1 We Were Comrades Once…
And Young
Gunshots rang out in every direction. Sand constantly blew in their eyes. Their ears. The war…. The sand…. The blood…. Everything. Everything was getting to these comrades in arms. These combatants. These, "preservers of liberty". As they marched through the hot desert sands artillery fired at them from behind dunes and out of trenches. They marched past fallen friends, brothers, fathers, and cousins. Each prayed to whatever God they had… in whatever way they felt was appropriate. Some didn't have a God. Some thought that this war was proof of no supreme being watching over them to protect them. These are the men that loose their faith. These are the men that are gunned down by enemy guerrillas coming off the drop ship. Some knew what they were fighting for and fought with all their might that their creator had bestowed upon them. Some fought for their home, their friends, and their family. Some didn't know anything to fight for anymore. The war had taken everything away. Some were caught in fire and wished they were home curled up in bed sleeping next to their wife or girlfriend. They then, moments later found their dream come true whilst the man beside him closed his eyelids and crossed himself in reverence for the dead. Nothing, not even respect for the dead, was sacred on these accursed grounds. They saw bones covered in sand still with bony fingers clenched around their rifle, fighting to the end. The scenery was the same. Orange sand dunes reflecting the suns rays and making everything as hot as they had ever been. Men died of natural causes as well. These were men that did not think… that did not prepare. It was all so futile. It served no purpose. Accomplished nothing. Achieve no goals. Another battle that wasn't ours to fight in the first place. The more and more they looked at each other they knew their comrades thoughts. They knew what they would say before they said it. Now all were thinking the same thing. All wanted to say the same words.
"Why? What are we doing here?"
They were marching to a small military base on the other side of the desert. Their present amount of troops had already suffered great casualties. In the beginning the force consisted of five armored troop transports carrying at least twenty regular army, four "Wolf Class" hover tanks made especially for desert warfare. The transports had a thick shell of armor protecting it from enemy fire and sported a swivel mounted .90 caliber machine gun. The tanks were lightly armored and moved fast and mounted on top in addition to the .90 cal guns had a nine inch main cannon. As they had only trekked across thirty minutes worth of the harsh desert sands when artillery and infantry started bombarding them with fire. A mortar shell hit one of the transports right on top and it exploded in a bright burning ball of flame and shrapnel. The tanks had taken to the groups flank and started hammering away at the dunes with their own barrage of fire but were unsuccessful as the light and fast, yet heavily armed, enemy desert half tracks and well prepared enemy infantry were able to move around more than the large group nailed to one spot. Two of the transports hatches opened and out bounded the men who were going to fight and not die in a large rolling coffin. From one transport all of the twenty men present made it out alive. From the other transport, there were only about twelve. As one of the hover tanks was turning to give the infantry assistance it's underbelly was exposed when a artillery shell hit it's underside and caught on fire. It hovered about fifty feet in the opposite direction of that of the troops where it exploded. Another of the tank was hit by enemy bullets and seemed that it hit a soft spot and penetrated the armor. It hit the tanks power supply and the hover jets stopped. They were now sitting ducks. They decided to die a hero's death and they manned their weapons and kept fighting until a bullet went through the skull of the gunner spraying blood over the steaming hot sand. He fell down into the cockpit of the tank right as a mortar shell, expertly aimed, went right into the hatch. It exploded from the inside out and left very little of the tank or it's pilot. About ten other men had escaped from their transports as the rest began a raid on a close-by trench to try and achieve a somewhat good defensive position. Out here they were sitting ducks. About seven men snuck around to a lesser- guarded part of the trench and bounded down into it. Two men came upon an unmanned M-19 on a bi-pod and started firing away rounds at the men trying to raid them. As two others went further down into the trench system they found it was just a series of two trenches with connecting trenches in between. These two ran out blindly, not realizing no one was there to cover them and they fired at one of the men with the M-19. The two took two down but one was shot in the back three times and the other was taken prisoner. The man grabbed his neck from behind and called over his commanding officer and asked if any prisoners were to be taken. The CO responded "Negative" and so the soldier put his pistol up to the man's head pulled the trigger. It sent gore and blood flying out the other side and he made a gurgling noise and fell to the ground. More of the troops however came in and liberated the trench thus setting up their own defenses. They now had a good position.
