Five Minutes Till' Death

In the year, 2130, the world fell back into war. America’s blitzkrieg of Western Europe sent shockwaves around the world and sparked the greatest conflict known to man. America, having already made most of Western Europe kneel to their might, now planned the complete takeover of the European continent. Eastern European and Asian countries banded together with ANZAC forces to push America back into it’s own borders.

Now, in the year, 2133, the war has reached a stalemate, similar to the one at Verdun. Trench warfare has resumed and both forces have resumed fighting after a two-week long ceasefire. The two trenches are on opposite sides of the Danube river in Budapest. The Americans have been planning a major offensive against the combined Russo-Hungarian force during the ceasefire, and Generals McKee and Chau are willing to sacrifice thousands to get across the Danube. Since amphibious landings are open to aerial and naval attacks, both generals have decided to do the unexpected and send a force of 75,000 troops, 125 tanks, and 30 artillery cannons directly across the Széchenyi Chain Bridge in a desperate attempt to gain ground.

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Tonight was anything but tranquil. Sgt. Jacob Melendez licked his thumb and wiped the caky dirt off of his watch face. 3:14 a.m. Artillery fire continuously rained down to the left and right of him. Every other second, two more H-E shells would explode, sending mounds of dirt flying, then landing his platoon’s position.

“This is gonna be one hell of a show,” Jacob thought. “I just gotta focus on keeping my men alive”.

He looked behind him. Two of his men had sustained noticeable injuries to their torso’s. Jacob marched to the back of the single-file line to check on them.

One of them, Pvt. Haupt had just been scratched, by a piece of shrapnel, but his buddy, Pvt. Spiegel had a huge chunk of shrapnel lodged in his stomach. Blood poured out of his stomach as he pleaded for a medic hopelessly. Nobody besides sergeants and officers were allowed out of charging formation before the initial charge. Pvt. Spiegel would die there, his cries being swept up by the barrage of shells.

Jacob returned to his position in the front of the charge and waited for the go ahead. He looked down at his watch again, watching it’s longest hand countdown his execution. It sauntered along the watch face, seemingly taunting Jacob, taking its time, perhaps even moving backwards a few seconds, just to toy with the tortured sergeant.

Lt. Kaye peeked above the trench wall and signaled to Jacob that he needed binoculars. Jacob, like a puppy, fetched them for his lieutenant, placing them into his impatient hand. Lt. Kaye peered through the eyeholes and saw the flash signal from the paratroopers, who had already made it across the bridge. “ALL RIGHT MEN, LETS MOVE,” shouted the Lieutenant. He vaulted over the dirt pile sitting atop the trench wall and disappeared into the masses. Jacob followed suit and charged into the fray, his heart pounding against his temple as he sprinted towards the ever-growing blob of flesh forming at the bridge-head.

From across the Danube, the Russo-Hungarian force took notice of the amassing force, which was now charging across the bridge, and started sending volleys of tracer rounds towards the blob. Jacob looked behind him and saw three of his men get riddled with the neon green rounds, their bodies seizing to the tempo of the machine-gun fire.

“Men, get cover, DEFELATE,” screamed Jacob. He grabbed Pvt. Compaglio by the nape of his flak jacket and bolted towards an overturned tank. One, two. One, two. Jacob couldn’t even hear his own thoughts from the constant burst of shells and cackle of machine guns around him. He banked left, moving towards the tank, flipped on its side, sitting in the middle of the four lane highway. Two bullets sent pebbles flying about a meter away from Jacob. The tank wasn’t far. 20 meters. 15 meters. 10 meters. 5 meters. 2 meters. Jacob dove, still clinging onto the confused private’s flak jacket, into the tank tread.

“Are you alright private,” inquired Jacob. “I’m alrig…”. A volley of fire caught Private Compaligio in the collarbone and neck. Blood poured out of the boy like a cup, which sat underneath a faucet for too long. There was no begging or pleading gifted to that boy, he was left to panic in a desperate gargle. There, Private Compaglio died, not even a tenth of the way across the bridge, beside a man he expected to protect him. Jacob stayed still, not touching the boy, just staring at the heart-shaped locket tattoo on the boys chest. He probably thought he was big shit in school after he got that tattoo professing his love to his mother and what seemed to be his two sisters, their faces and names filling the inside of the locket. Jacob didn’t know what to do anymore. So he stayed. He stayed while mere boys charged into the barrel of a gun, confined to a 30 meter wide, four-lane highway, or the grave.