Ow.
That was all he could think of, ow. He felt "ow" pulsing out of his leg, his shattered femoral artery constantly pumping his crimson lifeline into the cracks of the street below. He saw men flailing about everywhere--they tried to escape impending death, impending death that was spattering all around him. His carbine lay next to him, a fully loaded M1 baby Garand, its jovial yellow wood stained with deep red pain.
There it was again...ow.
He'd seen the man who'd done it, who'd caused the "ow", a small, clean shaven boy of no older than 18, bringing his Kar 98 up to his shoulder and letting loose a torrent of fire and steel.
More blood flowed.
He remembered what happened. His first day. Gung ho with the buddies and pals in his unit, getting drunk as fuck, and then they'd met the son of a bitch that was war. They'd hump and hump every day, carrying weapons, magazines, frags, canteens, .45s, thumbs and ears of Nazis. Then they'd wait. Wait for the "ow" or the big fat boat home.
Jeez, it hurt.
He heard a BAR in the distance. Damn, those things were loud. He tried to turn his head; he found he did not have enough energy in him to do so. Maybe, if he shifted a little....no, and now the blood flowed worse than ever. He groaned aloud, and the BAR stopped abruptly. Heh, everything stopped, it just took time. Run out of ammo, run out of blood, run out of everything.
Jesus.
Everything was red now, he saw nothing but red. His carbine was gone, long taken for its ammo. He felt sadness for this. The tiny little .30 was his friend, his mother throughout the ordeal. He coughed red. Maybe, he thought, maybe he would get it back. Along with a cute nurse and a doctor and a cake and money and a car and a kid and a good life...
Just a little more.....
Then nothing.