"DAMNIT!" the commander of the squadron who had taken the trench was mapping out his strategy.
They had lost all their tanks and now the men were forced to walk through the harsh sandstorms on foot from trench to trench. Explosions happened often killing people with shrapnel or other type of horrid ways to die in war.
"We need to get some air strikes over here now!" he yelled at his second in command
"Our radio signals are being blocked by those damn sandstorms." The second in command replied to his yelling while tinkering with the radio.
"If we don't this trench'll be our grave!!!!" he cried trying to think of anything that could help.
"I'm sorry sir there's nothing I can do."
"Fucking sand." The commander mumbled and walked off
Gren reached over the top of the trench and fired a few rounds into an enemy's head. The head popped off the man's shoulders and a stream of blood went up out of his severed neck. He ducked back into the trench. The private next to him saw his shot and stood up and slapped him on the back.
"Holy shit! That was one helluva shot back there!" he congratulated
Gren just smiled and nodded and looked forward. In a split second he saw a red liquid splatter over the trench wall he was staring at. The private was just picked off. He sat in the trench and pulled out a cigarette. He looked out to his left. He saw a man playing a music box. He recognized the man. The man who said you didn't need comrades.
'Thinking of a woman back home?' Gren thought to himself wondering what the man was so melancholy about. 'His tone… His voice. He seems to have no emotions; I doubt it is a woman he is thinking of.'
Vicious continued to turn the handle of the small music box.
'Here is where I die. But yet I shall return… Julia… Why hath you forsaken me so? I don't care about the war. Not about the others bleeding beside me. All I want it you and I will kill to have you.'
Gren walked over the man, rifle over his shoulder.
'He looks at his hands unmoving. He listens to the sound. He is not phased by the shots nor the screams. What sort of man is this who cares not about slaughter of his fellow man?'
"What's that song." He inquired to Vicious sitting next to him
Vicious sat unmoving.
'The boy. The boy with his "comrades". Bah. You are perfect. You are naive. You know not the limits of a tormented soul.'
"Julia…." Vicious answered his voice trailing off
Gren smoked his cigarette some more.
'He opens up to me and yet he says there is no need for comrades. He is locked and a friend is his key to open up.'
"Nice melody." Gren commented as he lit the cigarette already lodged between his lips.
He blew the smoke out of his lungs and sighed.
"You mind if I play that tune on my sax when I get home?" he asked
Vicious just looked at him.
'A trusting soul. He doesn't know what kind of man he is talking to. Nor what kind of music this is. It is music of the damned. Hell will come to you with Julia by your side.'
Gren just stared back into his cold eyes.
'He scans my eyes as if trying to search my soul.'
Vicious started back at him once more.
'He looks at me as if I have lost my mind when really I have lost my heart.'
Vicious took the music box by his index finger and thumb and held it out. Gren to held his hand out and he set the music box down. Gren looked at it for a moment as Vicious stood up slowly. Vicious then whirled around quickly and drew a knife while pinning Gren's head to the wall.
'What is going on? What is happening? Killed by a comrade. The shadow of death comes in the form of a friend.'
Gren gritted his teeth and noticed the blade hit beside his head. He looked to the side and saw a scorpion cut in half by Vicious's knife.
'He says we need not comrades but yet my life he saves.'
Vicious put the blade back in its sheath with a sliding sound.
'Little does he know the damage he has done to himself.'
Vicious picked up his rifle and walked off. Gren's eyes followed him for a moment then he gave a sigh of relief. He gazed at the music box and began to turn the lever. The song was beautiful.
Titan was a growing experience for those soldiers and perhaps even Vicious learned that comrades are important. You need friends but when you go through years of your life with only your comrades you know them better than yourself. Friendships come and go… But Comrades last all through life… and death.
