The Truth of War

The immense pressure inside my chest neared its breaking point. Sergeant First-Class Jack Thomson to my right was the only thing keeping me going through the thick woods of Vietnam. I can remember that dreadful day as vividly as ever. It was my "cross-over" as other operatives in our unit had come to call it. The memory, now, brings tears to my eyes. I'm ashamed of what I've become.
It was early in the morning. Jack and I were on the run, evading an enemy ambush that claimed the lives of seven good men. May they rest in peace. We were running for God knows how long. In our training we'd been pushed beyond the bounds of ordinary human endurance. This was now beyond training and into something all together different. We'd been running, not jogging, for nearly three hours straight. The enemy was on our tail. The minor weight of our M-16s became nonexistent; our arms were trained to endure.
Finally an opportunity for protection presented itself in the form of a small mortar hole. Quickly Jack and I dove into the hole and covered it with nearby brush, hiding and waiting. Neither one of us dared to make a sound, even a whisper would give us away.
Within seconds we heard footsteps. The crunching of twigs seemed to grow ever closer. We heard the sound of someone speaking in Vietnamese, except it wasn't what we'd expected.
"No" I thought to myself. I looked over at Jack. His half opened mouth and look of utter shame, nearing on tears, said it all. I licked my lips. I knew what I had to do.
We listened as the voice grew louder. It was somewhat melodic now. They were singing a song. It made everything so much more difficult.
"Stop singing" I thought to myself. I pulled out my Kabar, our issued knife, and gave Jack one final look of gloom. He nodded and turned his head. It was up to me. I waited a few seconds for the right time to present itself.
"Not yet Not yet NOW!"
I leaped from the hole and before the prey could utter a shriek my knife had slit deep into its jugular. Blood issued down my hands. My knife was covered in deep red. I looked at the knife for what seemed like an eternity. And then, I saw what I knew I would see. I saw a person who got too close to giving away our position. I saw a little girl, unmistakably dead.

Learn more about this author, William Mattingly.
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