Trackside

Sargent Morris

Wars don't happen without leaving scars.

___

It only happened once every five years or so, just long enough that he thought maybe each time was the last time. It never was, and at this point, he should have known better than to hope.

Everything was real, the loud, booming explosions, the cold wet mud, the scent of oil and burning metal among the gunsmoke, everything. He repeatedly shouted orders for his men to fall back to the trenches and take cover. Why weren't they listening? These were the most well-trained American soldiers on the battlefield, and he'd know. He trained them.

Never once had they ignored an order, not once did they talk back at him. The platoon had a mutual respect for each other and a grave understanding of the realities of war. They knew they had to do what was best for their country, for each other.

That's why it didn't make sense. They were pushing forward toward the enemy, despite being outgunned and helplessly outnumbered. His anger at them turned to panic as a low, droning sound approached from the horizon.

"Fall back!" he screamed again. "Soldiers, fall back!"

Nothing. They were too far in front of him to hear his voice. The sound of the battle drowned him out without giving him a second thought. He knew this could be the end, and decided that if they were going to go down fighting, so was he. He began to drive forward over the torn ground, bullets whizzing by mere yards away.

"Sargent!" a voice called from off to the side. He looked over and saw the smallest of his platoon approaching him, trying to appear courageous through his fear. He showed both emotions equally well.

"Sargent Morris!" he was called to again.

"What is it, Private?" he answered, confused as to why this soldier had abandoned rank.

"Sarge, the radio's down! They can't hear you!" the Private informed him.

That was news. It explained everything. He paused for a brief moment to consider his options. No, there were no options. They deserved a chance to live and if he could give that to them, he would.

"Private, return to the trench. Await orders." he demanded, driving forward towards the rest of the platoon.

"But - "

"That's an order!"

He drove on, leaving the Private behind. He could see his soldiers, they weren't so far away he couldn't get to them. But the planes were coming. The sound of their engines dwarfed every other noise.

Every noise except the bombs they were dropping. They fell in a perfectly straight line, explosions and screams replacing his entire platoon. With a yell of rage, he fought to get to them, even though it was clearly too late. They were gone. That's when a line of bullets caught him and everything went dark.

Sarge jolted back to reality, panting. He looked around his empty surplus store and for a brief moment his mind was empty. All he knew was that he was in Radiator Springs, not Germany. He was alive.

But everything he saw, everything he felt, was real. That was him that day, being told to return to the trenches. It was him that nearly defied orders in order to go help his brothers. It was him that watched his Sargent and brothers in arms have their lives taken from them in mere seconds, only yards away from him. It was him that survived.

"You can't change the past, man."

Sarge jumped. "Fillmore!"

The Volkswagen was parked right next to him, apparently having been there the whole time. Was - was that incense he was burning? In his shop? Sarge grimaced at the thought of it, even though it did have a relaxing effect. He wasn't in the mood for relaxing.

"What are you doing in here?" Sarge demanded. "The shop's closed."

"It's not closed if you have a key." Fillmore reminded him.

Sarge took a moment and remembered why he thought it was important Fillmore have a spare key. He'd seen the results of other veteran's flashbacks, and some of them were quite disturbing. Despite his pride, he knew he needed help. Fillmore, of all cars, had been the one to provide the support Sarge needed, and to this day, he hadn't disappointed him.

"I could hear the yelling through the walls." Fillmore explained further. "Thought I better come check on you."

"Thank you, Fillmore." Sarge sighed. "I appreciate it."

"Anytime, man." Fillmore was more than happy to oblige, and kept his aura positive despite the worries he had for his friend. It wasn't easy to watch someone close to you scream and writhe in anguish and fear, especially when neither parties had any say in what was happening.

There was silence for a few moments. Sarge replayed the scene over and over again in his mind. The planes coming, his superior officer ordering him to take shelter, and then death. Nothing but brutal, gory death. After all these years, Sarge realized he was the only car on the planet that knew what happened that day. He was the only one present that survived.

"Fillmore, did I ever tell you about why I decided to make a career in the Army?" Sarge asked quietly.

"No, sure didn't." Fillmore had always wandered, but didn't want to cross any boundaries by asking.

"Well, it all started with Sargent Morris, the best Sargent this country has ever seen..."