I've been here for a while now.
I don't think anyone can see me.
Just gonna hold my rifle close to my chest. No one can make me get up and fight, it's not up to them. It's up to me.
I don't want to be a hero.
Wait. What's this guy doing? He's coming towards me. Right. Fucking. Near me. He can't take my space. This is my space.
Get back you son of a bitch. Back. Back I said.
Am I really saying all this?
My gun goes off.
I warned him.
Only I can lie here.
Explosions go off in my vicinity. Ringing starts. Touch my ears. Feel wet. Blood. Holy shit.
Who started this godamn war anyway?
Flames ahead, I can feel the heat.
Some guy's beckoning.
No.
No, I'm not coming out.
Yeh, screw you too.
Now he's got a medic over.
No, there's nothing wrong with me. No, I'm fine.
So why don't I fight?
Because I don't want to.
I'm a what? Speak up, my hearings gone.
I can hear the loud whistling, yes.
The two men are gone. The medic's helmet remains where he set it down.
I guess they got tired of waiting for me.
Maybe I should go help.
But no.
As soon as I move, I shake. Uncontrollably. I gave up trying about half an hour ago.
I'll stay sitting.
I can hear voices now. At least my hearing's coming back.
I hear two names; Caparzo and what sounds like Mellish. They argue.
They're exchanging insults. About their mothers.
It's quite funny. I want to join in, but at the same time, I want to stay.
I'll stay sitting.
I look to my left out to the sea.
I watch one of the landing boats approach, under heavy fire.
I know what is going to happen.
But it's out of my control.
I'll stay sitting.
The ramp at the front descends slowly.
I can see the fresh faces eager to see what awaits them.
If they knew, they wouldn't be so eager.
As the ramp nudges the sand, and the officer in command shouts his signal, the first six or seven men are already dead.
I vomit over my legs.
But I'll stay sitting.
The men behind them trip and fall over the dead bodies, similarly being raked with high power machinegun fire.
A soldier carrying a flamethrower makes it ten metres onto the beach before his tank is ignited by a stray bullet.
He screams as the fuel rushes up his back and engulfs his head.
He runs to his fellow soldiers for help.
But they ignore him as he falls to his knees, then onto his face as the flames die out and leave his charred carcass, forgotten, on the beach.
I watch with apprehension as youthful looking lad from the same landing boat makes his way up the beach.
He is doing well.
I root for him.
But stay sitting.
He almost reaches the first trench.
A mine makes quick work of his boyish features. His torso still clutches his rifle, as if proud of the fact that it made it this far.
Unnoticed, the flag he must have stashed in his backpack lies strewn on the sand, tattered and muddy.
I feel a patriotic streak inside of me.
Yet I stay sitting.
An older soldier looks over his shoulder, perhaps expecting the boy to be there. He sees the remains of his body, and the flag.
He gets up from his secure position.
Staying low, he crawls to the flag.
Ten metres.
Five metres.
Two.
He clutches at the flag.
As I watch, from my side I can see that the flag is caught on what appears to be the boy's jacket webbing.
The older soldier tugs deperately, but the stubborn flag won't be taken from its master.
The soldier gives it one last heave, and as he falls back, flag in hand, he is shot in the back.
Twice.
So close.
I think I can make it.
It's only about two hundred metres away.
I'm up. I'm shaking, but I'm up.
First step.
Second step.
Bite.
What the-?
Blood. Lots of blood.
I guess I'll stay sitting.
I don't think anyone can see me.
Just gonna hold my rifle close to my chest. No one can make me get up and fight, it's not up to them. It's up to me.
I don't want to be a hero.
Wait. What's this guy doing? He's coming towards me. Right. Fucking. Near me. He can't take my space. This is my space.
Get back you son of a bitch. Back. Back I said.
Am I really saying all this?
My gun goes off.
I warned him.
Only I can lie here.
Explosions go off in my vicinity. Ringing starts. Touch my ears. Feel wet. Blood. Holy shit.
Who started this godamn war anyway?
Flames ahead, I can feel the heat.
Some guy's beckoning.
No.
No, I'm not coming out.
Yeh, screw you too.
Now he's got a medic over.
No, there's nothing wrong with me. No, I'm fine.
So why don't I fight?
Because I don't want to.
I'm a what? Speak up, my hearings gone.
I can hear the loud whistling, yes.
The two men are gone. The medic's helmet remains where he set it down.
I guess they got tired of waiting for me.
Maybe I should go help.
But no.
As soon as I move, I shake. Uncontrollably. I gave up trying about half an hour ago.
I'll stay sitting.
I can hear voices now. At least my hearing's coming back.
I hear two names; Caparzo and what sounds like Mellish. They argue.
They're exchanging insults. About their mothers.
It's quite funny. I want to join in, but at the same time, I want to stay.
I'll stay sitting.
I look to my left out to the sea.
I watch one of the landing boats approach, under heavy fire.
I know what is going to happen.
But it's out of my control.
I'll stay sitting.
The ramp at the front descends slowly.
I can see the fresh faces eager to see what awaits them.
If they knew, they wouldn't be so eager.
As the ramp nudges the sand, and the officer in command shouts his signal, the first six or seven men are already dead.
I vomit over my legs.
But I'll stay sitting.
The men behind them trip and fall over the dead bodies, similarly being raked with high power machinegun fire.
A soldier carrying a flamethrower makes it ten metres onto the beach before his tank is ignited by a stray bullet.
He screams as the fuel rushes up his back and engulfs his head.
He runs to his fellow soldiers for help.
But they ignore him as he falls to his knees, then onto his face as the flames die out and leave his charred carcass, forgotten, on the beach.
I watch with apprehension as youthful looking lad from the same landing boat makes his way up the beach.
He is doing well.
I root for him.
But stay sitting.
He almost reaches the first trench.
A mine makes quick work of his boyish features. His torso still clutches his rifle, as if proud of the fact that it made it this far.
Unnoticed, the flag he must have stashed in his backpack lies strewn on the sand, tattered and muddy.
I feel a patriotic streak inside of me.
Yet I stay sitting.
An older soldier looks over his shoulder, perhaps expecting the boy to be there. He sees the remains of his body, and the flag.
He gets up from his secure position.
Staying low, he crawls to the flag.
Ten metres.
Five metres.
Two.
He clutches at the flag.
As I watch, from my side I can see that the flag is caught on what appears to be the boy's jacket webbing.
The older soldier tugs deperately, but the stubborn flag won't be taken from its master.
The soldier gives it one last heave, and as he falls back, flag in hand, he is shot in the back.
Twice.
So close.
I think I can make it.
It's only about two hundred metres away.
I'm up. I'm shaking, but I'm up.
First step.
Second step.
Bite.
What the-?
Blood. Lots of blood.
I guess I'll stay sitting.