Streams of Consciousness

Peace

        "Take cover!!" Someone screamed. The men hit the ground. The sand was everywhere. The sand was coarse. The sand was rough. The sand was irritating. It was flung into the air. The dust clouds made them cough, itch, and it got into their eyes. It was in their boots, on their shirts, and in their pants. The sand would come home with them. When they think they got away from it, they'll find that one shirt, that one boot, and from it the sand would pour.

        Then there was the gun fire. Loud pop after pop. Crack, crack, pop. Sharp through the air. Hitting the sand around them. Bullets hit a body every now and then. The enemy went down with no remorse. The soldiers had the authorization. They were ordered to kill. They encouraged each other to kill. The tactics approved them to kill. They were also accustomed to killing. It was a habit. Once you did it more than one time, it became nothing. It was a game, and the consequences didn't matter.

        When their own went down, it was a different story. The enemy was ordered to kill, same as them. They also encouraged each other and each had a tactical advantage if they did. The enemy also had a habit of killing and also were accustomed to it. The only difference is they killed the innocent. They killed innocents, and they killed comrades. Men and women who had family back home. Who had friends back home. Who had a life full of freedom and possibility. All stolen away from them.

        Eventually one side had to recede. One side had to call it quits. One side had to tell the men and women who were willing to fight and willing to keep pushing forward that they were losing the battle. One side had to show the other side who was really winning. Today the enemy fell back. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless. Tomorrow they may push forward more, or go back tenfold. That was the nature of war.

        "Look at 'em go, tucking their tails between their legs!" one soldier yelled.

        "I say three cheers for us!" another said.

        "Don't start the party yet boys. Still gotta dig trenches, set up camp, and establish a perimeter," a third said.

        "Aye sir!" the men responded.

        "Call for Lance Corporal!" a soldier said, running up with a satellite phone. The third soldier picked it up.

        "Lance Corporal Hooper here, awaiting orders."

        "Good evening Brian. This is your friend, Hudson."

        "Hudson?! This is a secure line! How in the devil are you calling me?"

        "I provided a hefty sum for the campaign. Nothing important. Look, I got you and your boys some supplies. Heard things were running low down there."

        "You crazy son of a gun!"

        "Don't thank me yet! You owe me a drink when you head back."

        "I'll buy you a whole tab!"

        "I'm looking forward to it."

        "Where did you get the money? Aren't you still paying off student loans?"

        "Let's just say that money is the least of my problems. We have a lot to catch up on. I have to go now. The supplies are being dropped off not too far from your location. Send your team my regards. Hudson out." The phone clicked, and silence followed.

        "Hey boys! Prepare for a supply run!" Brian exclaimed, and the soldiers cheered, brandishing their weapons in the air. He gathered up some men, and left the others to secure the camp. He knew that there was an airstrip not too far from their location. That was the most likely spot for the supplies.