Blast Furnace

Blast Furnace
by
Keaton Foster

“A lie is a lie. Just because they write it down and call it history doesn’t make it the truth. We live in a world where seeing is not believing, where only a few know what really happened. We live in a world where everything we know is wrong.” Unknown.

-Blast Furnace-

The rotor wash of a slowly descending huey full of replacement soldiers rips and tears at a massive group of trees. Silently they stand on the edge of a large man made clearing. They are oblivious to all that they have seen. Yet like the men in this place, they bear the scars of war. Many of them lay broken and shattered into splinters. Many lay dead from the wounds they have received. Others stand stripped and barren of their once flourishing lives.

Close by a makeshift landing pad has been marked out with a large white cross. Massive stacks of sand bags riddled with bullets outline the perimeter of the landing pad. The sandbag walls extend to form the outline of a crudely constructed firebase, approximately the size of a football field.

A blast furnace of heat rips through the air as violent little vortex’s of dust spin all around. A partially broken sign stands alone, its words have been painstakingly carved out on the backside of an ammo crate. It reads, “Welcome to reality.”

Trenches, mines, and barbwire separate the distance between firebase Sheila, a remote Army outpost named after the company commander’s mother and a perilous jungle filled with Vietcong heavies looking to take back the real estate it occupies.

Men filled with emotionless expressions stand at the ready to receive the incoming hueys from the nearby Phan Rang Air Force base. All around the luscious grass of Southeast Asia swirls at their feet. Spires of white and black smoke climb to the heavens.

With weapons slung over their shoulders, they wait. They are ready to do their part, no matter how hard it must be for them. They are committed to their duty. They, along with all others here believe in what they are doing.

In the short distance, violent acts of war rage far beyond control. Dozens of brave men fight to live, as others fail and die such horrible deaths.

A fresh faced man stands shoulder to shoulder with others. He came here to serve and do his part, they all did. He is 19, and if you ask him, he would be the first to tell you that he knows it all. If you asked him, he would tell you that he is well prepared to face all that is to come.

Truly he knows nothing of the hell he is about to experience, on this, his first day of war. His first day of fighting for his very survival. His first day of killing in the name of all that he has come to believe is right.

He stands tall compared to the others. His slender build is hidden by all of the heavy gear he has been burdened with. His name is Jack Wilson and he is a Private in the United States Army. His job is infantry, and he has just been assigned to the 25th infantry division.

Private Wilson stands on deck, with others waiting for their turn. Waiting their turn to serve their country, their nation. Waiting their turn to kill, and if need be waiting their turn to die in the name of something far greater than themselves.

Some of the men coming in with him are new to this place, while others are seasoned veterans of this war, as well as wars long since come and gone.

Private Wilson readies his weapon, he will be first off. He will be the first to place his foot back on tera firma.

He joined the Army six months ago. He joined before the draft gathered him up. He wanted to show others that he is brave. He wanted to show them that his willingness to kill would fall into his hands alone.
He did not want to be forced, all of his own beliefs have led him here.

The huey softly settles down to the ground. As soon as it does a man wearing a flight helmet and operating a 60-caliber machine gun screams,
“Let’s go, lets go, everyone out!”

Private Wilson steps from the huey, as soon as he does the others follow. He is shoved to the side by the others close on his tail. They all know, they all have been trained that if the huey is hit by enemy fire it will certainly become a burning death trap from which there will be no escape.

A loud voice, made soft from the thumping rotor wash orders,
“Let’s go! Over here!”

As soon as Private Wilson and the handful of men he came with get out of the way, the others waiting begin to approach the huey.

Just on the edge of the makeshift landing pad the bodies of the dead lay motionless, screaming of what might come next for those arriving. They are foolishly ignored.

The two men waiting grab each side of the body bags, and with terrifying ease, they stack them into the waiting huey. They quickly send the dead on their way.

