The Only Easy Day Was Yesterday
By: Nathan Powell
Northern Iraq
1430 Hours
11/12/2009
Initializing…
"Hey, Febee! Hey, you awake, man?"
Private Sanders shuttered awake. He must have dozed off against the window of the humvee. He looked around; his squad mates were spread out among the humvee. Private Triggs was there, smiling idly at Sanders from across the humvee, right past the legs of Private McGee on the Gatling gunner's position.
"Rise and shine, Febee," joked Triggs, "We wouldn't want our Colonel to miss the show."
"Show my ass," called McGee from the gunner's perch, "There hasn't been anything in months!"
"And that's a bad thing?" chimed Corporal Henderson from the passengers seat, he turned to get a better look at those in the back, "I prefer the quiet of the North to all that's going on down South. Hell, even the rising heat in Afghan-Land ain't as bad as down South."
"Yeah, but I joined the army for one thing," said Sergeant Griggs from the driver's seat, "And that's killin' towel-heads. And lately? Business is a little slow."
"Amen," said Sanders, from the back.
"You would..." mumbled Triggs from his position, looking around.
"All units in the Sen-Zen area, be advised. Mission pending, await for orders," cried a husky voice over the radio.
"Roger that," said another voice, answering, "This is Lieutenant Smith, my company's closest to the area. We'll avert our patrol towards Sen-Zen. Over."
"Damn," complained Corporal Henderson from the passenger seat.
"I hate the city," said McGee, positioning himself to better man the hummer's gun.
"Roger that, Lieutenant," said the first voice over the radio, "Intel's in. Mission confirmed. Await further orders on the east road into the city. Over and out."
"Roger that, await orders on the east side. Out," said the Lieutenant and the radio went silent as the humvees veered off their set path and began heading North.
Sanders adjusted his M4 and did his best to stay awake.
They sat idle overlooking a bridge that lead into the city. Sanders has his door open, but he stayed inside the humvee. Corporal Maxim was standing next to him, camera out. He was doing some stupid narration, and sweeping the column of humvees and the city outside. Lieutenant Smith stood in the back, overlooking the whole scene of his men from his humvee in the back.
"Look, an old Soviet Tank," said Maxim, "And a new American one! Oh… looks like the all fall eventually."
"Iceberg," said McGee from his perch, "That Bradley must've been from the early stages of the conflict."
"You think there's anybody inside?" asked Maxim, "How about an interview?"
"I highly doubt it, you nut," Sanders said.
"Lieutenant Smith, this is Overlord," said the voice over the radio, "Mission is as follows. A predator in the area has a positive ID on one Al Muhammad Frehad, he's the Jack of Spades and responsible for many recent attacks on UK forces in the west. He is to be taken out at all costs. A Predator Missile is inbound to his last known location as-of forty-two seconds ago. Your mission, enter the city and survey the damage. If alive, capture Al Muhammad Frehad. If he won't come quietly, he is not to be allowed to escape. I say again, he's too dangerous to let escape."
"Roger that," The Lieutenant said from the back, "Enter City after impact, find Al Muhammad Frehad and confirm his death or take prisoner. Understood."
"There are many civilians in the area," continued Overlord, "We've made much progress with the locals. Do not engage the locals. I repeat, standard rules of engagement are in affect. How do you copy?"
"I copy, Overlord. Do not fire unless fired upon," said the Lieutenant.
"Overlord out."
The whole time, Maxim was scanning the skies with his camera. Triggs shook his head inside the humvee, and tightened his boots. Sanders adjusted his position in his seat, and again checked his rifle. Sergeant Griggs secured his helmet, and recited a verse he said before each mission.
"By the sweat of your brow you will eat your food until you return to the ground, since from it you were taken; for dust you are and to dust you will return," he mumbled, and then he started up the hummer.
"Amen… to dust," said Henderson.
