Joe
Junior
- Aug 4, 2018
- 563
Our story begins with chapter one (obviously). I'm just curious, though. What would you do to find a small measure of peace? For you, your family, your people? Some of whom you've never met? Would you find that your suit is ill-fitting, too tight in some places, too loose in others. When you sit down, inches of ankle reveal themselves to the cold, monsoon rain. You look at the cheap, wooden pine box in front of you, numb to pain and joy. To your right, your mother, clad in black, is sobbing endlessly into a handkerchief, held by your equally distraught sister. Don't cry mom. You and your small family are the only ones on the funeral grounds, par from a group of your father's comrades. It was the least the Republic could do for you.
"Atten...tion!" The Airborne Sergeant cries out. A cadre of airborne infantry, in their splendid green uniforms snap to form. Their rifles are held in front of them, shiny with polish. They're clones, from their mirror-like shined shoes, to their felt Stetson campaign hats. Your father had worn that uniform, worn that hat, carried that rifle.
"Present... arms!" The rifles are shouldered, aimed at the sky, as if aiming at your father in heaven.
The boy looks up at the tall airborne sergeant. The sergeant makes eye contact with you.
"Fire!" He shouts.
Bang! Bang! Ban- bzzzz....
Your head is subjected to the equivalent to a cheese grater. It's rocked back and forth by the mute army barber. He's shaving every strand of hair off of your scalp. It kind of sucked, but you were balding like your dad anyways. You weren't really attached to your hair, even if it was never this short before. Your mother always cut your hair for you, tenderly massaging your scalp as she carefully used a rusty pair of scissors to snip away at your locks, looking carefully into a jagged piece of glass that served as the only mirror in the house. For some reason though, this is more comforting, as the barber shears off what feels like the epidermis of your scalp.
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz-....
The door bursts open, causing the you to stiffen. The your uniform is ill-fitting. It's a bit too baggy, but better than the clothes your family could provide for you. You're not quite used to having different underwear every day yet. Moreover, you aren't quite used to even having shoes. The sound of the door is joined by the screaming of an army instructor, harshly yelling vitriol at the recruits assembled in the barracks. The instructor, almost as if the devil possessed him, singles you out for some kind of minor infraction. He grabs you by the collar and yanks you to the-...
The mud is cold, wet, and incredibly nasty, but somehow... you like it. Blood is seeping into your eye from a cut when you snagged it on the barbed wire, but you've come too close to quit now. The recruit in front of you is kicking mud into your face and you're fairly certain you're eating some of it.
"Keep your rifle out of the mud!" The instructor screams from the machine gun post. You prop the rifle up, proud that there is not a speck of mud in the action. Tracer rounds fly overhead. There are spots in your vision from the detonations of explosives in the mud. Off in the distance, a flare is shot in the air, blinding you once again. You inch forward, twisting your body like a worm, trying to block out the gunfire, the explosions, all that fucking-...
Your manual teaches you a lot, more than your instructors did in their field classes. You spend every nightwatch reading it cover to cover. Then, you do it again. Then, maybe you'll do it backwards. It's your bible, to be read on every Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Anyways you realize that, it's not that hard. Right? Feet together, bend your knees, cross your arms, and pitch forward. The parachute packing classes are your personal favorite. The feeling of the heavy rig in your arms, the frayed cloth, the rough material, it just feels right to you-...
The rig is too heavy. Your shoulders are straining from the weight. Sweat dribbles down your forehead and is ruining the grease smeared over your face. You huddle on the bench, packed into the rickety plane shoulder to shoulder. Your stomach is pitching and rolling as the plane dips and yaws in the air. It's too loud and too dark. Breath, you're breathing. You're trying so damn hard to relax, but you can't. You're thousands of feet off the ground with a one way ticket to the ground. You've come too far to refuse and face the embarrassment of coming back to your shithole of a hut in a shithole of a village with your tail in between your legs.
Red. Why is the cabin red?
"STAND UP!"
Why are you standing up?
"HOOK UP!"
Why are you hooking your static line onto the cable above you?
"EQUIPMENT CHECK!"
Why are you checking the equipment of the man in front of you?
"SOUND OFF FOR EQUIPMENT CHECK!"
Why did you yell "TEN, YOU'RE OKAY." and why did the man behind you yell "ELEVEN, YOU'RE OKAY!"...?
"STAND BY FOR JUMP!"
Sit back down, before you make a fool out of yourself. It's not worth it. Stop it.
