by Darmon Richter

Created on: January 24, 2011

I run.

The sound of gunfire rattles in my dry skull, and breaths come in short, stinging gasps. Ducking beneath a fallen branch then leaping across the gulley of a dried-up stream, I stumble at last into a clearing and after scanning the perimeter for hostiles, I begin to relax a little. For some reason I feel safe here, alone in this forest glade.

How long I was running for, I couldn’t say. When Otis and Jim were shot dead by enemy snipers, Jim’s head bursting like an overripe melon just halfway through a sentence, that was when we broke. Just PK, Ed and me. Scared and without a leader, we fled through green corridors bordered with dense vegetation, back to the drop zone, then further still. I don’t remember when we lost Ed, but I can still see PK’s face as his foot comes off the hidden device; for a split second he becomes a pillar of fire, then a cloud, a mist, until there is nothing left in his place. There are only pieces left of what used to be PK, scattered on the ground and hanging from branches.

Here, now, the clearing is breathing with me. Thick green walls encircle me, holding me, in this little paradise of dewdrops and butterflies. The tree line takes on the shape of battlements, the clearing my unconquerable palace. I don’t believe anything bad could happen here.

I wonder about Ed. Did they catch him? Or did he go the same way as PK, in the minefields? I pray he escaped. If only he knew about this place. I want to call out to him, bring him back to this sanctuary, away from the noise and the killing. We hadn’t been ready. Five young recruits, dropped behind enemy lines. God, we just weren’t ready for this.

Here at least, I am safe. I am protected. I am not alone. Every fallen comrade, each friend lost; my squad stand tall around me, strong, proud, ancient.

The trees are my brothers now.

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