Delta Minor

"CHARLIE 0-3," a young man screamed into his standard issue comms fitted to a multi-cam, mesh covered helmet, "THIS IS DELTA MINOR, REQUESTING IMMEDIATE EVAC ON MY LOCATION!"

As soon as he finished his emergency call, a violent explosion from an artillery shell sent his body flying like a ragdoll tossed by a body builder. He hit the ground with a thud, rolling along the sandy ground of the torn-up beach before slamming to a stop on a well-placed rock, knocking the wind out of him.

"Delta Minor," rang a womans voice over his comms, "This is Charlie 0-3, we are sending emergency evacuation to your position, over."

The young man staggered to his feet, pulling the comm mic closer to his mouth.

"Charlie 0-3," he gasped into the mic, "We have multiple enemy contacts on the beach. Requesting heavy support!"

"Copy that," the woman said, "Sending additional reinforcments to your position."

The young man picked up his scraped and tattered m4 and laid down suppressive fire on the advancing swarm of enemies. As he laid down suppressive fire, he ran behind the rock he had just been blown into, quickly swapping out magazines. He ducked behind the rock, keeping his body concealed as he fumbled with the velcro of his chest rig. Amist his reload, he took a second to scan the beach, and immediatly regretted doing so. Around him, he saw craters from artillery, rocket propelled grenades, or rpgs, bodies of the insurgence group, and the bodies of his brothers in arms. He stared at the body of his squad leader; now missing both his legs and the side of his face, staring with bloodshot eyes into nothing. He couldn't take his eyes off of him, thinking about how just a few minutes ago, he was alive, calling out orders to the other soldiers, and now, he was dead. The young man snapped out of his confusion, blinking away the tears, and spun around the rock to exact revenge for his fallen brothers. He shot at the insurgence soldiers with extreme and deadly precision, knocking 6 down and killing 4 others before having to reload again.

He ducked down under the rock for cover while reloading, this time sparing himself the sight of his fallen comrades, instead focusing on the charging handle, pulling it back so hard it almost snapped, then, suddenly, a voice came over his comms.

"Delta Minor," came a new voice, this time of a man, sounding to be in his mid 3os, "We got your ass, brother, but you may want to take cover."

Delta Minor stared out at the horizon, through foggy, dust covered saftey glasses, watching the shillouette of an Apache chopping its way towards him. He immediatly ran for cover behind a slightly larger rock, blindly firing in the general direction of his enemies, and slid behind the rock, cowering into the fetal position, clutching his m4 like a mother protecting a child, as Hydra Air-to-Land missiles bombarded the beach, and a backup combing of the Boeing M230 30mm cannons to destroy whatever the missiles missed.

"Woohoo," the helicopter pilot said over the comms, "Delta Minor, you are cleared of hostiles!"

Delta Minor couldn't handle it anymore. He was rocking back and forth, crying, clutching his m4. He was by no means a new soldier. He had served 3 tours with the infantry before going to ranger school, and serving with the army rangers, before being recruited by the lying, sneeving Admiral who promised him great things from joining Delta Force, but this was the worst he had ever seen. Bodies ripped in half from explosions, men with holes in their heads, eyes still wide open, staring into the sky, and all around him he heard yelling and screaming from those who survived the mission, and those who where wounded. His eyes stung from crying, but he couldn't stop. All he wanted was to go home, hug his mother, pet his dog, and eat something that wasnt those shitty MREs. He was tired of war.

He heard the yelling of soldiers getting closer to him, and stood up, tears running down his face, and snot dripping from his nose.

"DELTA MINOR, WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?" He knew that voice. The power hungry, egotistical Staff Sergeant. He knew what was to come, and he was braced for it.

The SS grabbed him by the shoulder straps of his plate rig and spun him around, pinning him against a rock.

"YOU ORDERED AN EMERGENCY EVAC," the SS screamed, "ALONG WITH A GUNRUN FROM AN APACHE?! WHO GAVE YOU THE AUTHORITY TO DO THAT?!"

"I-I made a gut call, sir," Delta Minor quietly squeaked out, "W-we were out-numbered and out-gunned, so I-I called for the evac and the strike."

He could hear the mumbles and whispers of the other Operators crowding around them to watch the SS scream at Delta Minor.

"A gut call," chuckled the SS, "A gut call that YOU DONT HAVE THE AUTHORITY TO CALL IN!! YOU MAY HAVE EXPERIENCE, BUT NOT ON THIS KIND OF A BATTLE FIELD. HERE, WE GO BY MY RULES, AND MINE ONLY!!"

The SS dropped him to the ground and ordered everyone to him with a flick of his wrist and hand. All the operators followed the SS away, not even sparing a glance back at Delta Minor, now staring at the sand in front of him, contomplating raising his rifle and shooting that egotistical son of a bitch. But, with a grunt, he stood up, slinging his rifle and walking toward the landing helocopter, ready to whisk them away to saftey. While he was walking, he imagined life beforehand, with the infantry and the Rangers. He was happier, because he was with men he had served with for years beforehand. In the infantry, there was no secret missions for him to complete, no counter insurgence missions, just patroling and joking around with his best friends. Even with the Rangers, he was happier, because even though the missions were just as dangerous, he was still serving with his brothers. But none of them where with him here. They werent selected for the "highest duty of the military." That was such a load of bullshit. It wasn't the highest duty, or the most honorable. It was the most bloody. And he hated it.

When he entered the CH-47 Chinook, he sat at the very end of a row of seats, keeping distance between himself and the other men, laughing and comparing kill counts, while he sat by the body bags of his friends, his squad leader, and the other men that had died that day, fighting with Delta. He took the little metal cross from underneath his kit, and said his prayers for his fallen soldiers. As he said his prayers, he heard everyone quiet down to silence, besides the deafening whirr of the helicopters rotor blades, and bow their heads in respect for the fallen men. When he finished saying his prayers, followed by a long line of "Amens," he took off his helmet to run his fingers through his soft, not to short but not to long black hair. He was glad the army let him keep his hair the way he liked it, and as the army said, it was to look "more civilian". He didn't care. He just wanted to keep his hair well kept and clean. He laid his head against the cold metal of the Chinook, and felt himself drift off to another night of dreamless slumber.

Please note that these are not real experiences, mainly because its probably illegal and I dont want to go to the brig in leavenworth. I am not in the military, and this is in no way a case of stolen valor, and I am simply writing this because I find war stories entertaining and a bit humbling. I hope you enjoyed reading this.