The Walking Wounded

We were walking again.

I really had a hard time deciding whether or not that was a good thing. The little sleep our cold camp afforded us the night before was very welcome, and I coveted more. Crawford and Tinney stayed in their spots while the rest of us broke camp, seemingly still asleep but sure not to rise. I envied them then. We divided their munitions before leaving them to rest forever.

My legs forced their way forward in spite of a disorientation I hadn't quite shaken since waking. Laying down for those few hours had given me as much stiffness as it had rest, and any energy I might have gained was now spent suppressing the pain of cramps and clearing my groggy mind. Granted, we were all about to drop last night. No one complained on the march, but everyone sighed in relief when Cap finally called the halt. We were engaged for two days straight I believe and camped beneath a starless sky the second night. We numbered half our initial strength. Now in the early morning glow of the third day, we half were walking again. Together.

We were together. Yes, it was a good thing to be walking again. I considered the alternative and stopped envying Crawford and Tinney. I was tired, yes, but whole and in good company. You couldn't tell by our grim expressions and silent march, but we were happy to be together. Cap led us, and it was good to be near him. It was good to be near him four days ago when all was peace. It was good to be near him two days ago as he fought for our lives. And it was good to be near him now. Surely he could deliver us from the enemy. We just had to keep walking, he said.

Stiles walked on my left. It was good to have him on my left. He was a sharp shot with the rifle and had a keen ear for trouble. His face did look bad, though. Charred almost, his right ear all but torn to shreds. By shrapnel maybe? A grenade? I can't remember now, but I think I was near him then. He nailed the bastard that threw it before he could throw another, but the first had split Harvey in two. We had to leave him behind. Sad, but it was good to have Stiles on my left then, and I'm glad have him there now. But I hoped he wasn't losing too much blood. I half watched our right and half watched him. Did I see Cap check his bandages last night?

Jones and Tank were in front of us. Tank stumbled on a hidden dip as we entered the tall grass. Even he was weary! He left a wide path through the chest high foliage, clearing the trail and paying the brambles no heed. He painted the grass red as he passed, alternating smears and drops. A coded message was it? It's hard to remember the letters now, but the dashes and dots... Didn't Cap have a story about prisoners who... Tank's leg! Blood flowing from yesterday's wound. Not good, not good. Curse our luck, Mike losing his head the first day. Or was it taken from him? Regardless, we were without a medic and his kit. Why hadn't we grabbed the kit? No time. There had been more shots. More shots.

Stiles was on my back, pulling me to the ground as more shots zipped by overhead. Two thuds in the ground on the right, a splash of dirt in our eyes. "Eyes!" I looked up momentarily. A pop and a whizz. Back down. "Trees. 25 meters, 4 o'clock." Jones launched the grenade. He was good at that. Three seconds and boom. A minute later, the call to move on. Tank was slow to rise but accomplished the feat with a groan and a hand up. We were walking again.

Opening Words

I needed an account to post comments on friends' blogs... but given the sketchiness of my current host I may end up switching here. I'm not sure.

For now, you can find my blog at http://ryan.grinhost.net.

This site will also be used as a scratch pad of sorts as I work on new stories and flesh out story ideas. Bear with me as I create stories, and feel free to intrude on them and offer comments and criticism. (Make it nice criticism... I don't want to cry.)

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EDIT (5-10-08): The above information isn't complete... as of last year, my current site is http://www.bywombats.com.