Chapter Two - The Things They Wore

The Things They Wore

Chapter 2 - Lucid Dreamer

Day 9, OP Bruno, 0800 hours


“The bodies were just starting to get ripe before we buried them. Fifteen of them in all, twelve men and three women. Three of the guerrillas on team two's side beat a hasty retreat covered by smoke. The women hit us the hardest. I don't think many of us had seen any women so badly shot up before and definitely none were aware of the effect a well-placed Mark 19 round had on a woman's leg.

Our company commander ordered them photographed, stripped of their gear, and pushed into a newly dug trench along the wire. Second platoon complied, but begrudgingly. We collected any identifying information we could find then held a brief service for our fallen foes.

After that we made a detailed stock of their gear. Nine of these sewing machine-gun hybrids, fifteen radios with ear pieces and throat mics, a plethora of oddly shaped grenades, several swords and close combat weapons, fifty pounds of an unidentified high explosive along with enough caps and det-cord to make a nice a fireworks display. To top it off they had fifteen sets of web gear stuffed with ammo each with a cleverly hidden pocket containing a single cyanide capsule, but strangely no night vision or observation gear. Not even a pair of binoculars among them.

All of it raises more questions than it answers. Who were they? What were they after here? Why didn't they have accurate intelligence? The company commander won't say shit. He also went so far as to post orders preventing us marines from attempting to gain access to the building proper after one of the marines from Charlie One was caught trying to get in, although the attempt in of itself was rather futile. All of the building's doors are locked from the inside and the lowest window is a foot and a half wide and thirty off the ground.”

Tokura paused from his writing for a bit. What a clusterfuck this had all turned out to be. He couldn't stop thinking about one of the women. She had still been alive when they were moving the bodies. She didn't cry out, just emitted slow ragged breaths while she clutched a ring on a necklace and stared blankly into space. She died shortly after. He was glad he omitted that part from his journal. He wouldn't forget it for the rest of his life if he did. He thumbed the ring in his pocket.

She had eyes the color of the sky.

Max turned and noticed him staring off into the distance and tapped him on the shoulder.

“You alright, Kaeo? You seem a little out of it lately.”

“Yeah, yeah it's alright. Just a little tired that's all.” he said while waving his hand dismissively. Max gave him a reassuring smile and went back to cleaning his M16. Garza came running up.

“Guys, word is, Raptor is looking to task a squad with finding these fucker's hideout. You fucks know what that means right?! A legit fucking reconnaissance mission! How fucking righteous is that!?” Garza excitedly panted.

Rico sat up from his position on top of the Humvee.

“Where the fuck did you hear that, Garza?” he asked.

“I overheard the LT and the Captain talking. He's trying to get us tasked with it.” Garza replied confidently.

“Well I guess this op isn't such bullshit after all. Toss me that can of chew while you're down there, Garza.”  Rico gestured lazily to the can in question and laid back down placing his arm over his face to block out the sun. Garza took out a dip for himself and tossed the can up to Rico who did the same.

“You know, you oughta get off that stuff. Quite frankly, I think it's a debasement of the warrior asceticism that we're supposed to represent.” Max stated while turning the chamber brush in his M16.

Garza sat down on top of a box of MREs and asked, “The fuck is asceticism?”

“The denial of earthly pleasure to achieve a higher state of being, or closeness with God.” Kaeo answered.

“Exactly, my slanty eyed friend. I mean look at it this way. The Marine Corps must be trying to get us into that mindset. Why else would they fuck us so hard? Like, a lot of marines think of themselves as fucking Spartans and shit right? Fucking Spartans didn't have shit. That's what they mean by a fucking 'Spartan lifestyle'. Obviously they're trying to toughen us up. Make us hard motherfuckers and whatnot. However, I think it goes deeper than that. I think they're trying to mold us into real fucking spiritual warriors. Legit paladin types, you know?” Max ran a few patches down the bore of his weapon before continuing.

“I mean, most people think the military is all secular 'n shit right? Wrong, they couldn't be more fucking wrong.  Maybe we're not devout in the traditional sense per say. More animal and primal, y'know? Like, that's why at fucking boot camp and SOI they make you go do all that God shit 'n get born again. It's why the recruiter looks at you like you've got a dick growing out of your forehead if you say 'Atheist' or 'No Preference' when he asks what you want on your dog tags. That's why the fucking Commandant puts shit like Message to Garcia and the fucking Bible on his goddamn reading list. To instill a faith in a higher power, man.” Max stopped to fully assemble his M16's bolt and gather his thoughts.

“It isn't even really about the Christian God. No, our God is much older than that. His name is Violence. Think about it.” he paused again giving the bolt another quick wipe down.

