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John lost contact with the small party of soldiers he’d been accompanying amongst the smoke, the gunfire and the ensuing chaos. He didn’t know if any of them were still alive or if he’d been the only survivor. Someone had shouted “incoming” and everyone had scattered, intent only on saving their own skin, instinct overriding any sense of care for their fellow man. In the jungle it was survival of the fittest and it wasn’t until after his arrival at the camp that he’d realised just exactly how unfit he was. That had been approx. 3 months ago. In those long three months he had toughed up, hardening himself both physically and mentally.
John himself wasn’t a soldier but a journalist and a damn good one at that. At 28 he’d been all over the world for his paper, had covered many different stories and had jumped at the chance to report on the war. He had not been unaware of the dangers of going to the war zone but like many men his age he’d been unable to squash the images of bravery, of heroic deeds and the possibility, in his case at least, of a writing award and recognition for his efforts.
He hadn’t realised exactly how naïve he had been but he’d learnt his lesson fast the hard way. Four days after he arrived he’d followed a small band of soldiers as they left on a scouting mission. Twelve men had left the camp, only ten returned. Two miles from camp one soldier had tripped a hidden charge. The explosion had ripped him apart and the soldier behind him had caught flying shrapnel in the chest. Neither of them had stood a chance. The reality of the situation suddenly hit John as the images he’d harboured were shredded and scattered on the breeze.
On this particular morning he’d been with another small band of twelve soldiers as they worked their way back from the front line. Four of them had been with the first group of soldiers he’d followed. They were now the only survivors from the original band of twelve men. New recruits had joined this small band, some of them were barely old enough to have left home but new fodder was always being brought to the front. John had stayed in constant contact with these guys since his original outing with them and he was very close to the original four. Shared experiences had forged a strong bond between them, an almost telepathic awareness of where anyone was at a given time.
The front ‘line’ was not an exact description of the situation in the jungle. It was a fluid always moving thing that was affectionately called Death Row by the soldiers who were on it. John had fled at the call of incoming and now had no idea if he was in friendly or enemy territory. Smoke from the explosions blinded and disorientated him but he started to work his way back to where he believed camp to be, keeping low and moving fast.
Not being able to see clearly he didn’t know what he’d caught his foot on but it sent him headlong into the growth. He rolled onto his back and took the chance to catch his breath. The air should have been cleaner this close to the earth but the stench told him different. Sitting up he looked around. Unable to stop himself the vomit came fast, emptying his stomach of its contents and even after there was nothing left he still could not stop retching. A turgid body, already decomposing in the atmosphere of the jungle, had split. The gore on his boot giving mute evidence that he’d been the cause of it.
He turned away swiftly while trying to wipe his boot on the undergrowth and two facts hit him simultaneously. One was that the soldier was wearing the same uniform as him, and two, that he’d seen the dog tags still around his neck. He started to crawl away and stopped; the dead soldier may have a wife and children back home or, at the very least, some loving parents. He couldn’t just crawl away and leave the dog tags there. Someone had a right to know what had happened to their son or husband. Gritting his teeth while still trying desperately to breath just through his mouth he crawled back and disentangled the tags from the corpse.
He shuffled backwards quickly, not taking his eyes from the body, almost as if he expected it to jump up and demand the tags back. It proved to be the proverbial straw as John sobbed uncontrollably. All the horrors he’d witnessed glistened in the tears he shed as he clung to the unknown soldiers dog tags.
A voice called his name softly behind him and slightly to his left causing him to jump and his heart to stutter in shock. It took only an instance for John to recognise the voice as belonging to one of his lost friends. Quietly spoken words told him to crawl over and join them quickly. John immediately latched onto the spoken word ‘us’ as it meant that more than one friend had survived. Wiping his face on his jacket he joined them in the bushes. The same friend spoke to him again and told him to remember - if they could make it back to camp they would be going home tomorrow. If.
