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The Forgotten Round

By Brad Fisher

 

Some memories are like a warm blanket, and every now and then, you think back and wrap up in its warmth.  Then, there are the others.  The dark memories.  The memories that stalk you like daemons in the night.  You’ll lay there in bed, falling into a peaceful sleep, when the shadowy hand reaches up and snatches you into the hell you want to forget. 

Six pounds of pressure.  Thats all it takes to pull the trigger on an M-240, a fully automatic machine gun.  Six pounds.  It feels like a million pounds with a life sitting in your crosshairs. 

It was around two in the afternoon, and the Lieutenant was inside the tan school, talking to unimportant people about peace none of them had any control over.  While the Lieutenant sat inside the air-conditioned building sipping on tea, the rest of us were melting under the august sun.  It was so hot, the roof of the Humvee felt like a grill.  All I needed was some hamburger and a spatula, and I could have started my own roach coach.  But the only meat around was strung up lamb, but thats another story.

Southern Bagdad, Iraq The only thing I can hear is my own heart thumping away, pumping adrenalin throughout my body. We stalk through the calm, cool desert night towards the target. My night vision goggles illuminate the building in a green hue in my left eye, my right eye blind in the dark night. I am the fourth man on the four-man breach team, and the rest of the platoon covers the building in an L formation from behind us. Our feet fall silently on the dry dirt as we approach. There is only one door to the adobe home, and we angle towards the right side doorknob side of the door. Without touching the building, we line up against the wall. We are nearly invisible in our desert camouflage next to the earthen wall.