The Death of Innocence

The bullets whiz by me. I'm flat on my stomach, praying to God they won't hit me. My friends are dying all around me. The medics can't get here, leaving us stranded and begging for help.

I don't want to look up, but I need to. I can feel them glaring at us, doing all they can to win the battle. I strain not to cry, desperately losing. I try to swallow my fear, feeling a lump form in my throat. The lump is large, feeling like a rock or boulder.

The commanding officer is screaming into his radio. He's calling for backup, but it won't come; it's too late. They are shooting at us, refusing to let go. It feels like the paintball games I use to play, only this isn't a game. These can kill.

Boot camp did not compare to this. We were a team, fighting for each other and with each other. “United we stand.” Now, after one fight, it's all over. The team that once was has disappeared into the forest. Everyone is running for their lives; every man for himself. All alone.

Me, the CO, and two other privates are not leaving. I want to. I want to leave so badly, but I don't want to get up. I can feel the bullets over my head. I don't want to move; I'm afraid they will hit me. The CO thinks they are retreating, but I'm too scared to look.

Momma used to fix my lunch and drive me to school. Dad helped with football and was at every game. My brother is in the fourth grade now. He was the boy they always wanted. He is top of his class, planning for college. I barely make it out of high school without...

I scream. My arm is burning, like alcohol poured into an open wound. I grab it, making it worse. It hurts, burns. I can taste copper in my mouth. I start praying. I am not dead; I am not dead. I didn't believe in God until I joined the army. The things you experience give you a reason to believe.

No one checks on me; no one makes sure I'm alive. I'm just another “Next Of Kin” notice to them. I shake it off; it's hard, harder than anything I've ever done. I fight it. I don't want to die; I'm not gonna die.

My gun is in my left hand. It weighs more than it ever did. My right arm is burning from the bullet. It won't stop throbbing. The copper taste hasn't left my mouth. I slowly start to crawl, to get a better look at what's going on. Mud and blood mix together. It helps and it hurts. I can barely see straight. The pain is overwhelming.

There they are. Three of them are left. Two are back towards the trees, while one is out front, daring us to shoot him. My CO is trying to fire, but his chest has been shot. I think he is dying, unable to steady his aim. One of the privates is gone; he must have run away when I was shot. The other is laying there. He looks dead, but I think I see some breathing. Possibly. I'm the only one left. I fire. The gun rattles and moves like bee, searching for what has disturbed their hive.

The man in front grabs his chest and falls. He isn't screaming; he isn't moving. I pull out of sight. I killed him. My heart stops. I can't breath. I think I'm panicking, but I'm not sure. I killed a man. I had fired a gun thousands of times, at all sorts of targets. I even hunted in junior high and high school. This was different. I felt sick, my mouth dry. My stomach hurts, as if someone hit me there hard. I blink back tears, praying. I start to crawl forward again.

I see them aim at me...