This Time

Every step tempts fate...for everyone

Corporal Gingham looked at his squad. They look like sugar cookies, he thought. The helicopter had covered them in a thick coat of grainy sand as it took off. Despite the grinding grit, in less than a minute, they had formed up for movement. Gingham looked at his fire team leaders and gave the hand signals: forward; one hundred meters; perimeter; recon; go!

The men silently rose as one and began to move out.

The rest of the day passed tensely along craggy rock paths that could hide anything from scorpions to improvised mines to hidden insurgents with minds full of death: advance, pause, observe, repeat. That night, when the exhausted squad pitched camp, and Gingham checked each man.

When he finally sat down in the center with his radio operator, a private approached. "Whaddya need, Kaminski?"

"Um, Corporal, should we—I mean, should I—put out the claymores? Isn't that what we're supposed to do?"

The kid's thinking, and that's the best weapon a grunt can have. "They are more trouble than they’re worth in this environment, Marine. Set one off in here and everybody's getting fragged." He paused. "Think it through and tell me why."

Kaminski thought for a moment. "Ricochet?"

"That's right, Marine. Always consider your surroundings. Make sure your actions fit the circumstances. Now get some chow and turn in; you have the midnight watch."

Gingham watched the young man meander back to his sleeping bag, He hoped he was right; he hoped his actions fit the circumstance this time. They were out of sight of the rest of the company, out of radio range due to the rocks.

He stared into the fire, thinking. I'll bring Kaminski through this. Not like Dennison. Or Franklin. Or West. This time, we'll all make it back.

This time.

(Word Count 300)