A Firing Of Blanks.

Prologue

The mid-afternoon sun pierced through the canopy of the rainforest, cunningly snaking its way through gaps and openings of the branches and leaves in which its scorching beams shone through. The bed of undergrowth baked under this heat and released its moisture into the air. Quite content with this change of state, the vapour found no reason to trouble itself by trying to break out of the canopy and neither did it care that it was getting crowded.

The sound of crackling leaves and rustling bushes intruded into the cicada's song as a section of soldiers wrestled with endless entanglements of root, vines and the occasional rogue bush. Every few steps, one of them would mutter a curse, either at a thorny branch or the ridiculous heat. On the map, it had seemed like a simple patrol mission from point A to B but just an hour into it and any semblance of morale was already non-existent.

Body

Almost there, said the sergeant for the fiftieth time now. We're almost there. He knew that his words were of no comfort to the men, but what else could he do? More beads of sweat trickled down the side of his forehead and he paused for a second to wipe it with his sleeve. His cheek hurt a little from the rough fabric of his fatigues. The men behind him leaned on the trees, panting.

The surroundings bore little hint of their location but he noticed a strip of sparseness in the canopy ahead, telltale signs of a track. Finally. Fumbling with his side pouch, he managed to pull out his map with some effort and confirmed that there was indeed, a track ahead. The track in fact. The one that would get them the heck out of here.

The men groaned as he gestured to them to move on. Almost there, he told them. This invited more groans. A few minutes later and they came out, almost stumbling, onto a dirt path. The point man was dead for a good five seconds before anyone realised that the deafening rat-a-tat was actually machine gun fire. Strangely, no one really seemed to care that one of their best buds was gone forever and that they were down to six now. The only thought on everyone's mind was: This is it, this is it.

The sergeant was prone on the ground, eyes desperately scanning the grounds to attain some form of situational awareness. His first thought was of Hendrix, looping the Machine Gun riff in his head. They had instinctively fallen back into the bush now to take cover. The dead private still lay on the dirt path, a mess of blood and guts. Machine gun yeah, tearing my body all apart. There they are, the bastards. On the other side of the track, vegetation was sparse and about a hundred meters away he could see the muzzle flash of the machine gun.

They were pinned down and the enemy was closing in on their hiding spots as more and more bullets whizzed across their heads, shredding the leaves and bush around them. Bits of branches and leaves poured onto the men's helmets. Cries of fear came from the men around him as they hid their heads and waited for their turn to die. Pile on suppressing fire! he shouted to them even though he knew it was pointless. Gunfire was so intense that they could barely raise their heads without losing it. And then, silence: The MG was reloading.

Without thinking, he ordered the team to charge and they complied with surprising quickness. The same way you shoot me down, baby you'll be going just the same. Across the dirt path, through the forest, they ran even after the MG had reloaded and was continuing its sweep. He saw two or three of his men stumble and fall, either by bullet or branch, but his eye was focused on the MG team, which had now come into view. The second-in-command and automatic gunner had already gone in by the left flank and were unloading their rounds on the enemy. One was already dead on the ground while the gunner was still pivoting the machine gun from side to side on the tripod, desperately trying to clear the advancing section.

As he closed in, he raised his rifle and took aim at the closest soldier.

Evil man make you kill me,
Evil man make me kill you,
Even though we're only families apart.

He squeezed the trigger but all he heard was a click. Alas, his rifle was jammed.

Epilogue

The forest was still and silent except for the sound of party poppers. A section of soldiers were formed up in a line, furiously firing blanks, straight ahead. Once in a while, the sergeant would shout for his section to advance and they would get up and run to the next tree or bush.

A corporal watched the blade of grass in front of his muzzle sway back and forth as he unleashed a torrent of carbon gas onto it. The grass nodded in agreement. Unseen to the him was a wild boar sleeping in a nearby bush. It rose its head for a moment to observe the commotion, then went back to digesting the half-eaten combat rations it had found strewn on the ground earlier this morning.

One of the men could be heard cursing as he lugged a humongous tube on his back that was the anti-tank weapon to the next position. Throwing the tube on the floor, he collapsed clumsily behind a tree and continued his firing, which did not happen till more than a minute later when he had finally extracted a round that was stuck in the chamber using his bare fingers, for he had forgotten to bring his jack knife. At times, an awkward silence would be heard when all of the weapons malfunctioned or ran out of ammo at the same time.

When the whistle was finally blown, the men wearily dragged themselves towards the sergeants position where they would evaluate their "performance". Ostensibly, their faces were expressionless but it wouldn't be wrong to call it a look of boredom, vivid and pure. Anyone else forgot to bring anything? asked the sergeant, who had just finished reprimanding the anti-tank gunner for not bringing his jack knife.

The men merely shifted uncomfortably in their positions and the sergeant sighed. He knew that he was being harsh but things had to be done according to the SOP. If no one did it then what were they there for?

I forgot to bring my soul, muttered the corporal. I forgot to bring it.

A few sniggers were heard from the men and the sergeant was ready to give a light kick to this wise-cracker when he looked into the corporal's eyes and realised, it was the truth. He searched himself and discovered that hadn't brought his own either. But it had been by no slipping of the mind.

That's okay, you don't need it anyway, he told the glaze-eyed young man. It ain't a mission essential. Like a lonely man in a cinema who has just watched a rather bad movie, the wind broke its silence and gave a sigh, thereafter retreating into quiet contemplation. The sergeant gave orders to reorganise and they continued with their training for the rest of the afternoon. It was a practice of motions. A rehearsal of murder. A simulation of destruction.

A firing of blanks.

edited again 16/8/08

Going Camping

"Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure, than to take rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much, because they live in the gray twilight that knows not victory nor defeat."
-Theodore Roosevelt

Went to watch the juniors race at the nationals on friday. There were many faces on the race grounds that day. Faces of Aspiration. Excitement. Determination.

And I realised, with some poignancy, how long it been since I had seen these faces.