1999
The room is dimly lit, and the sporadic gunfire in the distance gave the atmosphere an uneasy edge. A group of soldiers, looking as tired as yesterday's news, gathers in the shadows of a crumbling building. Sergeant Mark Reynolds, with a face that seems to have seen one too many Monday mornings, glances around at his motley crew. Men he has shared the last few months with. Men that, as the days fade into weeks and the weeks into months, have become more than just comrades, they have become brothers.
The mission had been a disaster. Sent in under false pretenses, they’d found themselves in a killbox. No communication, barely any ammunition. All of them had resigned themselves to their fate. Come the morning, it would likely all be over. They all knew it. If they hadn’t accepted it, they were coming to terms with it. Despondent faces, knowing death was coming and all they could do was wait for it. Reynolds stood up from his own seated position.
(Sgt. Reynolds): Let’s cut the crap then lads.
His voice causes the others to look up.
(Sgt. Reynolds): Seeing as tomorrow’s the big day, and we’ll likely not be here to complain about it afterward, what's everyone thinking?
Reynolds’ tone is more bar room banter than battle-ready. Another soldier spoke up, sparking a cigarette and taking a drag. He is Private Luke Mitchell. Young, brash, early twenties.
(Pvt. Mitchell): That’s easy! Not gettin’ the chance to finger blast Jessica from the pub again, man, she was ####in’ smokin’!
Laughter ripples through the group, a welcome release from the tension that hangs in the air.
(Pvt. Mitchell): What?!
He looks around the group, taking in their reactions, a knowing grin plastered across his face. Another soldier joins in the conversation. Slightly older and more seasoned in appearance. He is Corporal Steven Turner.
(Cpl. Turner): F*** sake man, yer a dirty bastard, Mitchell!
(Sgt. Reynolds): Care to weigh in then, Corporal?
Turner puffs his cheeks out.
(Cpl. Turner): I’ve got a cousin back home who owes me twenty quid. If I don't make it, someone better collect! Death shouldn't be an excuse for unpaid debts.
Sergeant Reynolds chuckles, happy to see some smiles appear.
(Sgt. Reynolds): Twenty quid? Turner, you're worth way more than that, even dead. Tell your cousin to aim higher!"
A burly, stoic man joins in the chat, Private Mike McDonald.
(Pvt. McDonald): If I don’t survive, I'm leaving my favourite hat to the first person who cracks a good joke at my funeral. Gotta keep it light, even in the afterlife.
The soldiers exchanged glances, their faces breaking into reluctant smiles. The weight of the impending day lifted, if only for a moment. Mitchell, attempting to keep the mood light, added,
(Pvt. Mitchell): And who's gonna tell my maw that I never actually liked her lasagna?
Reynolds raises an eyebrow.
(Sgt. Reynolds): You might want to leave a note on that one, Mitchell. Mum guilt is a powerful force."
(Pvt. McDonald): What about you, Sarge?
With a more serious expression, the Sergeant adds his own two cents.
(Sgt. Reynolds): I'll miss the feeling of purpose. The clarity that comes with knowing why we do what we do, even when it's ugly. The feeling of putting your fear aside, knowing you get hurt, knowing you could bleed but it doesn’t frighten you… it motivates you, spurs you on to be better.
There is a long moment of silence as the weight of the Sergeant’s words sinks in.
(Sgt. Reynolds): And the camaraderie. You lot, right here. I'll miss knowing that I've got brothers standing by me, no matter what.
Another long moment of quietness follows. Reynolds surveys the room, noticing one man hasn’t looked up. He grasps a small pencil that looks like it has seen better days, barely a few inches long, gripped in between worn mud-and-blood-stained fingers, nails bitten to the quick. In the other is a worn piece of paper. The man is writing, lost in his own words as he scrawls away. Reynolds gets up and walks over to him, watching the pencil moving in measured strokes. He places a comforting hand on his shoulder.
(Sgt. Reynolds): Parker, my man, we're all baring our souls here. What about you? What's gonna be the thing you'll miss?
The man is Corporal David Parker. He looks up, his eyes carrying a weight that words struggle to convey. He sighs, looking at the piece of paper in front of him before meeting Reynold’s gaze.
(Cpl. Parker): I'll miss seeing my son grow up. I’ll miss his first bike ride, the first time he scores a goal, the awkward teenage years – the whole package. I haven’t told my family about him. My sister’s too young to understand and my brother is in America…so yeah…feels strange knowing they’ll likely never know they have a nephew.
He holds up the letter, folding it away and putting it in his breast pocket.
(Cpl. Parker): I thought I’d write him a letter, you know? Just in case. Try and give what fatherly advice I can whilst I still can.
Reynolds nods. No other words are needed. The men all sit there, coming to terms with their own mortality in their own way.
As the night bleeds into a chaotic dawn, the echoes of gunfire are replaced by the deafening symphony of war. The small group of soldiers find themselves on the precipice of their fate. The air is thick with tension, the smell of gunpowder mixing with the acrid scent of fear.
Sergeant Reynolds leads his men, each step heavy with the knowledge that this is likely to be their final march. Among them, David Parker, a once-vibrant soul, now wears the weight of his own mortality on his battered frame. The skirmish unfolds like a nightmare, bullets biting into the air, explosions sending shockwaves through the ground.
As the chaos rages, Parker stumbles, a blossom of crimson staining his uniform. His lungs feel like they’re on fire, a warmth spreading throughout his upper extremities. Reynolds spots it, and his heart skips a beat and he rushes to Parker’s side, the gravity of the situation etched on his weathered face.
(Sgt. Reynolds): Easy, Parker. We're gonna get you out of here!
Reynolds’ voice is strained but resolute. Parker’s breath labours as clutches at the Sergeant’s uniform.
(Cpl. Parker): Sarge… please… take this!
He shoves the letter he had written for his son, the paper now stained with his own blood, into Sergeant Reynolds’ uniform breast pocket. Reynolds’ eyes meet Parker's, a silent understanding passing between them. Parker's voice quivers.
(Cpl. Parker): Get the f*** out of here, Sarge! Grab everyone else and get them out of here! Just make sure my boy gets this! Tell him... tell him his old man loved him more than anything!
A lump forms in Reynold’s throat, but he nods, accepting the letter with a heavy heart.
(Sgt. Reynolds): You got it, Parker. I’ll make sure he knows…. What's his name? Your son?
Parker’s grip weakens, his eyes searching Reynolds’.
(Cpl. Parker): Sean…his name is Sean.
As the realization dawns on the rest of the group, Reynolds rallies them to retreat, to find cover and regroup. They hesitate, torn between the loyalty to a fallen comrade and the survival instinct that pulses within them. Parker, now alone in the midst of the battlefield, can barely muster a whisper, the blood in his lung curdling his voice.
Reynolds casts one last look at him, his last man bleeding out on the battleground, a father sacrificing for a chance at something more. The soldiers, tears unshed, run for cover, leaving behind a friend with a letter, and a plea.
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