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22 December 2023
One hundred marines, with the courage and approximate spirit of cross-eyed bulldogs, have been ordered to stop their attack, and now crouch in small, agitated packs. Their target, a village that Intelligence estimates to be filled with enemy combatants, is within sight. It’s 6:00 in the morning. They’ve been up since 3:00 AM; marching in full gear since 3:30 AM. And now, no more than a half-mile from the target, the attack has been abruptly halted.
At 6:33 AM the sun breaks behind the village, flashing off the dark metal of the Marines' M-16s. Their boots scuff the sand. Many have sat in resignation. Others stand in defiance of orders. At least a dozen are plotting to attack regardless of their superiors. They’ve even scrawled a battle plan into the ground between them. Nothing fancy or unusual, the normal Marine stuff. A flash 'em and fry 'em mentality dominates.
In the village, a street performer is bent over in pain. He’s had some sharp pain in his side for three days now. And no sleep during that time. It’s probably appendicitis. Or it could possibly be a hernia. He doesn’t know, and won’t find out; besides, he has no money for a doctor and is a stranger in this town, so nobody really cares. An older man passes by, watching him out of the corner of his eye.
By 7:00 AM, the sun is entirely up, and the attack is a joke. The Marines have pulled back some, but their presence has undoubtedly been noticed. They’re tired now, and hungry, and it’s hard to take anything seriously when those factors collide. They’re mostly silent, watching the village for a possible counter-strike. The day’s heat is beginning to come over them. Many are starting to sweat, an unwelcome wetness soaking into their pants.
In the village, the emotions are mixed. The Americans are coming, but that means different things to everybody. Everything is closed, though. No market today, or banking. Everyone is indoors but one man, who lies unconscious near a pharmacy. Other people are baking bread to feed their families, or settling into their basements surrounded by scores of religious tracts and canned goods, while others are enjoying the crisp clicking noise their machine gun makes as it’s loaded with bullets.
Emotions are mixed among the Marines, too. The attack has been called off, and they’ve been ordered to lay flat, an order they’re now too tired to disobey. A heavy beating sound can be heard, and within minutes, three A-130 Warthog gunships have surrounded the village.
The Marines get to watch, but not participate, as the village is gunned into fiery insignificance. After a while, they’ll be ordered to comb the village for survivors, and have to wade knee-deep through charred and bloody bodies while some damned sniper takes defiant potshots at them.
It’s really looking to be one hot shit of a fucking day.
At 6:33 AM the sun breaks behind the village, flashing off the dark metal of the Marines' M-16s. Their boots scuff the sand. Many have sat in resignation. Others stand in defiance of orders. At least a dozen are plotting to attack regardless of their superiors. They’ve even scrawled a battle plan into the ground between them. Nothing fancy or unusual, the normal Marine stuff. A flash 'em and fry 'em mentality dominates.
In the village, a street performer is bent over in pain. He’s had some sharp pain in his side for three days now. And no sleep during that time. It’s probably appendicitis. Or it could possibly be a hernia. He doesn’t know, and won’t find out; besides, he has no money for a doctor and is a stranger in this town, so nobody really cares. An older man passes by, watching him out of the corner of his eye.
By 7:00 AM, the sun is entirely up, and the attack is a joke. The Marines have pulled back some, but their presence has undoubtedly been noticed. They’re tired now, and hungry, and it’s hard to take anything seriously when those factors collide. They’re mostly silent, watching the village for a possible counter-strike. The day’s heat is beginning to come over them. Many are starting to sweat, an unwelcome wetness soaking into their pants.
In the village, the emotions are mixed. The Americans are coming, but that means different things to everybody. Everything is closed, though. No market today, or banking. Everyone is indoors but one man, who lies unconscious near a pharmacy. Other people are baking bread to feed their families, or settling into their basements surrounded by scores of religious tracts and canned goods, while others are enjoying the crisp clicking noise their machine gun makes as it’s loaded with bullets.
Emotions are mixed among the Marines, too. The attack has been called off, and they’ve been ordered to lay flat, an order they’re now too tired to disobey. A heavy beating sound can be heard, and within minutes, three A-130 Warthog gunships have surrounded the village.
The Marines get to watch, but not participate, as the village is gunned into fiery insignificance. After a while, they’ll be ordered to comb the village for survivors, and have to wade knee-deep through charred and bloody bodies while some damned sniper takes defiant potshots at them.
It’s really looking to be one hot shit of a fucking day.
artid
2140
Old Image
6_7_100marines.jpg
issue
vol 6 - issue 07 (mar 2004)
section
pen_think