Ranger's Roundhouse

Kill or be Killed

Historical-fiction/action mashup between 1k and 1.2k words. Completed 27/04/18

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The renewed thunder of guns shattered the night.

Red snapped from a fitful doze, trembling, forehead dripping with sweat. Something clawed at his memory... Something that had happened, something he didn't want to remember. He wanted sleep. A rock ground into his shoulder, and the wind carried with it the stench of bodies rotting in the night.

Gallipoli, 1915.

Red coughed haggardly, and faint footsteps sent blood pounding to his ears. Cautiously, he flicked his eyes open. The cold butt of a rifle chilled his fingertips.

"Red." A hand gripped his arm, and with a muffled exclamation he whipped the gun around, safety snapping off, finger hovering only a hairsbreadth above the trigger.

"Bloody hell," he snapped. "I'll kill you one of these — days..."

Kill.

A rushing, gurgling torrent of bloody memories flushed angrily through his mind.

The Wellington Battalion had at last taken Chunuk Bair: the first success of the Allies' August Offensive. But overwhelming casualties made for a bitter victory. Red's fingers trembled, unable to forget the vibration of shot after shot after life-ravaging shot.

Lieutenant-Colonel William Malone was dead, life snatched away quicker than it had come. His own country — the home he had given everything to protect — had unwittingly killed him. And Frank — Frankie, Red's best mate since childhood — was gone. Just another nameless body.

"Sorry, buddy." Richie raised his hands placatingly, face pale beneath the dust and the filth and the blood. "You good?"

Jared gave him a long look, unable to respond. Richie sucked his teeth.

"Look, you're not meant to be asleep, mate," he said finally. "On ya feet; you're needed up top."

Of course. The hill. The Turks could not retake Chunuk Bair. Almost robotically, Red got to his feet, joints creaking like an old man in his seventies. Richie thumped his shoulder reassuringly. It said I'm sorry, and I understand, and if I don't see you again, goodbye. He clasped his arm in response.

"You're relieving Lenny." Rich collapsed in Jared's spot, helmet falling unheeded across his face, and his sweat-soaked hair sprang free in the wind.

Numb, Red set off up the treacherous incline. One thought, and one thought only, ground at his mind with every trudging step. They could  not lose Chunuk Bair. Last night they had finally taken the hill, but now the Turks wanted it back. Too many broken bodies littered the smashed earth.

An explosion rocked the hill, and he stumbled, ground shivering beneath his feet. Hunger clawed at his belly and exhaustion clawed at his heels. Sleep was scarce where death reigned.

Red dropped to his stomach as he neared the crest, flinching away from a puddle of glittering liquid. Squirming through the dark, he reached the crest and dropped into a trench, boots sinking into something soft. Probably a body.

"G'day," he remarked quietly, crouching down and releasing a tight breath. He could just make out two huddled shapes on either side of the loophole, guns at the ready, heads vague outlines of helmet below the sandbags.

"Took your time, Red." Len's voice, so venomous at home, was flat and dull with exhaustion.

"Get outta here." Red flicked the safety off, cuffed Lenny's helmet, and sank down beside Jerry. Len squirmed down the hill on his stomach and quickly vanished.