John himself wasn’t a soldier but a journalist and a damn good one at that. At 28 he’d been all over the world for his paper, had covered many different stories and had jumped at the chance to report on the war. He had not been unaware of the dangers of going to the war zone but like many men his age he’d been unable to squash the images of bravery, of heroic deeds and the possibility, in his case at least, of a writing award and recognition for his efforts.
He hadn’t realised exactly how naïve he had been but he’d learnt his lesson fast the hard way. Four days after he arrived he’d followed a small band of soldiers as they left on a scouting mission. Twelve men had left the camp, only ten returned. Two miles from camp one soldier had tripped a hidden charge. The explosion had ripped him apart and the soldier behind him had caught flying shrapnel in the chest. Neither of them had stood a chance. The reality of the situation suddenly hit John as the images he’d harboured were shredded and scattered on the breeze.
On this particular morning he’d been with another small band of twelve soldiers as they worked their way back from the front line. Four of them had been with the first group of soldiers he’d followed. They were now the only survivors from the original band of twelve men. New recruits had joined this small band, some of them were barely old enough to have left home but new fodder was always being brought to the front. John had stayed in constant contact with these guys since his original outing with them and he was very close to the original four. Shared experiences had forged a strong bond between them, an almost telepathic awareness of where anyone was at a given time.
The front ‘line’ was not an exact description of the situation in the jungle. It was a fluid always moving thing that was affectionately called Death Row by the soldiers who were on it. John had fled at the call of incoming and now had no idea if he was in friendly or enemy territory. Smoke from the explosions blinded and disorientated him but he started to work his way back to where he believed camp to be, keeping low and moving fast.
Not being able to see clearly he didn’t know what he’d caught his foot on but it sent him headlong into the growth. He rolled onto his back and took the chance to catch his breath. The air should have been cleaner this close to the earth but the stench told him different. Sitting up he looked around. Unable to stop himself the vomit came fast, emptying his stomach of its contents and even after there was nothing left he still could not stop retching. A turgid body, already decomposing in the atmosphere of the jungle, had split. The gore on his boot giving mute evidence that he’d been the cause of it.
He turned away swiftly while trying to wipe his boot on the undergrowth and two facts hit him simultaneously. One was that the soldier was wearing the same uniform as him, and two, that he’d seen the dog tags still around his neck. He started to crawl away and stopped; the dead soldier may have a wife and children back home or, at the very least, some loving parents. He couldn’t just crawl away and leave the dog tags there. Someone had a right to know what had happened to their son or husband. Gritting his teeth while still trying desperately to breath just through his mouth he crawled back and disentangled the tags from the corpse.
He shuffled backwards quickly, not taking his eyes from the body, almost as if he expected it to jump up and demand the tags back. It proved to be the proverbial straw as John sobbed uncontrollably. All the horrors he’d witnessed glistened in the tears he shed as he clung to the unknown soldiers dog tags.
A voice called his name softly behind him and slightly to his left causing him to jump and his heart to stutter in shock. It took only an instance for John to recognise the voice as belonging to one of his lost friends. Quietly spoken words told him to crawl over and join them quickly. John immediately latched onto the spoken word ‘us’ as it meant that more than one friend had survived. Wiping his face on his jacket he joined them in the bushes. The same friend spoke to him again and told him to remember - if they could make it back to camp they would be going home tomorrow. If.
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Liked that
Damn, I read the title as We need to make it camp. I was expecting a cast lead by Elton John and John Inman...
Good story though, nice sense of panic.
Good story though, nice sense of panic.
Ick! It wasn't skinned :)
Kyle called me sexist for 'always' having female leads. I should have just reposted 'The sweet scent of death' to prove him wrong :)
Well written isn't good enough on this forum :(
I think I'll skip entering the next comp and give it a rest. See if I can't do better with a break.
Kyle called me sexist for 'always' having female leads. I should have just reposted 'The sweet scent of death' to prove him wrong :)
Well written isn't good enough on this forum :(
I think I'll skip entering the next comp and give it a rest. See if I can't do better with a break.
I liked it. More so than your last one I think.
When I got to the bit where John found the corpse I immediately thought: Predator. ;-)
When I got to the bit where John found the corpse I immediately thought: Predator. ;-)
Well written, but yeah: a bit been-there-done-that.
