He lay prone in a trench filled
with muddy water, eyes, nose, mouth filled with the blood grime of a blood
soaked battlefield. Outside the safety of his trench the unmistakable pop of distant gun fire and the boom of
supersonic aircraft as they flew by provided the background music for the sorry
state of affairs this army private found himself in. Somewhere not too far
away, in a muddle hole much like this one, peering eyes watched for signs of
movement they were unlikely to get. Jacob didn’t want to die for his country,
hell he wasn’t sure he was even fight for the right country, but when the feds came knocking on your door in the
middle of the night with guns and conscription papers you pretty much didn’t
have a choice. That was life in the good old US of A these days. He was lucky
at least not to be attached to a UWG division; American’s had it rough working
for foreigners.
“Hey,”
sergeant Walker nudged Jacob, “it’s starting to die down, if you want to get
some sleep or write a letter go ahead.”
“Sure,
thanks sergeant.”
A light
drizzle pattered on his helmet and down and down his neck drenching his body.
Those damn gortex pants and jackets they issued didn’t do a damn thing to keep
him dry, they only kept the heat in when the sun game out and the humidity got
bad. Fucking government issued gear. The ground was soaked from early morning thunderstorms
which passed mere minutes before leaving behind only the sweet pitter patter of
misty showers and darkling grey skies that at any minutes could open again and
finish the job of making his motherfucking trench into a motherfucking in
ground swimming pool a reality. Hurray,
just what he always wanted. Doubtless the mother fuckers across no man’s land
had better trenches, better equipment, better com, better food, hell probably
better weapons that weren’t left over from the War on Terror. Weapons that weren’t left over from the War on
Terror; Weapons that weren’t twenty damn years old. Imagine that. The Europeans
had modern weapons, the Free Staters had modern weapons, but the US Army had to
make due. Real fucking good Uncle Sam.
He
peered over the sagging edge of the trench wall, making sure not to expose
himself much to enemy sniper fire. Thousands of strange of C-Wire filled the
quarter mile long gap between the Union and Free State lines. Through the smoke
and the haze of the desolation that clung to what once was a beautiful open
plan near the Canadian border, Jacob could see a small speck of red and blue
rising from the enemies position. The Free State flag, red and white stripes of
the same patter of the US, flew in the dyeing wind defying the Union Army which
bore down upon them. Though it maintained the stripes of the original 13 colonies
the traditional blue with white stars in the upper left corner was replaced by
a single star not unlike that of the Republic of Texas (or Texass as he liked
to call it).
“Damn
Free Staters can’t even be original.”
Burnt
out husks of destroyed tanks and crashed helicopters littered the battlefield
with their rusting remains hiding underneath them the bodies of the hundreds
(thousands?) killed attempting to take the enemies position. Scraps of twisted
metal tossed around like spaghetti poked their jagged entrails into the air
like the fingernails of a giant coming back from the dead. And the smell… that
scent of burning corpses was never going to leave this place even long after
the war was over and gone. Napalming enemy positions (and the occasional
“accidental drop on civilians) tended to do that. “Scorched Earth 2” the
generals, most of them European, called it, referred to it at the debriefing,
smiling as if the targets were so many ants instead of innocent American’s.
Funny how foreigners thought referring to the tactics of one American general
used against rebels two hundred years before somehow justified them,
non-Americans, doing the same thing. Even if the Free Staters were wrong that
didn’t justify killing civilians, did it? No, of course it didn’t.
He
crouched into the muddy trench once more and dug into his pocket for a notebook
and pen. Though the paper was damp from the rain he could still wrote on it
quite well.
Angela, I am lost and need your
guiding grace to help me now ease the conflict inflicted onto my mind and body.
I didn’t resist my conscription years ago when federal agents came knocking on
my door because at the time I felt it necessary to protect our nation from the
influence of foreign and domestic enemies that then seemed to close in around
us, only to find myself serving under the command of foreign general in a war
to subdue fellow countrymen. They say they are leading a coalition in
conjunction with American forces, but I know no American would order the
atrocities against innocents I’ve seen on a daily basis since the war began.
Even now I can smell the remains of Shreport jus south of here, not of ruining
buildings or the normal residue of battle alone, but also of the charred
remains of what once were its inhabitants. I do not know the given reason this
town needed to be destroyed, but I do know no military forces were that at the
time of the firebombing. No soldiers lay dead in its streets, no factories of
war were destroyed, not a ruined tank or other piece of military equipment
(besides the occasional hunting rifle ) could be found though we searched for
hours for just such evidence. Only the bodies of civilians and their property.
I find myself wavering from my previous
conviction in the righteousness of our cause every time we advance, for though
our leaders spread the lie that we would be greeted as liberators by a grateful
populace all I can see on the faces of those we “liberate” is the sad destitute
look of those who’ve been wronged. There was no “liberation” in their eyes when
we marched down the streets of Edmonton, the people there did not cheer, they
did not wave, they made no noise at all. Only the stoic cry of silence could be
heard, that and the Polish marching band we brought with us to celebrate the occasion.
There was a little girl there, maybe ten, maybe eleven, with curly blond hair
and a dirty blue dress who reminded me of Mia. She stood by the road when we
passed by, fir burning behind her cold green eyes, and fists clenched. I never
saw such hatred before, not from enemy soldiers, POW’s, or even parent’s who’ve
lost their children. There was nothing in that girls eyes but genuine
unconditional hatred.
Angi, I love you so much my heart aches
for when we’ll see each other again. I cannot long endure this war; please
write to me. This war may deprive me of the nourishment of life to which all
men are entitled but it can never diminish the joy of your words. Say hello to
the family for me.
-Sincerely,
Jacob.