All around miniature explosions of life and death crack from the barrels of assault rifles. Every few seconds a massive array of thumping sounds breaks the air. Outgoing artillery shells with cleaver sayings written on their sides are sent down range.

Near the landing pad, the enemy is being kept at bay. If the shelling were to stop for any serious length of time, they might quite easily overrun the landing pad, and the firebase.

It only takes a few moments, and the huey begins to dust off. As it does the door gunners of both sides unload a hellish barrage of fire. They are doing it with the hopes of keeping the enemy’s heads down just long enough for them to get clear. The trick works, in no time the hueys are far out of range of small arms fire.

A grizzled looking man covered in blood and dirt steps forwards. He looks older, in his late forties. His eyes burn bright with false hope. His pale skin is stained the same shade as the nearby dirt. Slung over his shoulder he carries his standard issue m-16 assault rifle.

He shouts, “My name is Captain David Onslaught. You men will report to me. If you need anything Sergeant McCarty here will help.” He points across the landing zone to another older looking man standing with a determined look on his face. The man nods his head in agreement.

“We have been holding this firebase for three weeks now. We are right in the middle of Charlie’s largest supply route. For some insane reason far beyond my pay scale the Army corps of engineers was ordered to build this damn firebase, and now we, the 25th infantry must defend it no matter the cost.”

It only takes a few seconds for Private Wilson and the others to realize that they have been placed in the middle of one hell of a shit storm.

Captain Onslaught continues, “We believe that Charlie is held up in the tree line to the South and East. In the last two days some sappers have managed to dig tunnels under our Southern line…”

Private Wilson foolishly interrupts Captain Onslaught, “Sappers?”

Private Wilson had heard the term Charlie, and Gooks plenty of times during his training, but he is unfamiliar with the term sappers.

“Jesus Christ private, don’t they teach you fresh from the world fucks anything in basic?” Shouts Captain Onslaught.

Private Wilson, quickly realizing he was making an ass of himself shouts,
“Just how to kill, sir!”

Captain steps forward, examining Private Wilson’s fresh uniform,
“Well Private Wilson, you will get plenty of chances to do that here in this ungodly place.”

“Yes sir!” Replies Private Wilson.

“All of you follow Sergeant McCarty, he will take you to your positions. Good luck men, and please do me a favor don’t get your head blown off on your first day in country.” Orders Captain Onslaught.

Private Wilson, like the others, is unsure if they should say anything at all. They all remain silent.

“Follow me men.” Orders Sergeant McCarty.

After several minutes of walking and watching others being placed in well dug out fighting positions, Private Wilson finds himself alone with Sergeant McCarty.

“You will be out here, in position six with Private First Class (PFC) Mecum. He is one crazy ass motherfucker. If you do what he says you have a good chance of living through the next few days.” Explains Sergeant McCarty.

“Yes Sergeant.” Replies Private Wilson.

“Mecum, this here is Private Wilson, straight from the world. He is your new hole buddy. Show him the ropes, and please Mecum don’t let him get whacked his first day here.” Orders Sergeant McCarty.

“You know Sergeant, I can’t promise you that!” Shouts a deep southern voice from the depths of the nearby bunker.

“Just get in there Private Wilson, and do what he says. And for Christ sake keep your head down and your eyes peeled.” Orders Sergeant McCarty as he points toward the bunker.

“Yes Sergeant.” Replies Private Wilson.

Private Wilson jumps into the bunker, and as soon as his feet touch back down in the short distance a hellish burst of automatic weapons fire rips across the distance between him and the tree line. Private Wilson dives down on the floor. Several rounds hit the large sandbag wall just feet outside the bunker.

As soon as the sound of incoming fire begins to fade, a new sound replaces it. Outgoing small arms fire roars to life all up and down the line. A few yards from the bunker, a second bank of artillery guns opens up. In mere seconds, several artillery rounds impact the distant tree line. Hellish explosions burn bright.

