The K-Rations

It Was Almost Funny...

         It was almost funny.

         The way Smitty kept trying to light up his cigarette when the goddamn waves kept splashing over the side of the landing craft, soaking us to the skin. Red shook his head and muttered something about 'the dumb nigger-lover' - and went back to brooding. Just like most of us. Well, besides Smitty, who was as usual, in his own world.

         "Gawddamn," he said and laughed at his foolishness, finally figuring that it wouldn't work, before tossing the wasted necessity over the side.

         "Coulda saved it," Martinez mumbled through chattering teeth. He was sitting next to me - a guy about my height with pinched, dark features identifiable with his race. He's a sniper and a damn good one from what I've seen. "Coulda..."

         "Oh yeah? How's he gonna save sumthin' that wet, eh? Might as well throw all our goddamn equipment overboard this here boat."

         That was Snowflake - a nickname given because of his blond hair and fair features. It would have been easy to consider him a 'pretty boy', but he's a man that's paid his dues and has proven himself indispensable in combat.

         "Tha's not the only thing that's gonna be going overboard," Copeland replied with a wry smile, shifting his rifle from one hand to the other. Mine was slick with saltwater and sweat and I could barely keep my fingers wrapped around it. I was wet and miserable, trying hard not to sneeze as I stamped my numb feet to get some blood flow into them. Wet, squelching sounds on the waterlogged deck was no comfort and only did more to remind me of our destination.

         "Hey, Looftenant!" Smitty called out - having to yell over the crash of the waves and the sounds of mortar shells and gunfire becoming louder with each sickening lurch of the steel craft.

         Lieutenant Michael Bradley - leader of C Company and in charge of this motley crew of lowlives (his words, not mine) - cocked his head at the call. "What is it, Smitty?"

         "You reckon we're gonna take this here beach, sir?"

         We all held our breaths - even though we did not look at both men in the face - and within our hearts, hoped for an answer that would alleviate the feelings of weariness, the inevitable and cold, hard FEAR.

         "Well, I reckon if you keep your goddamn trap shut, Smitty, and do as yer supposed to, we just might win this fucking thing," came the faintly amused response.

         That sent us into helpless laughing fits - more hysterical than actual mirth. For some it was laughter of desperation, only heightened as our leader stiffened and suddenly became more alert.

         "All right, fellas," he said, in a tone that shook us out of our stupor and into readiness for whatever lay ahead. "This is it. See you on the beach!"

         The loud clanging sound of the latch thrown open, and the roar of the sea and waves rushing in and nearly causing us to drown, barely registered as I stared at the looming piece of land before us. We were only a few hundred yards from shore and yet it seemed like an eternity away. Smoke billowed from the rugged cliffs as more mortar shells, artillery from above and inland, reconstructed the landscape. I caught Martinez kissing the silver cross around his neck before tucking it into his shirt, gave him a nod of good luck before nearly diving into the expanse of water that separated us from shore.

         Screams filled my ears, unaware they were mine, as the icy waters pierced right into my bones. I could not afford to get my rifle wet and held it above my chest even as the weight of my gear threatened to pull me under. I longed to take off the extra burden, but knew I would be powerless without them once on shore...if I got on shore.

         "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

         More curses and screams as bodies, once standing or rushing against the force of the sea, toppled back with bullets through them. Smitty, who was ahead of me, got his head blown off in a most spectacular fashion. I would have no time to mourn him, but knew I had to do something to survive. Begging for forgiveness, I dragged a body floating next to me and held it as a shield, wincing as more bullets pummeled it like a rag doll. My legs were becoming tired, the ocean now crimson with bloodshed as I struggled against the elements. It seemed to go on for hours, while frustration slowly crept in. No matter how much progress I thought I made or how many bodies I used as shields, I would never get to that godforsaken piece of land.

         With a final push and a strangled cry, I finally felt the soft and muddy sensation of sand beneath my feet. Two more bodies fell beside me - one of which was Copeland's. I could not control my reaction to his remains and vomited all over myself in horror. He was such a good kid too.

         "McKinley!" someone yelled. "Get yer ass up here, goddamn it!"

         Never had anyone's voice sounded so sweet, as I staggered to the sandbank and collapsed beside the Lieutenant. Red fell in place next to me and Martinez soon after, out of breath and yet wired in readiness to begin what we were sent here to do. We would have no time to help the dying behind us, no time to say a proper farewell to our fallen comrades.

         "At my command," came the sharp cry from our leader. "Ready....steady....fire!"