It was a screech at first, but it hit hard. A missile screeched out of the sky, and slammed into the city. Maxim caught it all on tape, hooting like a schoolboy after a shockwave blew out from the city and nearly knocked him back.
"Jesus Christ! You feel that!" cried Maxim, "That's a thousand hits on youtube!"
"Shit, Iceberg, get back to your hummer," yelled Triggs.
"Alright, move ahead, Echo," Lieutenant Smith commanded over the radio.
"Yee-haw!" shouted Maxim again.
"Get your ass to your hummer!" yelled McGee, then he turned to Sanders and said, "Shut your damn door, Sanders!"
Sanders swung his legs inside, and slammed the door shut. Maxim ran off, but carefully as to not destroy his already "perfect" video. The humvees in the front of the column, exactly two in front of Sander's, rolled forward, crossing the bridge. McGee tensed, and spread that tension to Sanders and Triggs like an infectious yawn. Henderson sat back as though on a cruise through the countryside, and stared lazily out the window.
"That was a close impact," said Henderson, "Look, the debris is still thick in this area."
The humvee column moved right through the city as dust and pieces of paper still filled the air. McGee positioned his goggles over his eyes as to not have dust fall in them, and the hummer gunners all looked around the city as they went deeper in. Citizens ran from the column, when there was citizens to be found. A man who was still dazed from the missile impact, and he wandered aimlessly through the streets. A woman garbed from head to toe trying to run across the street with young daughter in tow. There was an older man, who hurriedly pulled down the gate over his shop, and locked himself inside as the column passed.
"Damn…" said Sanders, "Still hard to be seen as the 'liberators'."
"Yeah, but what else do we do over here?" said Triggs, "Instead of fightin', we're building schools and shelters and shit all day. So… a missile fell out of the damn sky. Shows them who's really runnin' this damn country. Us."
"I would prefer to not be content with the idea we are 'conquerors' here," said Henderson, "It helps me sleep at night. Oh… no."
Henderson tensed and placed a hand on the window. The column had pulled up to the main strip of the city, and was going past the impact site of the missile. Some rugged remains of a building was left standing, but otherwise everything was missing. Citizens ran around, trying to bring aid and rescue to those who suffered from the blast.
"They blew up a church," mumbled Henderson, then he sighed and said much louder, "They hit a fuckin' church! That's gonna do great for our image."
"They have Christians here?" asked Triggs.
"It's a mosque," corrected Henderson, "But it doesn't matter. They hit the damn town church!"
"Team three, six, and seven break off and search the wreckage, help what you can. My team will help, too," said Lieutenant Smith over the comm., "The rest, keep moving down the street slightly."
"Lieutenant Smith, this is Overlord," Said the voice over the radio, "Intel reports a direct hit, but new Intel suggests Al Frehad to have moved moments before impact. He might be leaving the area. You need to create a perimeter on that crash site STAT and confirm or deny the kill."
Lieutenant Smith sighed before copying Overlord and pulling his hummer aside.
"All remaining teams, create a perimeter. Teams two, four, and ten head down to the market, that's the most likely place he'll run to from here."
"Figures," said Triggs, "Intel's shit and now we have to go play crowd control."
"And if the Corporal's right," said Griggs, "We got a lot of angry Arabs waiting for us at the town market."
"Keep your eyes peeled," said Henderson.
The jeep in the very front pulled off to assist the cleanup, leaving Sanders' hummer in the center of a line of three hummers heading towards the market. Other humvees broke off to head in their respected locations around them as they sped off down the road. Civilians and primitive paramedics rushed past them towards the crash site, but many civilians still ran away, from the humvees and the crash site; some jumping into dumpsters and alleyways until the humvees past.
The small column of three came across a building with three men standing, unafraid, on a balcony, overlooking the column. McGee tensed and stared them down, pointing his gun's barrels towards them.
"They're terrorists… I know it," he said, under his breath so that the rest of the could barley hear him.
"Are they armed?" asked Henderson.
