and I reach up to him in apology.

Thunk.

I look down as the foam shell bounces off my chest, and up at my son, sly grin creeping up his face.

“Gotcha.”

That’s my boy.