Uber Ninja Man
08-16-2011, 04:42 PM
His head is shaved and clean; a pair of dim eyes stare back from the mirror under bags from loss of sleep. His features are sunken and grey, hanging from the bone. A jet black bar-code is branded on the back of the neck, just like the other hundred or so vipers in the staging area.
Sweat-soaked jungle-cam fatigues cling to his body still leaning over the restroom sink. Everything has a slight green tint to it, sweat and musk hanging in the air.
Outside, the camp is alive; trucks moving to and fro, the marching of boots, whine of engines, and crack of artillery in the distance. But in this room, at this very moment, everything is still. Silence hangs in the stale air.
He looks at him self in the mirror, studying each crevice and imperfection across the face. Is it even his reflection staring back? He no longer knows.
In one hand is a crumpled set of papers, the other a set of dog tags dangling out of his fist. Orders have come, finally. The jungle has done more to kill him on this second deployment than the enemy, of which he has not yet met face to face.
He's waited so long under the blistering sun, the fighting just a few mere miles away. each day it crawls farther and farther away, easing his fears. Then it arrives, just what he had dreaded.
Sgt. Richard J. Harris is afraid. Afraid of command, afraid of the war, afraid of the death. He is scared and knows that deep down he is screaming inside.
He passed selection out of the blue-shirts, sweated and bled alongside his friends at the training center back state side. He fought long and hard to be here and now sees the stupidity in it all.
Harris has seen what they bring back out of the jungle, into the field hospital to try to piece back together. Gored up and disfigured, screaming out in pain. The cries for loved ones as they slip away...
"Dwelling on the past will only open old wounds, making room for new scars. Dad's old saying was right I guess"
I try to smile, but even my reflection knows I'm lying. I'm scared, but there's no shame in it. I only wonder what everyone back home would think of me now.
The man in the mirror grimaces, trying to keep his composure. The man in the mirror isn't me, its just a faceless grunt. The soldier in the mirror is ready for war, the man looking at the mirror isn't.
Sweat-soaked jungle-cam fatigues cling to his body still leaning over the restroom sink. Everything has a slight green tint to it, sweat and musk hanging in the air.
Outside, the camp is alive; trucks moving to and fro, the marching of boots, whine of engines, and crack of artillery in the distance. But in this room, at this very moment, everything is still. Silence hangs in the stale air.
He looks at him self in the mirror, studying each crevice and imperfection across the face. Is it even his reflection staring back? He no longer knows.
In one hand is a crumpled set of papers, the other a set of dog tags dangling out of his fist. Orders have come, finally. The jungle has done more to kill him on this second deployment than the enemy, of which he has not yet met face to face.
He's waited so long under the blistering sun, the fighting just a few mere miles away. each day it crawls farther and farther away, easing his fears. Then it arrives, just what he had dreaded.
Sgt. Richard J. Harris is afraid. Afraid of command, afraid of the war, afraid of the death. He is scared and knows that deep down he is screaming inside.
He passed selection out of the blue-shirts, sweated and bled alongside his friends at the training center back state side. He fought long and hard to be here and now sees the stupidity in it all.
Harris has seen what they bring back out of the jungle, into the field hospital to try to piece back together. Gored up and disfigured, screaming out in pain. The cries for loved ones as they slip away...
"Dwelling on the past will only open old wounds, making room for new scars. Dad's old saying was right I guess"
I try to smile, but even my reflection knows I'm lying. I'm scared, but there's no shame in it. I only wonder what everyone back home would think of me now.
The man in the mirror grimaces, trying to keep his composure. The man in the mirror isn't me, its just a faceless grunt. The soldier in the mirror is ready for war, the man looking at the mirror isn't.