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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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I love the word "disentangled", yey for that.
But I wouldn't say this was one of your better pieces. I've not disliked many of your pieces, and I don't this one, I just feel some of the sentences could have had more feeling...emotion. I did, however, love the ending, it just made sense to keep the realistic pattern throughtout the piece. It's still good, but probably not one of my more favoured subjects; war. I guess there's too much in the way of movies and TV programs to make short stories on them just...work. If you know what I mean.
Anyway, now I'm rambling. (Y)
But I wouldn't say this was one of your better pieces. I've not disliked many of your pieces, and I don't this one, I just feel some of the sentences could have had more feeling...emotion. I did, however, love the ending, it just made sense to keep the realistic pattern throughtout the piece. It's still good, but probably not one of my more favoured subjects; war. I guess there's too much in the way of movies and TV programs to make short stories on them just...work. If you know what I mean.
Anyway, now I'm rambling. (Y)
Atmospheric. Conjured the bewilderment of being lost in battle. Iz good.
Feel free to criticise my essay btw. lol.
WHERE? EVERYWHERE!!!. Every single war film ever made, ever single war game every single story/essay about war. lol. It was a nice essay, but its so hard to be original on that topic i think.
Really? Damn.
Where?
Where?
eh. been done before.
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.
Page: