Standing up and clutching the warm metal trigger he slowly slumps up peeking his head above the sand bag. Looking around, moving his head side to side slowly, Looking around. Hoping its clear, he slowly crawls back down and turns around facing his back to the sand bags. Looking at his men, 5 good men. Amazing men he would die for, that he commands.
Remebering his military trainning, and his mission. He must move up,
knowing there is most likely death around the corner. He slowly removes his helmet, getting a quick glimse of his face in his goggles when he brings it down. His face scar'ed, his lips chapped, the look of a soldier.
Turning his helmet to look in he slowly pulls out a picture, of a girl. Looking it, imaging, dreaming, wanting, burning. His eyes give a quick tear,
as he returns the picture to his helment, but first giving it a kiss. Sliding his helment back on. Pushing it down, making sure its on tight. He grabs his gun, cocks it and looks at his men. There faces cold, barren, showing nothing. No emotion, no fear. They knew what is going to happen. He slowly nodes his head and quickly jumps up, puts a hand on the sandbag and leaps forward. His men follow quickly, jumping over it. Running to any obsticale that will give them cover. Looking to his right he sees a house come alive. Windows pop open, doors creeked open, roofs become populated. He slowly turns his gun pulling on the hard trigger feeling it jump in his arms,
and shells drop out as his gun shots slugs into a man in the lower window.
From a peaceful moment to hell. Shells dropping, blood gushing, souls leaving,
guns blaring. Running straight forward without a thought. Looking down then back up, feeling his body get nipped, hit, filled, destroyed. His legs fall,
his body bursting all around. Blood shooting out from every entry. Slowly letting go of his gun, somthing that kept him alive. Looking down, his squad falling right below him. Slowly falling to the ground landing ontop of his blood brother. The ground popping around him, like fire works when he was a boy. His helment rolling to the ground revalling the under, the blood, the picture. Showing it to the world, his last sane thought, his last breath of life. Closing his eyes. He is nothing, dead, a mindless body still bleeding into the warm tan earth. His gun, the thing that made him what he is, a soldier. Worthless, to be collected and given to the next helpless soul. Somthing he clentched and his tears dropped on. His body flipped over, searched for tags. Somthing that showed the world who he was.
His dog tags ripped from his neck to be collected with the other 5. His body loaded into a trailer, and saluted as it left. His helment left on the ground. Kicked around by the rumbling ground as tanks run by. The girl always in his mind. His Helment. He was Austin.