“Get up man and get on that sixty, it looks like Charlie is making another push.” Screams PFC Mecum.

Private Wilson jumps to his feet. A massive surge of fear followed closely by a greater rush of adrenaline fills his body. He quickly grabs hold of the powerful 60-caliber machine gun. He charges the handle back, readying it to fire.

“They will be coming from the left, they have been probing this position since late last night.” Screams PFC Mecum as he points downrange towards a set of ditches dug in the clearing between the bunker and the tree line.

“Copy that!” Private Wilson swings the 60-calibur to the left. As soon as he looks down its sight, he spots his first enemy combatant. A Vietcong, followed closely behind by several others. All of them are running, and widely firing their weapons.

Private Wilson places the crosshairs on the chest of the first man in the group. The man is looking directly at Private Wilson’s position. Private Wilson can see deep into his eyes. They are full of fear, full of anger.

The Vietcong looks to be quite young. He is dressed in all black. Slung over his shoulder is a rocket-propelled grenade. Held firmly in his hand is an ak-47 assault rifle. Its distinctive clank snaps across the battlefield.

Private Jack Wilson from Topeka Kansas joined the Army six months ago. He has spent the last three days at Phan Rang Air Force base preparing for his deployment in field, and here he is, just a few minutes in country and he is about to kill an enemy combatant, a fellow human being.

His mind flashes back to the sign at the landing pad,
“Welcome to reality!” He whispers it to himself.

Reality will have to wait. Decisions like the one he is about to make are part of instinct. Part of an internal survival mechanism that drives us to do such terrible things to each other.

Private Wilson’s training quickly takes over. He fires several ten round burst down range, towards the advancing enemy. Before the sound of the first shots ringing in his ear stops, the rounds he fired find their mark.

The advancing young man and those with him are cut to shreds. Their bodies explode from the impact of powerful rounds. Bits and pieces of them fly through the air. All of them fall within a few inches of each other.

Private Wilson is certain that he has just killed his first fellow human beings. He has just taken several lives.

Behind the once advancing men, others continue to come. With increasing certainty, Private Wilson fires on them. Several others fall, then finally, the enemy stops advancing.

They begin to retreat back into the tree line.

“Keep firing, let them have it!” Screams PFC Mecum as he unloads his m16 down range towards the now retreating enemy.

Private Wilson fires toward the distant tree line. By then all that is visible are broken shapes, distorted by the foliage of the trees.

After several more intense minutes of firing PFC Mecum screams,
“Cease fire, cease fire!

PFC Mecum quickly reloads his rifle.

“Awesome man you been in country for all but five minutes and you got your first kills. I was here for three days before I got my first kill. That’s impressive.”

Private Wilson does not reply, he has no idea what to say. He just continues to watch for others. No sooner than the firing stops at his position it starts back up on the far side of the firing line.

“Man oh man, something big is coming. The Gooks are testing the lines. They are looking for any weakness.” Shouts PFC Mecum.

Private Wilson scans back and forth, searching for the enemy. There are no others. After several more minutes of fire, the line again falls silent.

Unknown to everyone on the firebase, the enemy has found a weakness that they will be able to exploit to their fullest advantage.

“Where you from in the world?” Questions PFC Mecum, a young man who looks as if he has not slept in days. His issued uniform is in complete disarray. His hair is long and his face is hidden behind an overgrown beard. His knuckles are cut and bruised from what Private Wilson can only assume was hand-to-hand combat.

“I am from Topeka, Kansas.” Replies Private Wilson.

“Never been to Topeka, I’m from East Liverpool, Ohio. What is your name?” Asks Mecum as he extends his hand.

“My name is Jack, and you?”

“Brian.”

Private Wilson and PFC Mecum shake hands.

“Welcome to hell, this firebase has been under constant attack since the first day it was set up. Charlie wants this place back with a vengeance.”

Before Private Wilson can say another word, from across the firebase screams a loud blaring siren. It is deafening. It lets out three massive blasts.