"Nah."
"Then we can't do shit," said Triggs, and he began to swear under his breath, eyeing the group from the window.
"Betcha cash they're scouting us," said Sanders.
"Maybe so, but you know the rules," said Henderson, "We can't fire on nobody."
"Rules…" mumbled Triggs, and he continued something about them meant to be broken.
They continued down the road, and the market came into sight. Sanders began to tense even more. He was first shot in a market, but that was back in the southern days. Things were much calmer up north, weren't they?
"Smith, this is Overlord. Predator Drone eyes enemy forces massing towards the North of your position. We have a positive ID on Al Frehad. It was a glimpse, but he's heading North towards the forces via alleyways. He will break your perimeter if you don't get forces after him now."
"Roger that, all units head North. Market Teams, that's you. Set up a defensive position and don't let Al Frehad past you."
"Shit! RPG!" yelled the driver of the humvee in front of them.
Sanders' attention was turned forward just in time to watch a rocket slam into the hood of the humvee in front of them. It exploded on impact, debris flying everywhere.
"Jesus Christ!" cried Henderson.
"Bail! Bail!" yelled Triggs as he fumbled at his door handle.
Sanders heard the barrels of the gun start spinning a moment before the roar of the Gatling filled his ears. Sanders opened his door and swung his legs out as bullets pinged off the humvee door. He only had time to bring his rifle to bear and take a step before he felt a force slam into his body and he was propelled forward and into a wall of a nearby building.
His mind went blank for a bit. He forget who and where he was… then it all started coming back with the sounds of war, and screaming. Someone grabbed onto his shoulders and began dragging him, and he fought to open his eyes, but they wouldn't open.
"Contact, contact!" yelled someone off in the distance.
"Over there, they're to the east flank!"
"West flank, west flank!"
"Medic!"
Sanders fought hard, he made his eyes crack open slightly. He took a few short breaths before pushing hard again, and his eyes began slowly opening. He slowly regained the use of his arms… his legs… his neck. He peered up at who was dragging him. Maxim looked down at him, his camera strapped to his shoulder in a custom harness.
"Boy, Colonel Sanders," said Maxim, "I'm getting real tired of always dragging your ass around. At least do me a favor and lighten up."
"What… happened?" asked Sanders, rubbing his head.
He looked around. Maxim has stopped dragging him and he ran off and took position by a nearby window. They were in a house of some sort, bullets crashing through the windows and walls of the cheap building. Henderson and Triggs fired their M4s out blindly towards their attackers, and Griggs gave CPR to McGee, who was badly burnt and bleeding close by. Griggs tried one last time, beat McGee's chest, and checked for a pulse. He then picked up his M16 and looked over at Sanders.
"You dead, Febee?" asked Griggs, "Because we are back-in-business! Hoah!"
Griggs moved to a window and took cover, beginning to fire blindly out of the window. Some other soldiers were around them, as well, some that Sanders recognized. He could hear another chain gun firing, but when he looked out of a door where it was coming from he saw his humvee, burning and melting and two soldiers trying desperately to throw ammo and grenades from the burning vehicle.
Sanders checked his side, yup, his M4 was still strapped to his side. He stood and took aim at his attackers, but was forced to duck down again under the onslaught of bullets.
"We need some sort of air support!" yelled Henderson into his radio, "We've suffered severe casualties. We are being surrounded, and we're outnumbered. There's no way we can create any sort of perimeter like this!"
"Henderson, you and your team have to hold out," said Lieutenant Smith over the radio, "Help is on the way. Another few teams of humvees are on their way to assist you and my team is tracking Al Frehad on foot. He's heading North-East. If you can get a small team to the roof tops, you might be able to head them off without engaging too many hostiles directly."
"Wait a minute, we're under heavy fire and you want me to tell some guys to just run away? One: we don't have the men for that and two: we are pinned down. It's suicide running out there."
