WWIII

By Peter Bouret

“He’s hit, He’s hit, chief down, I repeat chief down.” I panicked over the radio. Two minutes ago he saved me as I was surrounded by four soldiers with their guns pressed against my head already feeling the harsh bullet penetrating my brain. He shot them down, but how could I let him get sniped by a soldier on a rooftop. I brutally banged my head on the ground as my eyes mirrored his blood meander down his neck and stain the beach below. Finally a medic came.

“How’d you let him get busted this bad. He has three bullet wounds one in his neck. There are to many soldiers that need my help. He’s just ‘bout dead,’” the medic stated this in a monotone voice. I slammed him to the floor and demanded,

“You help him right now or not another breath will seep through your lips.” Then I realized what in the world was I doing. I was sitting here bashing this poor medics head into the ground while my friends already dead. I started to glance around seeing the scattered men lying helplessly on the ground like beached whales. The bombs smelled of rotten eggs and fire was scorching the land around me. Finally I snapped out of it, took my rifle and stormed the beach, which they had taken over. The few survivors left rallied with me and we gradually took the bases out. But once we got over the hill we were bombarded by machine guns. I watched as the men around me crumpled into balls of blood on the ground slowly slipping down the hill that we had just conquered. They fell down the beach like shells getting dragged out by the sea’s currents. Then it was my turn to die. BANG.