all fired up
Title: All Fired Up
Summary: When Jonathan thinks back on his days in the army, the second thing he'll recall is the heat. The first thing is killing his best friend.
Word count: ~1500
It's hot.
Not that that's anything new. When Jonathan thinks back on his days in the army (as he does almost constantly), that'll be the second thing he'll recall. The heat. The first thing he'll recall is killing his best friend.
But that hasn't happened yet.
“Hey, Johnny!” Chris comes running, waving a paper excitedly.
“What?” Jonathan asks as Chris comes closer. They're both in casual attire, their backs unburdened by heavy armor.
“My girl - Shirley - she wrote back!” Chris looks all of ten years old, face filled with a childish happiness Jonathan hasn't seen since he left the US. “She said she'll marry me!”
"You asked her in a letter?" Jonathan says, skeptical. "I thought you were gonna wait until we came home."
Chris waves it off. “I was, but that doesn't matter. She said yes, dude! This is fucking awesome!” His voice, strengthened by excitement, carries a little more than necessary.
Jonathan grins back. "No shit. Let's tell the other guys, get something together to celebrate, yeah?" He has no idea what the something will be -- they're in the middle of nowhere. No booze, no women, no internet. All they really have are shitty rations, armor, and Bibles.
“Yeah,” Chris agrees, smiling like he can't stop.
Half a week later, the excitement's gone, and everyone's back to going out of their minds in boredom. “Please, let someone shoot at us today,” Chris mumbles, half delirious from the heat. Jones is thumbing through his worn Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, while Keiter is trying to convince Carlson that the world will end when the Large Hadron Collider is fired up.
"That's bullshit," Carlson snorts, his strong Texan accent making it sound like tha'ss bollshiet.
“No, I swear!” Keiter looks earnest. “It will use up all our energy, and the nuclear plants will explode, and it'll be like Chernobyl times a thousand, all over the fucking place.”
Jonathan wants to add his two cents, "No fucking way will that happen, dude, what are you on?", but he's interrupted by shots. They're surprisingly close, penetrating the atmosphere and making everybody alert.
Jonathan notices the perked up faces around him - the excited yell from Carlson - and thinks that anybody who's looking this much forward to putting themselves in mortal danger can't be all right in the head.
They all shimmy into their armor, head gear and shotguns flying all over the place.
Jonathan's a sniper, so he heads for the high points of the base along with Keiter, sniper rifles in hand. The adrenaline is running through him like an unforgiving ecstasy, making every fiber of his being shudder in anticipation.
He runs up the stairs, listening to Lieutenant Wick's orders over the walkie-talkie. “South-west side. 15 guys close, another couple of dozen off by the jeeps. Keiter, Jameson, they're yours.”
“Yessir,” they reply simultaneously.
They enter the roof as another torrent of shots is heard, and a raged cry. Jonathan dismisses it as soon as he hears it's not American.
He kneels in front of the measly fence on the roof, taking aim with his rifle while Keir gets into position.
From up here, he always feels a sense of detachment from the action - at least until a bullet whizzes and digs into the wall, not far beneath them.
“Oh, it's on,” Keiter growls, and they start firing.
At least 5 of the enemies are gone - Jonathan doesn't know who they were, nor does he want to - and none of their own are harmed, as far as he knows. That is, until a well-aimed shot gets Jonathan in the shoulder, causing him to spasm and drop his rifle.
"Jesus fuck, what the hell!" he shouts, gloved hand flying up to cover the bleeding wound.
Keiter immediately stops shooting, possessing a calm only soldiers can have. “I'll tie it up, turn towards me.” Jonathan does, and Keiter bandages it with make-shift rags hurriedly. “Do you think you can hold out a little while longer? It doesn't look good.”
First Jonathan think he means the wound, but then he looks down - and no, it doesn't. The enemies have Chris and the others cowering behind a safety point, and none of them dares stick their head up to take a shot, afraid to lose it. The entire situation depends on him and Keiter.
“I'll be fine,” he manages, “it only scratched me.”
Keiter, the idiot, nods, and they get back into position.
They hold out a little while longer, which turns into a big while longer. Jonathan can feel his arm weighing him down. His head is beginning to turn light with blood loss, and his eyelids feel heavy - but he's a professional, so he covers it up.
Then, suddenly, there is no distinguishing the enemy and their own, too similar to see the difference as dust obscures his vision. His tired arm slips, and instead of shooting at the man he was aiming for, he hits a man in green. There's a moment where he can't do anything but watch the man fall over, shouts and shots lost to him.
"Man down!" his walkie-talkie sparks, "I repeat, man down!"
Keiter says something from beside him, probably asking who's hit, but he can't hear anything over the roaring of his own blood.
When Jonathan opens his eyes again, there is no shooting.
Thank God, he thinks.
He looks around. He's in their infirmary. His arm isn't serious enough to have him transported back to civilization immediately, then.
Jonathan breathes a sigh of relief, and gingerly steps out of the bed. His arm's in a sling, and there's a numbness in it that he doesn't like.
Lieutenant Wick resides in the office a few doors down, and Jonathan heads to him.
“Jameson,” he says, weary.
“Sir,” says Jonathan. Then, the question that has been plaguing him since he woke up- “Did we lose any?”
Wick looks at him before answering. “One,” he says finally.
Oh, God. "Who?"
“Sergeant Waters.” Wick looks at his uncomprehending face, pain killers and blood loss making him slow. “Christian.”
Oh, God. Oh, God. "How did we lose him?"
“I'll spare you the details.”
Wick probably thinks he's doing Jonathan a kindness, but all he can think of is that terrible moment, replaying in his head over and over like a horror show.
“His body will be sent back to his family and buried within a month. You'll be going back as well, as your damaged arm is no good. ”
“Yessir,” Jonathan tries to say, but he can't really get his voice to work. He salutes awkwardly, and leaves, head empty but for that gruesome second.
When Jonathan lands in Seattle, his mother hugs him close. “Oh, baby,” she says, “I heard what happened to your friend. It's so horrible, let's get your baggage-”
It's too much, and he finds himself led along to the baggage claims. There are people all around him, voices everywhere, and he feels dizzy.
"Mama," Jonathan says, interrupting her tale about how 'Mr. Johnson's dog, that Labrador, remember? He finally got Billie Jean pregnant, and isn't that just great? There'll be all these cute puppies running around, and honey, I know you don't like them, but--' "I just wanna go home."
She shuts up, looking at him with pity in her eyes. It makes him sick. “Sure, honey.”
Going home doesn't help the guilt.
Shirley -- Chris' girl -- tries to contact him, says he must be the one to understand how she feels the most.
Jonathan deletes all her messages, and doesn't answer the phone when she calls. It's too painful.
He sees the army's reflection in everything - the fear, the rush, the anticipation. Whenever he ventures outside, everyone he sees reminds him of casualties. Some remind him of Chris. The victims are everywhere.
Dropping anything on the floor reminds him of gunshots. So does the slamming of a door. The only place he likes outside of his own four walls is the library - peaceful, quiet, with a lot of shelves to take cover behind, in case. He can't go shopping for milk without a gun on him, and takes great care never to brush against anyone on the street. He always knows where the closest exit is.
Jonathan spends his days carrying heavy boxes around. He originally went into the army to pay for college, but he can't imagine being a student now.
The last thing he does before sleeping is checking where his gun is. The first thing he does after waking up is planning out his entire day, down to the smallest detail.
It's no way for a man to live, but he doesn't remember how to do it any other way.