"A team is on the way, Henderson. Do not do this thing you do. I am on the way," yelled Smith's voice over the radio, but Henderson ignored it.
"Your call, Sarge," said Henderson, looking at Griggs.
"Fine, Sanders, how're you?"
"I'm fine, sir," said Sanders.
"Good," said Griggs, "Sanders, Maxim, and Witchosky, get to the roof and cut off Al Frehad. The rest of us, bunker down, watch your ammo, and pick your shots carefully. Let's cut these bastards down to size!"
"Let's go, Colonel," cried Maxim, "There's stairs off this way. Let's do this!"
"God, Iceberg," said another soldier, who made his way over towards the stairs, "If I die before Christmas…"
"Can it, Witchy," said Maxim, who headed up the stairs with Witchowsky in hot pursuit.
Sanders stood and raced forward, toward the stairs and followed them up. Maxim swept the top floor, eyeing for threats. Witchosky was behind him, and he also swept for enemies. They entered a small room, some sort of house on the top floor. They walked down a short hallways before entering a kitchen. Witchowksy's gun barrel jerked to the side, but Maxim's hand slammed it towards the ground, quickly.
"Woa," yelled Maxim, "Civis, Wichita, do not waste civis."
"Jesus, Iceberg. Thanks," was all Witchowsky could muster out.
Sanders turned the corner and eyed the family. A mother grasping two children, a boy and a girl, huddling behind a kitchen counter, where the bullets might be stopped. One of the children whimpered in her arms, and she soothed them with a quite lullaby. Sanders felt a pang of sympathy, but threw it out of his head as Maxim discovered a back door that opened onto a patio.
Maxim walked carefully out, with Witchowksy right on his tale and Sanders next. Gunfire could be clearly heard, and even some of the enemy could be seen from their firing positions.
"Shhh," shushed Maxim, "Let's not draw attention to ourselves. This way."
Maxim ducked low and walked off towards the right of the patio. Witchowsky couldn't decide to crawl or duck down, but he eventually followed Sanders' lead and ducked, following Maxim. They moved along the patio, and Maxim pointed out a rooftop they could jump to towards the other side of the patio.
A burst of bullets slammed into the wall behind Sanders' head. He ducked even more and looked around. A man with his face covered stood on a nearby rooftop, and he pointed and yelled in Arabian at the three soldiers.
"Damn, smoke him!" yelled Maxim, and he leveled his weapon at the man.
Sanders and Maxim cross-fired at the man, and his body collapsed under the sudden combined fire. The damage was already done, however, and forces on the ground and in nearby windows spotted the three, and many averted their fire on them.
"Shit, run!" yelled Maxim, and he stood and bolted for the edge, leaping into the air.
Sanders followed him, leaping into the air and raising his feet to land on the other rooftop. Sanders took off running, not quite knowing his destination yet being lead by some sort of instinct. The rooftops of the buildings were quite empty besides the occasional vent, skylight, or break in rooftops. Slants of certain roofs contrasts the flatness of others, and around every curve insurgents sprang from ladders, alleys, other rooftops, and opened windows to fire at the three.
Sanders could hear his breathing, hear his heartbeat. Even with chaos around him, though, he did not freeze up. While running, Sanders would occasionally raise his weapon, firing steadily at a target or two. Witchowsky, however, fired from the hip, and blindly at surrounding buildings and into windows and towards the ground as they sprinted through the city.
They reached a small slum of the city, and the rooftops were much lower to the ground. Sanders made another leap to another building, barely pulling ahead of Maxim. Sanders heard a small cry from Witchowsky and turned around. Witchowsky had barely made the jump, and he was slipping, grabbing at the roof to try and hold on. Maxim turned around quickly and dived, grabbing his hands. Bullets pinged off the rooftop, and Sanders turned to fire at their attackers while Maxim helped Witchowsky up.
"You gotta keep up, Witchy," said Maxim, "Your Green-Horns are showin'."
