A SCALE OF COMBAT

By

Kyle Sundby

Dearest,

This war has lasted for too long and I fear no end is in sight. We vastly outnumber our tan counterparts yet our efforts are soundly met. When my thoughts reach moments such as this I begin to question things I once blindly accepted. I believe that, in this newfound doubt, I am alone. While to either side of me my fellow soldiers fight to preserve my life as well as their own, against uncertainty I am sold separately. I continue to keep close to the ground to listen for any subtle changes. I remain in my prone position, sensing what the others cannot. Through this I will discover the nature of the war and alter my conceptions accordingly. Surviving this ordeal or succumbing to the brutality, I shall leave this field of horror with humanity intact.

As to the fate of the rest of the platoon, I am unsure. They are good men, my sweet, and I would be no more honored than to fall alongside them if that is what must come to pass. But from the advantage of my grounded pose, I find that I share nothing more that a common battlefield opponent with them. Depending on how and where we're placed, even our enemies can differ.

Fear surrounds us all, my love, and leaves us frozen where we lay, kneel, and stand. But it is our lieutenant who feels it most deeply. He stands behind us, pistol in hand, waving for an unknown army to follow him into the fray. Yet it is we who are in front of him, waiting for his command. His cowardice and distrust of his subordinates' loyalty has rendered him nothing more that a motionless target – for the enemy's fire or our own I cannot say for certain.

Others, pressed on all sides by the terrors we've witnessed, repel further assaults with rage and hatred, a far cry from the sense of patriotism with which we were once advertised. There is Sergeant Robertson, whose finger strangles the trigger of his machine gun. There is Private Keeler and PFC Rodriguez, lobbing grenades and bazooka rounds unendingly. They all project their lethality with little regard for those soldiers (be they tan, red, blue, or gray) on the receiving end.

In contrast are those of us who may have, to some extent, ceased fighting. Corporal Gardner wanders back and forth with his minesweeper as if the rifle fire of the enemy is of no concern. I am afraid, dearest – what if I check on the Corporal's condition and find that his minesweeping device no longer functions? We've not been supplied since our arrival and besides, we did not require batteries in the first place. Lance Corporal Shields and Baker appear just as detached. One slings his rifle on his back and practices drill while the other listens for voices on a field radio that may have never worked. That they have not been shot is a testament to the enemy's efficiency. Why waste bullets on those who have already left the battlefield in some tragic way.

Then there are the few who seem to be made for the particular purpose of combat. Corporal Reyes is the most lethal of our platoon and is the most feared, by both enemy and ally. My sweet, I would spare you the agonies I have witnessed through the use of his flame thrower. I need not tell you of our natural fear of fire. From the errant match to the focused sunlight of a magnifying glass, all sides have felt the searing pain and loss. Only firecrackers, M-80s, and other illegal fireworks have caused suffering at such a level.

I have described Sergeant Fitch in previous letters. He is a good friend and the man I most trust. I am excited to have you two meet when this is over. But I must mention my worries on his condition of late. While he keeps to the ground just as I, the Sergeant does not lift his gaze from the sights of his weapon. I am ever prepared to crawl out of here or simply flip onto my back to play dead if need be, but I believe my friend has decided to never leave this place or give up on this war, so long as he can keep an aim on his targets.

My love, I count the days until I can return to your embrace and I pray you do the same. You are an intelligent woman and I will not do you disservice by making claims that I will be home anytime soon. It is obvious that this campaign, from conception through execution, has been severely mishandled. I do not know our commander personally but it is clear that he has the mind of a child. But rest assured that I will return, my cherished. My mold was cast in more resilient stuff that that which is forced upon me.

Pray that it is a school night and time for bed,

Soldier in crawling position, #7 of 100 pcs