“That’s the all clear. It means that the spotters have seen Charlie retreating beyond the range of our weapons.” Explains PFC Mecum.

Private Wilson sits down on a row of sandbags. PFC Mecum sits across from him. The two young men look off toward the tree line.

“Don’t worry, Charlie won’t be back for a while.” Explains PFC Mecum.

“How long have you been here?” Questions Private Wilson.

“I have been here since the first days of this place. There are only a hand full of us left. We have taken far too many casualties over this shithole. The first week out here, there were fifty of us. Of the original fifty, only six, I mean five of us have survived. But now with the surge there are well over a hundred on this firebase.”

PFC Mecum pauses for a second as he looks out toward the tree line.

“My buddy since basic, PFC Daniels, just went out on that chopper you came in on. He was killed yesterday by a Gook sniper.”

“I am so sorry to hear that man, did you get the sniper?” Questions Private Wilson.

“Yeah, Captain Onslaught brought in an air strike on him. It was nasty, that Gook got what he deserved.” PFC Mecum says angrily. He then turns and walks away. He heads off to retrieve some ammo from a bunker in the center of the firebase.

Private Wilson returns to scanning the tree line for any enemy activity. As he does he spots the dead bodies of the men he had killed. The sight of seeing them laying there in the dirt causes him to shake as the reality of all that he has done hits him.

But suddenly he spots one of the men moving. It is the first man, the one Private Wilson observed first. He is not dead, however he is severely injured. He is laying on his back, what’s left of his guts he holds in his hands. Both of his legs are shattered.

Nearby, Private Wilson spots a pair of binoculars, he quickly retrieves them. He focuses them on the face of the young man. Each detail of the man’s face is instantly burned into his mind. He will never be able to forget.

PFC Mecum returns with several fresh boxes of ammunition in his hands.

“Mecum, there is a man out there. He is still alive.” Explains Private Wilson as he returns to looking through the binoculars.

“That happens all the time on the line, we call them crippled Charlie’s. He will bleed out, most of them do pretty quickly.” Explains PFC Mecum.

“If you want, just use the sixty on him. If not, I can see if you can borrow PFC Landowska’s m14. We can line that Gook up for a nice head shot.”

Private Wilson unsure what to do, says nothing.

“It’s best to just let him suffer. It’s good for moral around here.” Explains PFC Mecum.

“I think I will just let him bleed out. It’s probably best.” Private Wilson uncomfortably exclaims.

Private Wilson watches on as the severely wounded Vietcong pulls himself along the ground. After a few minutes, the young man disappears into a shallow ditch. Private Wilson is confident that he will never see the man again.

The rest of his first day is spent cleaning, and preparing weapons as well as checking the line for any enemy movement. Private Wilson quickly gets to know his new bunker mate. It does not take him long to realize that PFC Mecum is indeed crazy as batshit. Private Wilson listens quite intently to all of PFC Mecum’s hellish adventures.

The suns begins to fall, night will come soon. With it will come more than just darkness.

“Just about every night Charlie comes in force, so be alert.” Orders PFC Mecum as he finishes assembling his m16 after a thorough field cleaning.

“I am ready.” Private Wilson replies confidently.

“I hope so, because it’s going to be a full moon tonight. Plenty of light for Charlie to make his move.”

Like a stone being dropped into the depths of a deep pond, the sun quickly falls further in the sky.

As soon as the last traces of daylight fade, a loud noise breaks the silence of the last several hours. Over the pa system, a song begins to play. PFC Mecum has heard it hundreds of times. Captain Onslaught plays it each night at sundown. It is his way to motivate his men and send fear into the hearts of the enemy.

“Is that “The End,” by the Doors?” Questions Private Wilson knowing all too well that is what he is hearing.

“Yeah, very fitting for the occasion don’t you think?” Chuckles PFC Mecum.