"Jeeze," commented Witchowsky hysterically, "Ain't you glad none of these buildings are over three stories?"
"Quickly, into the alley!" yelled Maxim, trying to avert a direct confrontation with a group of gunners that had moved onto a rooftop up ahead.
He jumped off the roof, landing in the small, trash-filled alleyway of the city. Sanders followed, without hesitation. A few moments after landing, Sanders could hear Witchowsky land behind him, but he was slowing up, getting tired.
"Keep up, Witchy, Febee!" said Maxim, "We're almost there."
"The rooftops," observed Sanders, trying to point out the enemy movements up above.
"Fire upon the when appropriate," said Maxim, "But for the most part they don't know where we are. Weave through the alleys, try not to hit a dead end."
As he spoke, Maxim ducked down a side alley to the right. Sanders was sure to follow him, eyeing the rooftops above as well as the alleyway they were in. Witchowsky started firing off random bursts, either barely clipping attackers above of simply spraying bullets into the air. A moment ago they fired at targets that were using the same maze of alleys they were now. Left, Right, straight, right… it felt like forever running through those alleys, and Sanders' lungs began to burn.
Finally, Maxim hit a dead end, with a dumpster at the end of it. Maxim swore under his breath, looking around anxiously.
"Use the dumpster," said Sanders, "To the rooftops!"
It did what Sanders wanted, and that was save time and keep them moving. Sanders was the quicker one, jumping on the dumpster and moving to a position to help his squad mates. Maxim was first, up on the dumpster and boot into the hands of Sanders and he was hoisted up, onto the low roof. Witchowsky was a little slower, but he made it up and was hoisted up. He immediately turned to offer a hand to Sanders, who accepted it graciously.
Sanders stood, and followed his teammates as they hurried through the city. It seemed to quite down, slightly. They weren't being fired at for the moment, but they could spot enemy movements to the sides and in the distance. A Blackhawk helicopter soared overhead, its chaingun blazing down on the city.
"Three-Man Ground-Team, this is Chopper Gunner 'Echo'. We have a visual on your position. We'll provide cover, over." Cried a voice over the headset.
"Echo, my call sign will be 'Forerunner'. Thanks for the assist, over." Yelled Maxim over the radio.
"Damn, where are we?" cried Witchowsky.
"We're close," said Maxim, then he got back on the radio, "Lieutenant Smith, this is Iceberg. We are about three clicks North of your last known location. I spot a three story building in the distance. It's view will be quite helpful in this part of the city. We're making for it now. How do you copy?"
"Copy, Iceberg," said Lieutenant Smith over the radio, "Be advised, resistance is thick in this part of the city. Target is moving in a Northward direction. We're right on his ass, be ready for a thick fight heading your way. He's armed, and manned."
"Roger that, Smith, Iceberg out," said Maxim.
"I don't think that three-story building will help us out, much," said Sanders, "and I think these guys would've thought of that by now. We might be in for a whole new fight."
"Right now, it's our best shot," said Maxim, "And that's where we're going."
Crack
Sanders heard it, and it went along perfectly to a spray of warm liquid at the back of his head. Sanders stopped running, and felt the back of his head. His hand came back red with blood, and Sanders wheeled around to ask Witchowsky if he saw him get shot, or if it was just him.
Witchowsky had a hole in his right eye, a blood cloud still fell towards the ground from him being shot. He fell forward, continuing the momentum of running right to the roof of the building. Sanders turned around, yelling Witchowsky's name as he scanned for the shooter.
Sanders felt a hammer slam into his chest. Another crack. He stumbled back, his eyes popping open with surprise. He heard someone off in the distance, "Sniper, hit the deck!" but he didn't pay much attention to it. Sanders stumbled back a few steps, which were enough for him to stumble over a small sill of the roof and tumble backwards, into a side street.