It was alright, but I think your stories with female leads are better.
Also didn't really like it when you used the word 'thing' in the paragraph about deathrow. It just seemed a little messy and unspecific.
Liked the ending though. (Y)
Also didn't really like it when you used the word 'thing' in the paragraph about deathrow. It just seemed a little messy and unspecific.
Liked the ending though. (Y)
Ineedsleep wrote:
> Fozz - don't shout at me :)
>
> When it comes to war I really am a 'girly' girl. As a rule I don't
> watch war movies (hate them) or play the games.
>
> Hm. I know it's difficult to be original with this kind of story but
> I really just needed to write something 'nice' along these lines.
> This has been floating around in my head since I did something
> similar at school (Gods, what a memory I have!) and now I've done it
> I can forget about it. Actually I quite like it so nerr! :)
>
> A friend who took an English degree told be that only 7 books can be
> called original so it is now difficult to be original with any kind
> of story - unless you have the weirdest imagination like Black Glove
> or FinalFantasyFanatic :D
I wasnt shouting at you :'(. I was just emphasising.
oh look: ^\_/^ thats my badger smiley.
anyway uh. Ive seen a lot of war films and played a few games so I guess Im just used to that kind of thing. I liked it except for that, so I look forward to more short stories from you.
> Fozz - don't shout at me :)
>
> When it comes to war I really am a 'girly' girl. As a rule I don't
> watch war movies (hate them) or play the games.
>
> Hm. I know it's difficult to be original with this kind of story but
> I really just needed to write something 'nice' along these lines.
> This has been floating around in my head since I did something
> similar at school (Gods, what a memory I have!) and now I've done it
> I can forget about it. Actually I quite like it so nerr! :)
>
> A friend who took an English degree told be that only 7 books can be
> called original so it is now difficult to be original with any kind
> of story - unless you have the weirdest imagination like Black Glove
> or FinalFantasyFanatic :D
I wasnt shouting at you :'(. I was just emphasising.
oh look: ^\_/^ thats my badger smiley.
anyway uh. Ive seen a lot of war films and played a few games so I guess Im just used to that kind of thing. I liked it except for that, so I look forward to more short stories from you.
Ineedsleep wrote:
> Actually I quite like it so nerr! :)
I feel that way about some of my stories that, in the eyes of others, have sucked more than a Dyson vacum cleaner.
It happens to everyone, I'm just saying it wasn't MY favourite piece of yours; this only shows to me what a talented writer you are.
> Actually I quite like it so nerr! :)
I feel that way about some of my stories that, in the eyes of others, have sucked more than a Dyson vacum cleaner.
It happens to everyone, I'm just saying it wasn't MY favourite piece of yours; this only shows to me what a talented writer you are.
Fozz - don't shout at me :)
When it comes to war I really am a 'girly' girl. As a rule I don't watch war movies (hate them) or play the games.
Hm. I know it's difficult to be original with this kind of story but I really just needed to write something 'nice' along these lines. This has been floating around in my head since I did something similar at school (Gods, what a memory I have!) and now I've done it I can forget about it. Actually I quite like it so nerr! :)
A friend who took an English degree told be that only 7 books can be called original so it is now difficult to be original with any kind of story - unless you have the weirdest imagination like Black Glove or FinalFantasyFanatic :D
When it comes to war I really am a 'girly' girl. As a rule I don't watch war movies (hate them) or play the games.
Hm. I know it's difficult to be original with this kind of story but I really just needed to write something 'nice' along these lines. This has been floating around in my head since I did something similar at school (Gods, what a memory I have!) and now I've done it I can forget about it. Actually I quite like it so nerr! :)
A friend who took an English degree told be that only 7 books can be called original so it is now difficult to be original with any kind of story - unless you have the weirdest imagination like Black Glove or FinalFantasyFanatic :D
Fozz wrote:
> eh. been done before.
Great encouragement there, Sunshine.
> eh. been done before.
Great encouragement there, Sunshine.
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