The soldier whinnies with pleasure and offers her a seat on the rotten bench we are occupying.
She laughs, the sound ringing deep into the woods. she is standing with the sun behind her and we can see her body in silhouette. Her flowered summer skirt is made of transparent material. We'd like her to stay there forever. Her hair is long and golden, looks a ripe cornfield. She cannot speak our language, and we have to make ourselves understood by a weird kind of sign language. Don speaks something he says is the local language, but the girl doesn't understand him.
Splashes jump out in the river. They are like big raindrops.
'They're shooting says Roy laconically.
'Waste of time!' 'Waste of good powder at this distance',
says the boss, lighting a cigarette.
The spurts of water seem to race one another across the river.
'You not frightened ?'
asks the girl in a form of pigeon English.
'No'
laughs Don carelessly.
'They're pitiful, those gun crazy idiots.'
'I never see them shooting before,'
she says stretching her neck to see better.
'We can get closer,'
suggests Don, helping the girl up. 'We're laughing at them here!'
'Can you take a picture of me?'
she asks offering a camera to Bruce. She positions herself on top of the hill.
'Bruce takes a photograph of her, making sure that all the bullet splashes on the river are included.
"Let's take one with you in the middle of me and Tony," shouts Don with a big smile. She laughs and puts her arms around their shoulders.
Bruce squats down like a professional photographer.
The explosive bullet tears away half her face. Flesh, blood and splinters of bone spray over Don. a torn off ear dangles from Greggs chest like a medal.
'A sniper, a rotten bloody sniper!'
shouts Tony dropping down alongside Don.
They push the girl's body in front of them for cover.

Such is war!!!!

this sounds like a personal experience
is it?

Yes. But it happened a few years back, and now is the first time I've felt able to talk about it.

Dont know what to say on that one... Thanks for your service though.

Without thinking, I bring my right hand back over my shoulder.
The edge of it is stiff from the little finger to the wrist. I throw my hand forward, straight at his Adam's apple.
Greg has already killed the other one by hitting him with the edge of his hand from behind between the shoulders and the neck. I heard the crackling sound of breaking bones quite clearly.
Don jumps neatly to one side to avoid the long bayonet and, like lightning, thrusts the tips of his fingers into the enemy soldiers throat with such force that the blow knocks him backwards, and the head breaks away from the spine with a cracking sound.
My stroke was perfect. Our special Forces instructor would have been pleased. I crushed his throat and perforated his windpipe. The blow was so powerful that my hand cut into the throat and did not stop until it struck the vertebra which connects the head to the backbone. I made one bad mistake. I looked into the face, saw the twisted mouth and bloodshot eyes.
I remained sitting on the ground for a long time, vomitting.
Our instructor was right: Never look at them! Kill them and move on.
It has taken a long time to forget the distorted face.

Such is war...

i wanna hug you
no one should have to go thru that ever