The K-Rations

Chaos Ensues...

         Chaos ensues.

         One minute he is crouched in the foxhole, his rifle a companion with the jungle silence his serenade. He's been up for three hours, with barely an hour of much-needed sleep before being kicked awake by the Sarge. He's the youngest of the men, barely nineteen - still a fucking virgin. He resents being treated as a kid; suffers all the jokes the older soldiers make just because he was transferred to recon as a rookie to the Pacific. So what if he hasn't seen combat yet? It didn't mean he wasn't as tough as they were. He knew this platoon had fought in the Tanaka campaign and they were almost revered as heroes for seizing the Japanese base down there. He considered it an honor to be called up to replace one whose legs had been blown off by shrapnel.

         And yet they got their kicks by teasing him whenever he tried to make conversation. During a card game one night, he was close to winning, but the Sarge - a man only in his early thirties, although the hard lines of war were now etched on his weathered face - had glared coldly at him, forcing him to fake a losing hand and withdraw back into his tent with shame. He had curled up beneath his damp mold-green blanket, squeezed his eyes shut against the distant sound of flares and gunfire, and winced as the booming sound would shake the very ground he lay on. How he missed his mother and his girl. Hell, he knew he should have taken her cherry that night at the soldiers' send-off. She was practically begging for it. At least it would have put him on equal footing with the guys here, especially when they began to speak of all the women they had slept around with back home.

         He does have a friend though. The goy, Goldstein, who is quiet and likes to write in his diary a lot. Goldstein has a son back home and likes to share the only picture of his wife and kid with him. On evenings when they aren't on patrol, he'll talk in that sonorous voice of his, telling of his plans to open a shop in the Brooklyn area and sell candy for five cents apiece. It's a nice dream, but he thinks Goldstein doesn't have a snowball's chance in hell. He does wish him luck though.

          "Anatano te wo secchi shinasai!"

"Put up your hands!"

         He's jerked back to reality at the harsh command, terror seizing his muscles and causing his legs to buckle. He's soiled his pants, since the events had happened so fast, he barely had time to control himself.

         A mistake. It had only been one brief moment of weakness. His lashes growing heavier by the second as weariness took control of his body. The blistering trek through the jungle had taken its toll. His young body was still not used to that level of physical exertion and he could have sworn he had sleepwalked several times through the night. He knew his feet had begun to bleed after a while and had winced as Delaney, the medic, had applied some foot treatment to it. It had helped...but only for a few hours. Fat load of good that did.

         He cannot understand what they are saying. Panic fills his insides as he falls to his knees and places his hands behind his head in surrender. Hot tears leak from his eyes and run down his cheeks, snot mingling to slip into his parted and moist lips. He sobs helplessly as the men continue to shout at him. How many are there? Five? Six? Ten? Where are the others in his platoon? Have they abandoned him? How long had the Japs known they were right across the river? How long had they been waiting for the Americans to show their faces?

         "Please," he begins to stammer, no longer caring if he's going against the code of his country. He can't die here. Not tonight. Not now. He's still a young kid. He's still got a lot to live for. Who's gonna take care of his momma when he's gone? He's got to marry his girl. He promised her that much.

         "Anatano namae ha nande aruka?! Taha dokoniaruka?!"

"What is your name? Where are the others?!

         "I'm just like you!" he suddenly screams. Their words are driving him crazy, the brick wall of miscommunication threatening to crush him beneath its weight. The one with the gun pointed at his temple barely looks a year older than himself. He can see the fright in those narrow black eyes, the strain on that pale flesh and realizes that they are in the same boat. Just two kids stuck in the middle of something they'd rather not be a part of. The concept of war had seemed exciting at first - game boys would play on boards with plastic men and battleships. Reality was a whole other story.

         "Taha dokoniaruka?!!"

"Where are the others?!"

         "I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU'RE SAYING!"

         The click of the trigger and the subsequent press of the cold steel weapon against his temple break his final resolve.

         "MY NAME IS PETER BOYD," he screams in terror. "I'M AN AMERICAN! I'M AMERICAN!"

         A sudden rapport of gunfire sends his mind reeling into an abyss of despair and quiet resignation. He feels something warm splash upon his face and licks his lips to taste the red fluid even as he finds himself falling to the ground in a faint. There are a mingle of disembodied cries and screams, and he barely feels the strong arms of his comrades dragging him back to safety and away from his now dead captors.

         "Fucking Japbait," growls the Sarge as he spits out in disgust. "Get him clean for chrisssakes, and let's get the fuck out of here."