KA_Oz
06-05-06, 17:19
Here's a quick short story I did for my english class last week..
Second Lieutenant
By Kevin Orosz
“L-T?” , the familiar voice roused me from the momentary repose I had found within the dreamless sleep which I had thought for an instant was death.
“Lieutenant? Snap out of it! That potato-masher almost got you.” This time it was a new voice, one I recognized vaguely, the tem was more familiar to me. Potato-masher, I had always felt it was a curious thing to call a grenade…
Grenade. The word hit my system like a five ton sledge thrown out of a Superfortress. My eyes sprang open, taking their first sight for God only knows how long. At first, my mind was still dull and I was left captivated by the green pillars swaying gently before my eyes, but my trance was broken as their warm, almost earthy, aroma gave way to the pungent smell of coagulating blood intermingling with the sulfur and brimstone of Gomorrah which seemed prevalent in the air.
A figure whose face was just out of my sight held out a dirt-spackled hand, giving me a hearty pull back to my feet.
“Welcome back to the world of the living.” The figure chuckled, and as if it had been the reaper himself releasing me with a word of sesame I suddenly became fully aware of my surroundings. Before me stood four of the men in my Unit Wolf Company.
Allen, Nickels, Sikes, and Bartoli, the man whom had helped me up, all stood before me. Had this not been a war, I realized we would have all looked incredible out of place, half-crouched behind a set of stone stairs, covered in dirt and blood, a blemish on the otherwise pristine spot of German real-estate on which we stood. Something in the back of my mind gave me the creeping impression that should we leave this spot the street wouldn’t look so normal, and that something was clearly backed-up by the unpleasant whine of bullets passing through the air.
“We need to push up this street L-T, I don’t know if you caught that before this conked you.” Bartoli said, hefting a sizeable cement chunk I presumed the grenade had placed over my head.
“So what say we get to it and teach these Kraut-bastards a lesson?” Sikes spouted, apparently fueled by the battlefields natural aura of human hatred. The others, more familiar with me than Sikes (he being our units newest member) knew I disapproved of swearing, cursing, or the use of racial slurs like “Kraut”, and knowing so grew quiet. Nickels coughed, remembering I hoped the speech I gave him a month earlier on how no word could justify killing. “Oh, sh-I mean, sorry Lieutenant.” Sikes said, finally getting the picture.
“That’s fine Private.” I responded. I didn’t want to dwell on the matter and make Sikes question himself, not in a situation like this, not with the enemy an unknown but presumably short distance away. So I began to bark out the usual orders that the small gold bar on my uniform entitled me to give. Before I could collect my thoughts we were creeping up the narrow street, pausing every few yards to listen.
“Sikes, move up…” I whispered, he obeyed taking the crucial few steps forward so that I could take a clean shot over his shoulder if the need arose. Next to the muffled crunch of rubble on gravel I heard, “Halt! Take no steps!” yelled in a thick German accent in front of me. I drew my bead over Sikes’ frozen form. Before him stood a young German officer, who couldn’t have been older than the boy standing a mere feet in front of me. The look of fear struck me. His face contorted with every imaginable emotion save for joy, I knew it was the first time he had faced down an armed man, I knew he was staring down a dim tunnel at the face of death. My thumb drew it self up, to my rifle’s safety, but I paused. The young fear-wrought face in front of me was no longer that of a German, an anonymous attacker, but was that of Sikes.
In my lapse Sikes attempted to raise his gun. The young German was faster. Two shots rang out, first the German’s then Allen’s from across the street.
Blood ran a twisted fateful line down my shoulder to the single gold bar on my uniform. I had made the fatal mistake for a commander, I had hesitated…
. . .
The old man rubbed his hand over a scar deep in his shoulder. The tissue was rough and grimy to his touch but it sent memories of like flies buzzing through is tattered mind. If only he could reach out and catch one, he could hold it for just a moment and be free of the guilt, but for now the battle still raged somewhere deep in the annuals of his memory. Two letters passed under his breath…
“L-T…”
(posting it this way takes out all the indentations and there's no way around it :g-sad: )
Second Lieutenant
By Kevin Orosz
“L-T?” , the familiar voice roused me from the momentary repose I had found within the dreamless sleep which I had thought for an instant was death.
