Out of the Ashes

The thought comes to you: how long has it been since you had any pussy?

Shit, man! What a time to be thinking of that!

Turn to say something to your best buddy, just a yard from you in a ditch. Discover that what you thought was red rain is really blood. A lot of blood. He's still alive, but the blood is really gushing out ... in long spurts. You want to be sick, but here is no place to be sick; not enough time to be sick. Besides, you'd have to lie in it. You smell the stink of shit. Realize it's your shit—in your pants.

Your eyes smart from the smoke of battle and the sting of sweat. Wipe your face and dig at your eyes with shaky hands. You'd better get your shit together, ‘cause here comes the enemy, almost on top of you.

There is that dude from Bravo Company, the one you never really liked ‘cause he used to brag about all the pussy he got. He won't get any more. Took a slug right between the eyes; all that yuk leaking out.

Abruptly, too quickly, the enemy is all around you and you're mixing it hand-to-hand. This is stupid! The enemy looks just like you. His mouth is open, his eyes are wide with a combination of fear and excitement, and he is dirty and smells bad. Just for the smallest of a split second your eyes meet. Each brain sends the same message: This guy is going to kill me!

You're off your knees (How did I get on my knees? What the fuck was I, praying?) and out of the ditch. Your legs support you. Shaky, but you're going to be all right. You're going to make it. You're going to live!

Squeeze the trigger. Goddamn it! the weapon's empty. Slam the butt of your rifle into his balls and he screams and doubles over, puking. Bring the butt down hard on his neck, hear the neck pop. He's through. A fresh clip in the weapon. Shoot him to be sure he's dead.

You turn in a crouch, trying to suck air into your lungs; can't get enough air. There is another Rebel .... He's just killed ... what's his name? Guy from third platoon. You notice the strangest things: the Rebel needs a shave. Rush over to him while his back is turned. But it's almost like slow-motion. Force your bayonet into his back, feeling the hard resistance as the blade pushes through muscle and passes bone. It's not as easy as in the movies. It's always so clean and glorious in the movies. Don't remember fixing the bayonet on the lug. What difference does it make? The Rebel is screaming and jerking and twisting in pain. Oh, shit! The blade is stuck in his back. Christ! Pull the trigger and blast the blade free.

How in the hell did you get on the ground, flat on your back? Am I O.K.? Feel yourself with your hands—timid hands. Jesus, don't let my balls be gone.

“Get up, you yellow son of a bitch!” a sergeant is yelling. Is he yelling at me? Damn, Sarge, I didn't get down here deliberately. The sergeant takes a slug in the back. Musta gone right through the spine; he falls funny. You can't remember his name.

Get to your feet to face the enemy. What is this, a replay? You just did this.

Some guys have captured a woman Rebel; pulling the pants off her. Aw, come on, guys! She's screaming something while they rape her. That's not right. We're not animals, guys.

“Want some pussy, Jake?”

They're talkin’ to you, stupid. “No.”

Someone is screaming. A Rebel.

“Beg, you mother-fucker!” someone tells him.

“Go to hell!” The Rebel shouts his reply.

The old man has said no prisoners. So the Reb is shot. But he didn't have to be shot there. He's screaming.

Look around you. Is it over? Yeah—almost. HolyMotherofGodJesusFuckingChristAlmighty: look at the bodies. All the blood and shit. Oh, God—the sergeant is walking around the area, shooting the wounded Rebs in the head. Someone tells you your squad leader is dead. You were a corporal; now you're a sergeant. Battlefield promotion. Somehow it doesn't seem like much of a big deal. You want to say: “But I don't want it!” Then suddenly there is a .45 in your hand and you're stepping through the gore and the pain and the moaning and the .45 is jumping in your hand, ending the screaming.

No prisoners.

On either side.

That woman Reb is still screaming. They're hurting her. “Fuck her up the ass!” someone shouts, laughing. “Get a little brown on your pole.”

You walk away from the sight and sounds. You could stop them; you're a sergeant; but you don't want to lose face with the men, not this early in your promotion. What the hell? She's only a Rebel. The enemy.

Now the enemy is dead as you walk through the near-quiet battleground. But that woman is still screaming way back there, across the meadow. Wish to hell she'd shut up.

A Rebel is still alive, shot hard in the chest. He's looking up at you, defiance in his eyes. You shoot him in the head.

Look ... don't blame me. I'm just following orders.