And Young
Gunshots rang out in every direction. Sand constantly blew in their eyes. Their ears. The war…. The sand…. The blood…. Everything. Everything was getting to these comrades in arms. These combatants. These, "preservers of liberty". As they marched through the hot desert sands artillery fired at them from behind dunes and out of trenches. They marched past fallen friends, brothers, fathers, and cousins. Each prayed to whatever God they had… in whatever way they felt was appropriate. Some didn't have a God. Some thought that this war was proof of no supreme being watching over them to protect them. These are the men that loose their faith. These are the men that are gunned down by enemy guerrillas coming off the drop ship. Some knew what they were fighting for and fought with all their might that their creator had bestowed upon them. Some fought for their home, their friends, and their family. Some didn't know anything to fight for anymore. The war had taken everything away. Some were caught in fire and wished they were home curled up in bed sleeping next to their wife or girlfriend. They then, moments later found their dream come true whilst the man beside him closed his eyelids and crossed himself in reverence for the dead. Nothing, not even respect for the dead, was sacred on these accursed grounds. They saw bones covered in sand still with bony fingers clenched around their rifle, fighting to the end. The scenery was the same. Orange sand dunes reflecting the suns rays and making everything as hot as they had ever been. Men died of natural causes as well. These were men that did not think… that did not prepare. It was all so futile. It served no purpose. Accomplished nothing. Achieve no goals. Another battle that wasn't ours to fight in the first place. The more and more they looked at each other they knew their comrades thoughts. They knew what they would say before they said it. Now all were thinking the same thing. All wanted to say the same words.
"Why? What are we doing here?"
They were marching to a small military base on the other side of the desert. Their present amount of troops had already suffered great casualties. In the beginning the force consisted of five armored troop transports carrying at least twenty regular army, four "Wolf Class" hover tanks made especially for desert warfare. The transports had a thick shell of armor protecting it from enemy fire and sported a swivel mounted .90 caliber machine gun. The tanks were lightly armored and moved fast and mounted on top in addition to the .90 cal guns had a nine inch main cannon. As they had only trekked across thirty minutes worth of the harsh desert sands when artillery and infantry started bombarding them with fire. A mortar shell hit one of the transports right on top and it exploded in a bright burning ball of flame and shrapnel. The tanks had taken to the groups flank and started hammering away at the dunes with their own barrage of fire but were unsuccessful as the light and fast, yet heavily armed, enemy desert half tracks and well prepared enemy infantry were able to move around more than the large group nailed to one spot. Two of the transports hatches opened and out bounded the men who were going to fight and not die in a large rolling coffin. From one transport all of the twenty men present made it out alive. From the other transport, there were only about twelve. As one of the hover tanks was turning to give the infantry assistance it's underbelly was exposed when a artillery shell hit it's underside and caught on fire. It hovered about fifty feet in the opposite direction of that of the troops where it exploded. Another of the tank was hit by enemy bullets and seemed that it hit a soft spot and penetrated the armor. It hit the tanks power supply and the hover jets stopped. They were now sitting ducks. They decided to die a hero's death and they manned their weapons and kept fighting until a bullet went through the skull of the gunner spraying blood over the steaming hot sand. He fell down into the cockpit of the tank right as a mortar shell, expertly aimed, went right into the hatch. It exploded from the inside out and left very little of the tank or it's pilot. About ten other men had escaped from their transports as the rest began a raid on a close-by trench to try and achieve a somewhat good defensive position. Out here they were sitting ducks. About seven men snuck around to a lesser- guarded part of the trench and bounded down into it. Two men came upon an unmanned M-19 on a bi-pod and started firing away rounds at the men trying to raid them. As two others went further down into the trench system they found it was just a series of two trenches with connecting trenches in between. These two ran out blindly, not realizing no one was there to cover them and they fired at one of the men with the M-19. The two took two down but one was shot in the back three times and the other was taken prisoner. The man grabbed his neck from behind and called over his commanding officer and asked if any prisoners were to be taken. The CO responded "Negative" and so the soldier put his pistol up to the man's head pulled the trigger. It sent gore and blood flying out the other side and he made a gurgling noise and fell to the ground. More of the troops however came in and liberated the trench thus setting up their own defenses. They now had a good position.
