They fanned out and followed Reed through the field. Halfway across, Chandler swatted a large insect that flew by his ear. A low buzz as another flew past him, another and another. Then at once the field hummed like a furious hive and was filled with neon green javelins that streaked out from the ditch in long haphazard arcs. Chandler dove into the wheat shafts headfirst, like he’d been taught to steal second base. He put a hand on the top of his helmet and dug his nose into the mud. His mouth went dry when he realized the insects were not insects, they were bullets, and he didn’t want to move because he’d never been shot at before.
Reed winced and crouched then fired three shots from his carbine and charged the ditch. Tran and Dempsey rose and ran after him. A clod of dirt burst beside Chandler. He got up and ran. The automatic rifle had a handle on the barrel and the gun swung behind him like a suitcase. He ran and his heart beat faster. Another clod exploded out of the mud. Chandler ran and thought he’d get hit before reaching the tree line and when he finally did he leapt through the twisted branches and across the ditch and pressed himself flat against the far slope.
Rainwater trickled though the bottom of the ditch. Tiny leaves lush on the bent branches above. Ankle-deep in the cloudy water were two bearded men. They wore stained dishdashas and camouflaged field jackets and as the paratroopers entered the ditch the men lowered their AKM rifles and turned and ran. Reed and Dempsey aimed their carbines and shot them in the back. The men splashed facedown into the brown water and were still. Now they were being shot at from within the qalat beyond the trees in front of them, and from a grove across another wheat field bordering the walls. A tree exploded above, vomiting bark. Leaves flush with rain twirled into the ditchwater. Chandler shut his eyes and hugged the dirt when the second rocket-propelled grenade hissed through the foliage. The ground trembled when the rocket exploded in the field behind him.
His legs shook, like when he was a seventh grader and the older boys would corner him at his locker and call him a dirty orphan and told him he better swing because they were going to kick his ass anyway. Chandler blinked and watched as Tran launched a grenade through a hole of rubble in the qalat wall. Dempsey reloaded then shot into the grove of trees. Reed was pointing and shouting but Chandler couldn’t hear him. He breathed and licked his lips. He unfolded the automatic rifle’s bipod and braced it atop the embankment and sighted at the puffs of gray smoke and flashes in the grove. He thumbed the safety and leaned forward into the stock. He squeezed the trigger, tightening his wrists to keep the weapon steady.
The tornado of noise hurt his ears. Chandler fired into the grove of trees, shifting fire to the qalat, then back at the grove. He emptied the 200-round drum magazine and two other drums he carried at his waist, firing left handed to yank the charging handle when the weapon jammed. He shrugged out of his rucksack and laid it on top of the ditch. He got out another ammunition drum and reloaded and kept shooting.
His eyes watered as gun smoke filled the ditch and wafted through the trees. An erection when the cordite stung his nostrils. He was afraid. But he didn’t care if he lived or if he died. The blood surged in his brain, as if linking him through some ghoulish sacrament to the mud and the foliage, the other paratroopers and the Taliban he tried to kill. He wept and he laughed almost in rhythm with the automatic rifle pounding against his shoulder and he didn’t care if he lived or if he died because he had never been more alive.
Adam Kovac served in the U.S. Army infantry, with deployments to Panama, Haiti, Iraq and Afghanistan. A former journalist, he’s also covered the crime and court beats for newspapers in Indiana, Florida and Illinois. He lives in the Chicago suburbs with his wife and son. Follow him on Twitter @Boondock60mm.