“Lieutenant? Snap out of it! That potato-masher almost got you.” This time it was a new voice, one I recognized vaguely, the tem was more familiar to me. Potato-masher, I had always felt it was a curious thing to call a grenade…
Grenade. The word hit my system like a five ton sledge thrown out of a Superfortress. My eyes sprang open, taking their first sight for God only knows how long. At first, my mind was still dull and I was left captivated by the green pillars swaying gently before my eyes, but my trance was broken as their warm, almost earthy, aroma gave way to the pungent smell of coagulating blood intermingling with the sulfur and brimstone of Gomorrah which seemed prevalent in the air.
A figure whose face was just out of my sight held out a dirt-spackled hand, giving me a hearty pull back to my feet.
“Welcome back to the world of the living.” The figure chuckled, and as if it had been the reaper himself releasing me with a word of sesame I suddenly became fully aware of my surroundings. Before me stood four of the men in my Unit Wolf Company.
Allen, Nickels, Sikes, and Bartoli, the man whom had helped me up, all stood before me. Had this not been a war, I realized we would have all looked incredible out of place, half-crouched behind a set of stone stairs, covered in dirt and blood, a blemish on the otherwise pristine spot of German real-estate on which we stood. Something in the back of my mind gave me the creeping impression that should we leave this spot the street wouldn’t look so normal, and that something was clearly backed-up by the unpleasant whine of bullets passing through the air.
“We need to push up this street L-T, I don’t know if you caught that before this conked you.” Bartoli said, hefting a sizeable cement chunk I presumed the grenade had placed over my head.
“So what say we get to it and teach these Kraut-bastards a lesson?” Sikes spouted, apparently fueled by the battlefields natural aura of human hatred. The others, more familiar with me than Sikes (he being our units newest member) knew I disapproved of swearing, cursing, or the use of racial slurs like “Kraut”, and knowing so grew quiet. Nickels coughed, remembering I hoped the speech I gave him a month earlier on how no word could justify killing. “Oh, sh-I mean, sorry Lieutenant.” Sikes said, finally getting the picture.
“That’s fine Private.” I responded. I didn’t want to dwell on the matter and make Sikes question himself, not in a situation like this, not with the enemy an unknown but presumably short distance away. So I began to bark out the usual orders that the small gold bar on my uniform entitled me to give. Before I could collect my thoughts we were creeping up the narrow street, pausing every few yards to listen.
“Sikes, move up…” I whispered, he obeyed taking the crucial few steps forward so that I could take a clean shot over his shoulder if the need arose. Next to the muffled crunch of rubble on gravel I heard, “Halt! Take no steps!” yelled in a thick German accent in front of me. I drew my bead over Sikes’ frozen form. Before him stood a young German officer, who couldn’t have been older than the boy standing a mere feet in front of me. The look of fear struck me. His face contorted with every imaginable emotion save for joy, I knew it was the first time he had faced down an armed man, I knew he was staring down a dim tunnel at the face of death. My thumb drew it self up, to my rifle’s safety, but I paused. The young fear-wrought face in front of me was no longer that of a German, an anonymous attacker, but was that of Sikes.
In my lapse Sikes attempted to raise his gun. The young German was faster. Two shots rang out, first the German’s then Allen’s from across the street.
Blood ran a twisted fateful line down my shoulder to the single gold bar on my uniform. I had made the fatal mistake for a commander, I had hesitated…
. . .
The old man rubbed his hand over a scar deep in his shoulder. The tissue was rough and grimy to his touch but it sent memories of like flies buzzing through is tattered mind. If only he could reach out and catch one, he could hold it for just a moment and be free of the guilt, but for now the battle still raged somewhere deep in the annuals of his memory. Two letters passed under his breath…
“L-T…”
(posting it this way takes out all the indentations and there's no way around it :g-sad: )