“All of this shit must be to purify our minds and bodies of weakness. Like Kaeo said: to bring us closer to our God. To make us into harder more devout motherfuckers than even the most motarded Hadji. Those Hadjis think suicide bombing shows their faith and gets them into heaven. Again, wrong. Dying is fucking easy. Any stupid bastard can die for his fucking country. Wars aren't won by that shit. Wars are won by making the other poor fucker die for his.  War is restrained and directed violence. And, if there's anything the Marine Corps is dedicated to it's our love and faith in the power of directed violence.” He slipped the bolt into the upper receiver of his M16.

“And another thing, God loves marines. Fucking everybody says so. Thus God loves killers. Like what does the chaplain say about killing? ‘It's not a sin to kill if you don't enjoy killing.’ What kinda merciful God thinks like that? God ain't merciful; He's got the universe’s biggest hard-on for death and destruction. And that makes us fucking closer to the true God than any other motherfuckers in history. And woooo boy do we have faith in Him. Hell, our fucking motto is Semper fidelus; 'Always Faithful'.” He closed the two halves together and slid the rear push pin in and gave his weapon a quick function test before continuing.

“One can only draw one conclusion from all these facts: we are the fucking warrior monks of the 21st century!” Max exclaimed then slapped magazine into his freshly cleaned M16 and gave a sharp tug to the charging handle.

Rico sat up suddenly and stared hard at Max.

“Max, you're making this shit up, right?” Rico asked seriously.

“Hell yeah man, passes the fucking time” Max said while leaning his weapon against the Humvee. Kaeo smiled to himself as he thoroughly enjoyed Max's daily philosophizing. He'd have to remember to commit that one to paper later.

“You should write a book man” Garza said.

“Nah, that's more Tokura's territory. The fuck you writing anyway? The next best-selling homosexual romance novel?” Max asked.

“Nah, it’s more of a journal.” Kaeo dismissed.

“Oh, I see. You're gonna tell all the people back in home in...” Max paused, “Where is it you're from again? Japan, right?”

“Yeah, Tokyo. My family moved to the US when I was five though.” he responded.

“Gonna tell all the people back in Japan how it fucking feels to be a coldblooded dead-eyed violence worshiping warrior monk eh?” Max continued.

“Actually, I think most people in Japan only know what it feels like to suffer from tsunami induced radiation poisoning.” Garza interjected.

They chuckled.

Later that day, they got word on their mission. The LT stated that he had to “Personally fellate Raptor Actual's cock.” to get them tasked with it. It was, just like Garza said, a legit reconnaissance mission. Satellite imagery had spotted some interesting looking activities outside of a cave not more than fifteen clicks west of their present location. The battalion commander wanted eyes on within the next thirty six hours to confirm its status as an enemy outpost before sending a full platoon to clear it out. They couldn't risk a fire mission on account of the danger of destroying any intelligence located inside.

Some military intelligence types and a few way too casual looking “embassy employees” who were undoubtedly CIA stopped by to collect any information on the fifteen enemies the platoon had iced two days prior. They were especially interested in the sewing machine-gun things, taking one with them before leaving the way they came.

Raptor 2-1 was set to be Oscar Mike by sunset. It promised to be a long hump over rough terrain to their designated overwatch position deep in the hills. He took the opportunity to get some sleep, his first in forty eight hours. He took off his helmet and propped his head up a rock.

He dreamed. He dreamed of a wide open field with amber grass flowing in all directions. He was standing in the field naked, but he didn't seem to mind. He saw something move on the horizon. It was a gazelle which turned to look at him then tore off toward the horizon. He followed as fast as his feet and hands could carry him. Galloping over the earth on all fours. He was gaining on it. His heart was racing. He was just behind it. He could almost reach out and touch it. His hands had transformed to wicked talons. He leaped forward the last few feet and dug his claws into the gazelle’s hind quarters.

They both tumbled to the ground. The gazelle struggled, but it was too late. His teeth became bony daggers and he feasted away on the gazelle. Tearing open its stomach with his claws and rending and breaking away connective tissue with his teeth. Strangely, it emitted no yelps or screeches, simply breathed slow ragged breaths while its life drained away. He stopped and looked.

It was the woman was laying there, not a gazelle. She stared blankly into the distance while clutching onto the ring. He looked down to his hands and noticed he had no claws. He felt his teeth, there were no fangs. His hands were already slick with blood; it ran down his chin onto his chest. His fingers rummaged around her abdomen looking for purchase. He could not compel himself to stop. He tore off scraps of her skin and meat with his teeth. He ate. He ate to fulfill the ravenous burning inside him. Each bite he took he felt himself growing stronger, stealing away her life, all the while she emitted those slow breaths. A single tear rolled down her cheek.

He woke up