"DAMNIT!" the commander of the squadron who had taken the trench was mapping out his strategy.
They had lost all their tanks and now the men were forced to walk through the harsh sandstorms on foot from trench to trench. Explosions happened often killing people with shrapnel or other type of horrid ways to die in war.
"We need to get some air strikes over here now!" he yelled at his second in command
"Our radio signals are being blocked by those damn sandstorms." The second in command replied to his yelling while tinkering with the radio.
"If we don't this trench'll be our grave!!!!" he cried trying to think of anything that could help.
"I'm sorry sir there's nothing I can do."
"Fucking sand." The commander mumbled and walked off
Gren reached over the top of the trench and fired a few rounds into an enemy's head. The head popped off the man's shoulders and a stream of blood went up out of his severed neck. He ducked back into the trench. The private next to him saw his shot and stood up and slapped him on the back.
"Holy shit! That was one helluva shot back there!" he congratulated
Gren just smiled and nodded and looked forward. In a split second he saw a red liquid splatter over the trench wall he was staring at. The private was just picked off. He sat in the trench and pulled out a cigarette. He looked out to his left. He saw a man playing a music box. He recognized the man. The man who said you didn't need comrades.
'Thinking of a woman back home?' Gren thought to himself wondering what the man was so melancholy about. 'His tone… His voice. He seems to have no emotions; I doubt it is a woman he is thinking of.'
Vicious continued to turn the handle of the small music box.
'Here is where I die. But yet I shall return… Julia… Why hath you forsaken me so? I don't care about the war. Not about the others bleeding beside me. All I want it you and I will kill to have you.'
Gren walked over the man, rifle over his shoulder.
'He looks at his hands unmoving. He listens to the sound. He is not phased by the shots nor the screams. What sort of man is this who cares not about slaughter of his fellow man?'
"What's that song." He inquired to Vicious sitting next to him
Vicious sat unmoving.
'The boy. The boy with his "comrades". Bah. You are perfect. You are naive. You know not the limits of a tormented soul.'
"Julia…." Vicious answered his voice trailing off
Gren smoked his cigarette some more.
'He opens up to me and yet he says there is no need for comrades. He is locked and a friend is his key to open up.'
"Nice melody." Gren commented as he lit the cigarette already lodged between his lips.
He blew the smoke out of his lungs and sighed.
"You mind if I play that tune on my sax when I get home?" he asked
Vicious just looked at him.
'A trusting soul. He doesn't know what kind of man he is talking to. Nor what kind of music this is. It is music of the damned. Hell will come to you with Julia by your side.'
Gren just stared back into his cold eyes.
'He scans my eyes as if trying to search my soul.'
Vicious started back at him once more.
'He looks at me as if I have lost my mind when really I have lost my heart.'
Vicious took the music box by his index finger and thumb and held it out. Gren to held his hand out and he set the music box down. Gren looked at it for a moment as Vicious stood up slowly. Vicious then whirled around quickly and drew a knife while pinning Gren's head to the wall.
'What is going on? What is happening? Killed by a comrade. The shadow of death comes in the form of a friend.'
Gren gritted his teeth and noticed the blade hit beside his head. He looked to the side and saw a scorpion cut in half by Vicious's knife.
'He says we need not comrades but yet my life he saves.'
Vicious put the blade back in its sheath with a sliding sound.
'Little does he know the damage he has done to himself.'
Vicious picked up his rifle and walked off. Gren's eyes followed him for a moment then he gave a sigh of relief. He gazed at the music box and began to turn the lever. The song was beautiful.
Titan was a growing experience for those soldiers and perhaps even Vicious learned that comrades are important. You need friends but when you go through years of your life with only your comrades you know them better than yourself. Friendships come and go… But Comrades last all through life… and death.