The door opens, cold air rushes into the cabin. You can't believe it. Your teeth are chattering from the adrenaline pounding, pounding, pounding through your veins. The jumpmaster looks out into the plains below. You're not really that high up, only 3,000 feet off the ground. You hardly need parachutes at this altitude.
Why is the light green?
"OKAY FOR JUMP!"
Why are you shuffling forward?
Why are you approaching the door?
Why are you jumping out the plane?!
All for a small measure of peace.
"Atten...tion!" The Airborne Sergeant cries out. A cadre of airborne infantry, in their splendid green uniforms snap to form. Their rifles are held in front of them, shiny with polish. They're clones, from their mirror-like shined shoes, to their felt Stetson campaign hats. Your father had worn that uniform, worn that hat, carried that rifle.
"Present... arms!" The rifles are shouldered, aimed at the sky, as if aiming at your father in heaven.
The boy looks up at the tall airborne sergeant. The sergeant makes eye contact with you.
"Fire!" He shouts.
Bang! Bang! Ban- bzzzz....
Your head is subjected to the equivalent to a cheese grater. It's rocked back and forth by the mute army barber. He's shaving every strand of hair off of your scalp. It kind of sucked, but you were balding like your dad anyways. You weren't really attached to your hair, even if it was never this short before. Your mother always cut your hair for you, tenderly massaging your scalp as she carefully used a rusty pair of scissors to snip away at your locks, looking carefully into a jagged piece of glass that served as the only mirror in the house. For some reason though, this is more comforting, as the barber shears off what feels like the epidermis of your scalp.
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz-....
The door bursts open, causing the you to stiffen. The your uniform is ill-fitting. It's a bit too baggy, but better than the clothes your family could provide for you. You're not quite used to having different underwear every day yet. Moreover, you aren't quite used to even having shoes. The sound of the door is joined by the screaming of an army instructor, harshly yelling vitriol at the recruits assembled in the barracks. The instructor, almost as if the devil possessed him, singles you out for some kind of minor infraction. He grabs you by the collar and yanks you to the-...
The mud is cold, wet, and incredibly nasty, but somehow... you like it. Blood is seeping into your eye from a cut when you snagged it on the barbed wire, but you've come too close to quit now. The recruit in front of you is kicking mud into your face and you're fairly certain you're eating some of it.
"Keep your rifle out of the mud!" The instructor screams from the machine gun post. You prop the rifle up, proud that there is not a speck of mud in the action. Tracer rounds fly overhead. There are spots in your vision from the detonations of explosives in the mud. Off in the distance, a flare is shot in the air, blinding you once again. You inch forward, twisting your body like a worm, trying to block out the gunfire, the explosions, all that fucking-...
Your manual teaches you a lot, more than your instructors did in their field classes. You spend every nightwatch reading it cover to cover. Then, you do it again. Then, maybe you'll do it backwards. It's your bible, to be read on every Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Anyways you realize that, it's not that hard. Right? Feet together, bend your knees, cross your arms, and pitch forward. The parachute packing classes are your personal favorite. The feeling of the heavy rig in your arms, the frayed cloth, the rough material, it just feels right to you-...
The rig is too heavy. Your shoulders are straining from the weight. Sweat dribbles down your forehead and is ruining the grease smeared over your face. You huddle on the bench, packed into the rickety plane shoulder to shoulder. Your stomach is pitching and rolling as the plane dips and yaws in the air. It's too loud and too dark. Breath, you're breathing. You're trying so damn hard to relax, but you can't. You're thousands of feet off the ground with a one way ticket to the ground. You've come too far to refuse and face the embarrassment of coming back to your shithole of a hut in a shithole of a village with your tail in between your legs.
Red. Why is the cabin red?
"STAND UP!"
Why are you standing up?
"HOOK UP!"
Why are you hooking your static line onto the cable above you?
"EQUIPMENT CHECK!"
Why are you checking the equipment of the man in front of you?
"SOUND OFF FOR EQUIPMENT CHECK!"
Why did you yell "TEN, YOU'RE OKAY." and why did the man behind you yell "ELEVEN, YOU'RE OKAY!"...?
"STAND BY FOR JUMP!"
Sit back down, before you make a fool out of yourself. It's not worth it. Stop it.
The door opens, cold air rushes into the cabin. You can't believe it. Your teeth are chattering from the adrenaline pounding, pounding, pounding through your veins. The jumpmaster looks out into the plains below. You're not really that high up, only 3,000 feet off the ground. You hardly need parachutes at this altitude.
Why is the light green?
"OKAY FOR JUMP!"
Why are you shuffling forward?
Why are you approaching the door?
Why are you jumping out the plane?!
All for a small measure of peace.