The wind was knocked right out of him on impact, and at first he lay there stunned. He felt his chest, still only feeling his body armor and no blood, yet he felt a heating sensation spread across his chest, slowly. He felt wet. He closed his eyes, realizing the reality that he was actually shot. Finally shot. Truly shot.
He closed his eyes, listening to the world around him. Gunfire, another crack, more gunfire… nothing… yelling… a crunch of rubble under a landing body. He tried to open his eyes again, but he felt the sensation like before, of truly heavy eyelids that wouldn't open. He removed his glove on his right hand, and felt around, trying to feel blood. All he could feel was grit and sand, over his face and clothes. Dust… dust all over him. "And to dust you will return" ran through Sanders mind. He shook his head. No.
Two fists slammed into Sanders' chest, and he moved under the impact. Another beating of fists followed; then something pushing against his throat.
"Sanders. Sanders! Get up, man, get up," cried a voice in the distance.
Sanders couldn't move… he couldn't care. A sharp pain stabbed into Sanders' leg, and his heart began to race. Suddenly, almost without warning, Sanders' heart was racing a millions miles per hour, and his eyes shot open and he gasped for breath.
Maxim held an empty adrenaline needle and he threw it aside. He knelt next to where Sanders lay, somewhere in a side street.
"Come on, Sanders," yelled Maxim, hoisting Sanders us, "Let's move, it!"
Sanders leaned against Maxim, who supported them both as they headed down the street a little ways. Maxim kept trying to hail the helicopter on the radio.
"Echo, this is Forerunner, do you copy, over. We've taken heavy casualties. I have wounded. We need you to pick us up on the roof of some sort of butcher shop back where you last saw us."
"We copy, Forerunner," said the chopper pilot, "Dust-off wounded and possible KIA at rooftop of Butcher shop. LZ status?"
"Be advised, Echo," said Maxim, "LZ is most likely Hot. Bring the heat."
"Roger that. Echo inbound," said the chopper before cutting off.
Sanders could barely see it. A rundown old butcher's shop, some rancid meat in the window. Maxim was making a B-Line for it.
"Lieutenant Smith, this is Iceberg. We've taken severe casualties. KIA of one Private Witchowsky and we're loosing Private Sanders. We're no longer an asset to your chase." Said Maxim.
"Ice! That is unacceptable," cried Smith over the radio, "Set up shop, somewhere, and prepare for a fight. We got them heading right for you! Just slow him down, very slightly! Tell the chopper to-"
Sanders never caught the rest of Smith's speech. Just as Maxim reached the door and he reached out for the handle, it swung open, and a man with dark sunglasses and a barrette stood in the doorway. He held a pistol in his hand, a Desert Eagle. He lifted it up, and aimed right at Sanders.
Sanders didn't feel the bullet hit him in the chest. He saw the flash, heard most of the shot, but the actual feeling of the bullet hitting his chest was never there. He felt his body go limp, go cold, and fall backwards. Maxim screamed something, but the man whipped his pistol around and shot Maxim in the neck right as Sanders hit the floor.
Sanders lazily looked around on the ground, turning colder and colder. The man took a step above Maxim, who was squirming on the ground, clutching his throat, and shot another round into his head. Maxim's body went eerily still, his camera on that holster still rolling. The man turned, and took a few steps over Sanders. He cocked a round into the chamber, and aimed the gun at Sanders' head.
Sanders felt the wind blowing on his face… and he saw the man's barrette get pushed from his head. The man looked up, and then sprinted backwards, into the Butcher Shop, firing his pistol. A moment later an onslaught of bullets pelted the butcher shop, cutting right through the rancid meat and into the shop itself. Sanders managed to look over at Maxim, a pool of blood beginning to form around his still head. Someone was still jabbering on the radio, but Sanders didn't hear it, he didn't care.
He closed his eyes, and allowed his body to go still. No thought of what would happen next ever past his mind. He was just wondering what the feeling could have been when two hands checked his pulse, then grabbed his shoulders and began dragging him towards the source of the sudden gust of wind.