Sommerpäckchen #2
Jun. 24th, 2010 11:24 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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120_minutenTitel: Bits and pieces
Genre: Original
Challenge: Echte Männer weinen nicht(3/5)
Sprache: Englisch
Warnung: Es geht um Krieg, es kommen auch ein paar unschöne Sachen drin vor. inkl. Blut, 'es geht nicht ohne Blut' (courtesy of "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead").
Kommentar: kein beta. irgendwie musste ich das in Englisch schreiben, auf deutsch hat's in meinem Kopf nicht funktioniert, was daran liegen kann, dass ich in letzter zeit viel englische Kriegsliteratur gelesen habe. und das hier war tatsächlich nicht nur reine Schadensbegrenzung, sondern auch recht motiviert und in weniger als einer Stunde geschrieben, yay. Trotzdem, TEAM WO SEID IHR?
Shrapnel. Killed by fucking shrapnel. Not the glorious way to go. There is no honour in being ripped apart by flying bits of metal. There is no glory in having to go pick him up, get him back so he can be buried and discover half his face his missing. Looking back, seeing bloody and burnt flesh lying there on the ground near you.
He rubbed his eyes and shook his head. 'Get the image out of your head, man'.
The sergeant came in. "Scofield. I need your report by tomorrow, 700 sharp."
"Yes, sir." He saluted. The sergeant left.
He stood there in his salute, staring into nothingness. How do you write that? SC 4437 P4? Is that it? His initials, a number, that status of condition. P4. Dead or dying. He didn't even have a chance to die. He was just gone.
They'd had a pint last night. It wasn't really beer, it was some piss poor beer substitute, but it was all they could get out here. It was cold, what more could they want.
He'd told them all that he'd gotten leave. He could go home for a bit, and earlier than the rest, because he got kids. And it was his wife's birthday. Lucky bastard, they'd said, and wished him a good time, said he should bang his wife up good. Use the time for 'recreation'. "At least one of us is getting some action.", Lawrence had said, who was masturbating nearly every night.
Routine mission. Reconnaissance patrol. Suspicious object discovered. SC 4437 went to investigate. PR 4486 and AK 4473 direct backup. FI 4463 and Lt. HS 4428 stayed with vehicle. Suspicious object discovered to be RPG. Upon SC 4437 returning, RPG exploded. SC 4437 hit by shrapnel. Leg, arm, head wounded. P4 on location.
At first, a cold shiver went down his spine. SC 4437. He balled up the piece of paper and threw it into the far corner. He stood up, took the chair. He bashed it against the table. It held out for three contacts and then the wood gave. Splinters were flying. Shrapnel. Flying everywhere, but not hitting him. Not hitting him. He screamed. Kicked the table.
The cook came rushing into the bunker. Towel in hand, his shirt slightly wet where he'd spilt the dish water in his rush to help the lieutenant.
"Sir..?" He didn't get any further, because his lieutenant fell to the ground, and cursed and cried.
The cook closed the door as he left, never to mention a word.
He sat there and cried and hit the floor and cursed that it hadn't been him. Him who had only had one friend and no one else.
Genre: Original
Challenge: Echte Männer weinen nicht(3/5)
Sprache: Englisch
Warnung: Es geht um Krieg, es kommen auch ein paar unschöne Sachen drin vor. inkl. Blut, 'es geht nicht ohne Blut' (courtesy of "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead").
Kommentar: kein beta. irgendwie musste ich das in Englisch schreiben, auf deutsch hat's in meinem Kopf nicht funktioniert, was daran liegen kann, dass ich in letzter zeit viel englische Kriegsliteratur gelesen habe. und das hier war tatsächlich nicht nur reine Schadensbegrenzung, sondern auch recht motiviert und in weniger als einer Stunde geschrieben, yay. Trotzdem, TEAM WO SEID IHR?
Shrapnel. Killed by fucking shrapnel. Not the glorious way to go. There is no honour in being ripped apart by flying bits of metal. There is no glory in having to go pick him up, get him back so he can be buried and discover half his face his missing. Looking back, seeing bloody and burnt flesh lying there on the ground near you.
He rubbed his eyes and shook his head. 'Get the image out of your head, man'.
The sergeant came in. "Scofield. I need your report by tomorrow, 700 sharp."
"Yes, sir." He saluted. The sergeant left.
He stood there in his salute, staring into nothingness. How do you write that? SC 4437 P4? Is that it? His initials, a number, that status of condition. P4. Dead or dying. He didn't even have a chance to die. He was just gone.
They'd had a pint last night. It wasn't really beer, it was some piss poor beer substitute, but it was all they could get out here. It was cold, what more could they want.
He'd told them all that he'd gotten leave. He could go home for a bit, and earlier than the rest, because he got kids. And it was his wife's birthday. Lucky bastard, they'd said, and wished him a good time, said he should bang his wife up good. Use the time for 'recreation'. "At least one of us is getting some action.", Lawrence had said, who was masturbating nearly every night.
Routine mission. Reconnaissance patrol. Suspicious object discovered. SC 4437 went to investigate. PR 4486 and AK 4473 direct backup. FI 4463 and Lt. HS 4428 stayed with vehicle. Suspicious object discovered to be RPG. Upon SC 4437 returning, RPG exploded. SC 4437 hit by shrapnel. Leg, arm, head wounded. P4 on location.
At first, a cold shiver went down his spine. SC 4437. He balled up the piece of paper and threw it into the far corner. He stood up, took the chair. He bashed it against the table. It held out for three contacts and then the wood gave. Splinters were flying. Shrapnel. Flying everywhere, but not hitting him. Not hitting him. He screamed. Kicked the table.
The cook came rushing into the bunker. Towel in hand, his shirt slightly wet where he'd spilt the dish water in his rush to help the lieutenant.
"Sir..?" He didn't get any further, because his lieutenant fell to the ground, and cursed and cried.
The cook closed the door as he left, never to mention a word.
He sat there and cried and hit the floor and cursed that it hadn't been him. Him who had only had one friend and no one else.
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no subject
Date: 2010-06-25 10:12 am (UTC)Klang auf jeden Fall so, als wüsstest du genau, worüber du schreibst - also von den Fachausdrücken her - wirkt sehr beeindruckend. ;)
...Mehr?
Aber mit der englischen Kriegsliteratur hast du mir jetzt einen Floh ins Ohr gesetzt. Da muss ich doch glatt nochmal die Bücher von Alexander Kent lesen und dazu ein paar Challenges schreiben... :D
no subject
Date: 2010-06-25 08:03 pm (UTC)hm, mehr? mal gucken, versprechen kann ich nichts. Aber vielleicht nehm ich die Charas doch mal in mein Repertoire auf.
no subject
Date: 2010-06-25 01:54 pm (UTC)Hat mir sehr gut gefallen.
no subject
Date: 2010-06-25 08:04 pm (UTC)