Shreds of Mercy

The tides were in the course of changing; the only obstacle that prevented absolute victory was an enemy encampment within O’ka Ngwah Village. Scatterings of brass were all that could be seen distinguished from the smogged battlefield clouding the silhouettes of mud brick homes. A call had to be made.

Lieutenant Colmes, armed with only a Walkie-Talkie radio kit and an M1911, was frantically dialing in for assistance from a nearby platoon. Constant static from the metallic box and whistling from dosages of death smothered the sound space, leaving no room for a sense of reasoning in this daze of panic.

The signal had eventually aligned with that of some indiscernible shouting.
“…SITTING DUCKS!… WHAT… NEED?!…”

Colmes was huddled up against the metallic box, a wrench jammed in his cognitive system with cold sweat smothering his head. He stammered and stuttered, stumbling on his words as if he was running from the downpour of shrapnel on an open field before the order was tasked in his adrenal high.

“STRIKE ON MY P-POSITION!”
A deafening silence was all that came from the radio, only to be broken with a solid confirmation. “Affirmative. Clear the area, now.”

Colmes, like a ghost in the night, vanished. A louder whistling of several mortar shells had fallen from the hazy, grey skies before the glints of red-hot combustion replaced the homes. Once the smoke had cleared, the platoons inspected further. Indistinguishable fragmentations of human viscera were all that remained. All that survived was a baby’s crib, isolated from the shell shock as the whole household was rendered to ruin.

Days after the incident, Colmes was interviewed by the masses of the home town.
“Why did you do it?” a journalist asks.
“… It was his idea,” Colmes spoke solemnly as he pointed to the sky.