TYPO

I’m not supposed to be here. Everyone says that, I know, but in my case it’s true. Slogging through the jungle of some godforsaken country I’d never really heard of until our president decided they were evil and needed to be stopped. I don’t know. I don’t really have any interest in trying to figure out why I’m here. I know why: someone didn’t proofread their work.

I’m risking my life because some idiot in an office can’t type. I’m Mike Walton: 5\'8\", horrible eyesight, not athletic in any way, shape, or form... \"scrawny\" is what my grandpa called me. At the same time I was drafted, another guy-- Mike Walten-- was, as well. And Mike Walten was exactly what our Army needed: big, strong, tough, and mean-as-hell. He could’ve won the war single-handedly. But instead he’s at an office job, sitting at a desk somewhere in Texas, and I’m swatting away the biggest damn bugs I’ve ever seen, sweating my ass off, carrying around 60 pounds of equipment I barely know how to use. Stumbling along with a bunch of roughnecks who would’ve stolen my lunch money just half a year earlier. Hoping some person I’ve never met before and couldn’t even say hello to doesn’t pop out of the bushes and shoot me.

I’m walking along, pondering the injustice of all of this sad sack crap when I see something up ahead on the trail in the distance. I ask the Sarge what it is. Everyone looks. All at once we see that it’s a small person. Probably a kid. Running at us with something in his or her hands. A big guy in front of me, who doesn’t need glasses, says, \"It’s a little girl.\"

I wonder out loud if she needs help. I mean, that’s what we’re supposed to be doing here, right? Liberating some people from some other people or something?

The Sarge puts his big, calloused hand on my shoulder and says, \"Walton... put her down.\" Everyone’s shocked. None more than me. I ask him to clarify what he meant by \"put her down\". He looks at me, getting tenser as the little girl holding what now just looks like a can of Coke gets closer. \"Shoot her.\"

That’s what I thought he meant. The other guys in the platoon don’t say a word. Bastards are probably all glad he didn’t order them to do it. Why me? Was it because I saw her first? I’m not the best shot... I’m not even supposed to be here! I should be at a desk in Texas!

I try to explain to him that she’s just a little girl. That maybe we should help her. Or maybe she just wants to give us some soda. She can’t be more than seven or eight!

\"Private,\" the Sarge tells me grimly, through now gritted teeth, \"do not let her get any closer. That’s an order.\"

I start stuttering. Panicking. Did I get drafted into this pointless war to kill kids? And why? All I can get out is that she’s just a kid. My legs are shaking. My breathing is getting erratic. The Sarge starts to get pissed.

\"Do it now, Private!\" he hollers, making me jump.

Then it happens. So embarrassing. I just start crying. Blubbering like a baby in front of everyone. I babble again about how she’s just a kid and I can’t shoot a kid and--

The Sarge pulls his pistol out of his holster and fires off three quick rounds. It happens so fast, but I see where every bullet goes. In slow motion. One hits the poor girl in her leg, blowing it off. The other barely grazes her head. And the third one... the third one hits the Coke can.

And the explosion knocks all of us back. Me on my ass.

None of us can believe it. \"C4,\" says one of the guys. We’d heard about it, but I couldn’t believe they’d actually do it. Who could--

My train of thought is stopped dead in its tracks as the Sarge clocks me on my head with the butt of his gun. He’s yelling at me, practically foaming at the mouth. I go down, and he starts kicking me in the side, knocking me back. None of the guys move to help me. They don’t care. They’re in shock. They’re just glad it’s not them. As the Sarge lectures me about following orders, I just keep blubbering and finally get out, again, that she was just a kid.

With that, the Sarge stops and motions to me and the guys. \"So are all of you,\" he says simply, a little out of breath from my impromptu beating. Then he turns without another word and starts moving forward again. A second later, the others follow him.

I sit there on the ground, holding my side. Finally, I get my wits about me enough to scramble after them.

I’m not even supposed to be here....