The song blares on, ten minutes seems like a timeless eternity for all involved. PFC Mecum sits back and enjoys the song. Private Wilson just looks up at the pa speaker, listening to each word, trying to find a connection to what it is he is experiencing.

As soon as the last note cracks across the speaker, an eerie silence, heavier than any Private Wilson has ever felt falls. Private Wilson sits down in front of the sixty caliber. He charges the handle, ready for what comes next.

PFC Mecum takes his position. From a small crate, he removes a flare gun.

“You ready to see something cool?”

“Yeah, sure!” Replies Private Wilson.

PFC Mecum loads a flare. He points it off into the darkness of the sky. He pulls the trigger. The flare rockets out of the gun and climbs several hundred feet into the air, just above the distant tree line. As soon as it begins to fall back down to earth, it explodes open. It shines as bright as a hundred suns. It lights up the tree line for fifty yards in every direction.

As it falls, the shapes of men heading from the tree line come into view. Hundreds of men, more than PFC Mecum has ever seen. All of them are carrying weapons. They advance in massive row at least two hundred yards long.

“Oh my God!” Mumbles Private Wilson.

No sooner than the words cross his lips, the silence is shattered as a massive barrage of both incoming and outgoing fire screams to life. Private Wilson begins to fire at the slowly advancing shadows and shapes. Other flares climb through the sky, quickly shedding more light on the serious nature of the situation.

“I have been here since day one, Charlie comes almost every night, but I have never seen so many. Keep Firing that sixty until the barrel melts.” Screams PFC Mecum.

Private Wilson unloads three boxes of ammo in mere minutes. He is unsure if he has hit anything. He quickly reaches for another box of ammo. All up and down the line artillery, small arms, and heavy machine guns are firing.

The tree line explodes into a wall of hellish fire. Instantly, with artillery shells landing in their laps many of the advancing Vietcong are vaporized. The small arms and heavy machine gun fire cut many of the others down.

Private Wilson slams the next box of ammo down. He clears the breach and readies the next feed across the breach. As soon as he reaches to charge the sixty, a loud, massive explosion lands just feet in front of his bunker. Private Wilson and PFC Mecum are thrown to the ground like rag dolls from the massive concussion.

The world all-around quickly fades to black, and then falls completely silent. Private Wilson is knocked unconscious. PFC Mecum lay just inches away in far worse condition.

All around the war rages on without them. All around fate advances at a freighting pace.

After an uncertain amount of time, Private Wilson begins to stir. His senses quickly flood back, followed by his ability to comprehend what is happening just inches away.

Standing over the seemingly lifeless body of PFC Mecum are two Vietcong dressed in all black. One of them is holding a weapon pointed at PFC Mecums head. The other is holding a large knife.

Private Wilson frozen by fear watches on as the Vietcong holding the knife drives it deep into PFC Mecums chest. PFC Mecum lets out a loud moan, as his life comes to its end.

The Vietcong removes his knife and places it back in its sheath. Both of them now turn their attention toward the seemingly lifeless body of Private Wilson.

Laying in the dirt just inches away from his hand is his sidearm. Private Wilson places his hand across the grip and pulls back the hammer. As soon as it clicks, both of the Vietcong in his bunker realize that Private Wilson is alive. They dive toward him. In one swift and brutal move, he manages to fire the pistol.

Both of the Vietcong fall dead on top of Private Wilson. Private Wilson knows that any second others could come. He climbs over and retries one of the dead man’s rifles. He points it towards the bunkers entrance.

He waits, all around outside he hears men speaking Vietnamese. Every few seconds he hears the sound small arms fire. The Vietcong have over taken the firebase and are methodically killing any wounded Americans they come across.

Private Wilson knows if he stays in the bunker, he is a dead man. Unsure of the severity of his injuries, Private Wilson begins to crawl toward the entrance of the bunker. He crawls over the dead bodies of the two Vietcong as well as the body of PFC Mecum.

After several brutally intense moments, Private Wilson crawls out of the bunker and across to the front. The firebase is overrun with what seems to be hundreds of enemies.

If Private Wilson has any chance, he must crawl away unnoticed. He crawls off toward the tree line. It is the only way that he can go without being seen. He heads right toward the same set of ditches that the enemy he had mortally wounded earlier crawled into.

After several minutes of crawling over dead bodies in the pitch dark, Private Wilson reaches the edge of the first set of ditches. He pulls himself over the side and rolls down into its depths.

Only then in the pale moon light does he notice the severity of his injuries. Both of his legs appear to be severally torn up. One of them is missing a large piece. Blood is profusely pouring from his wounds. Shrapnel from the enemy artillery shell that landed just inches from his bunker caused the wounds.

The reality of his situation sinks in hard; it is all he can do to keep from screaming out in pain. He lays motionless for several minutes at the bottom of the ditch. All that he can see above him is the moon, and several fast moving clouds.

As he lays there, the sound of men’s lives ending continues on for hours.

In that time Private Wilson manages to remove his belt, he quickly makes a tunicate out of it. It will buy him some time, how much is unclear.

Finally, the firebase falls silent. All that can be heard with any clarity is the sound of the nearby jungle.

Private Wilson knows that if he can make it to the day, then maybe he can be saved. The Army won’t take kindly to the firebase being over taken. They will send others to come and take it back. They will send others to clean up the mess.

He whispers to himself, “If I can just make it until then, maybe I have a chance.”

Suddenly from just feet away in the darkness, a soft voice speaks.

At first, Private Wilson cannot make out what is exactly being said. The words are mumbled. They are in a language that he does not speak.

Private Wilson whispers, “Who’s there?”

The voice, now much closer says with absolute clarity, “Help me!”

Private Wilson suddenly feels a hand grabbing on his chest. Private Wilson reaches and grabs the hand, it is slightly cold to the touch. As soon as he grabs it tightly, the reality of who is there with him in the ditch comes into view.

A familiar face, one Private Wilson is certain he never would be able to forget appears out of the darkness. It is the same man, the first enemy that Private Wilson took aim upon. He is not dead, he has been laying in the ditch all day, slowly bleeding out.

Private Wilson begins to cry. He pulls the young man he once saw as an enemy close. The young Vietcong collapses into the arms of Private Wilson.

He is much closer to death than Wilson. He has no strength left. He labors to breath as Private Wilson holds him close.

Unsure what to say, at first Private Wilson remains silent.

His mind races, how can he even begin to apologize for what he has done?
How can he makes things right in what he is sure are the last few moments of the once thought to be enemies life?

Long after all motion subsides. Long after all possibilities are denied, Private Wilson knows what he must say.

He is ready to speak. It will certainly be one of the last things he ever says. His words will ring true. The lies he forced himself to believe will come to stand for nothing.

“I am sorry that I came here. I regret believing that what I was coming here to do was justified. Killing is never right, regardless of what we believe.
I am sure you are gone, and I am sure that I am close behind. God willing, I will hold you in heaven, as I do now. We are, and forever will be brothers of the human kind. We are not enemies, we are just men doing what we came to believe was right. I hope you can forgive me, because stranger whose life I willingly took, I am truly sorry for all that I have done.”

Private Jack Wilson, from Topeka Kansas never utters another sound. He just lays there for hours, with his once thought to be enemy in his arms.

Just as the final bits of his life seeps from his being, and just as the sunrises in the sky a brutally poetic sound spills out into the silence.

The pa system cracks to life. At first, the sounds of two men arguing in Vietnamese rings out, but then, the song “The End” begins to play.

Unlike before, when it was played to terrify the enemy it is now being played to signify a new day, and a new world devoid of Private Wilson, and those that died since the last time its message rang out.


The End...




Throw down entry
The End by the doors
4970 words
The quote is from the game trailer for Black Ops from EA games. Who exactly wrote it is unclear.