War’s Winners and Losers
Are rarely who you expect
“I think they’re coming,” Joe said, fearing the enemy was gaining on us.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said.
Joe had been hit in the leg and could not walk as he had before. Mark and I took turns carrying him as we scrambled for freedom. Our cover had blown and our operation turned into a counterstrike. That morning we were to kill the guards and capture the Lieutenant. The Lieutenant would make a great prisoner the higher ups told us. Most of us did not agree with the mission, but it was not our place to agree. We simply had to do. That was what you did in war, you did not think you just acted. Thinking was for the survivors.
The day before the ambush, Joe was talking to me. He was explaining his problems at home. He said his wife does not love him and he found her with another man two weeks before we went to war.
“Haven’t you beat your wife before?” I asked Joe.
“It wasn’t like that. I hit her when she deserved it. It was only when she deserved it,” he told me.
“I understand.”
Joe was a good soldier. He could fight and we all knew it. Family matters did not concern us in war, we needed men who could fight and Joe was the perfect fighter. He was fearless in battle and a good friend in the calm.
“She wants a divorce, man,” Joe said to me. “She said she doesn’t want to live with me anymore and she loves someone else. I won’t let her. I already told her I won’t approve a divorce. I’m going to work things out with her, man. She just doesn’t understand me yet.”
During war, divorces were rare. The government approved few divorces and the man held the most control. Joe was at war and he did not want a divorce. A divorce would not happen.
“And this new guy,” Joe continued “he doesn’t love her like I do. You know what? When I left to fight I promised her I’d never hit her again. It will be just like when we started dating.”
“I see.”
Mark, Joe and I were planted inside the city to capture the Lieutenant. The assignment was to capture him alive, no excuses. We were in the city for three days dressed as the locals were. These were the operations we trained for. We’d speak with the locals, master their accent, and blend in. It was not an easy job, but we were good at what we did.
“So, tomorrow’s the day,” Mark said.
The next day we were to carry out our plan. Everything was plotted perfectly. We were living in a small hotel on the outskirts of town. It was a quiet, rundown place. It was out of the eye of the military and served as a perfect staging ground. Our weapons were hidden inside our hotel room and we only carried a concealed pistol into town. About a mile from town we staged a truck as our getaway vehicle. It was operational, but we staged it as an abandoned vehicle. The road was already scattered with vehicles that had broken down and left for dead as citizens fled the town en masse. The casualties of war.
The next day began as planned. We went into town to survey, make sure nothing was suspicious. All was normal and we ate a nice lunch at one of the few remaining restaurants. The plan was to return to the hotel and retrieve our bigger weapons. From there, we would take the town hostage. This was an easy task because most of the town had fled. Next, we would storm the embassy and kill the guards and take the Lieutenant hostage.
“Think it’ll go as planned?” Joe asked.
“Why not? Always does,” I said.
“I’m ready to get back to my wife. I’ll regain her trust and things will be better. She’s probably with that new guy right now. The damned fool.”
We started back to the hotel. I was never one to ponder the success of a mission. That thinking will get you killed. Just act and react. Act and react, I told myself.
As the hotel came in sight, we saw more people than expected. They were outside and looked to be military.
“We can’t go there, look.” Mark saw it first.
The backup plan was to leave the town and head for the truck we staged. On the outskirts of town was a bridge and not far past the bridge was our truck. We knew the enemy was under strict orders to stay on the town’s side of the bridge. They did not want to walk into an ambush outside of town and it was a wise order. It gave us a way out and that was all we cared for.
Without speaking we changed course and walked towards the bridge. If we ran, they would notice and begin shooting. About 500 yards from the bridge we noticed the soldiers loading in a military vehicle. They were moving with intention. At the time they got in their vehicle, we estimated they were three miles away. We only saw them through our binoculars, but we knew in flat country they would be on us in no time. We broke into a sprint. The bridge was close and they would be close soon. As we reached the bridge we estimated they were a mile off. We sprinted across the bridge and it was a long bridge.
“Think they’ll cross anyway?” Mark asked.
“No,” I began. “They have orde-“ bang!
They could not cross the bridge, but they could shoot across. We kept running. The military vehicle arrived at the bridge and we could hear the constant pow-pow-pow of the machine gun. The bullets were hitting close but not close enough yet. We were escaping the danger range at what felt like a crawling pace. Soon we would be far enough that the guns could not reach us with enough force.
We were close at about twenty feet from a rock formation. We were running full speed. Myself in front, Mark behind me and Joe trailing Mark by a few seconds. I dove behind the rocks and Mark appeared a moment later. Then we heard Joe scream. He was hit. I ran out and Mark followed. We grabbed him and drug him behind the rocks. He was hit once in the right leg inches above the knee. He was hit again in the small of his back and the bullet did not go clean through the other side. He was bleeding and we were not sure of the damage. Neither I nor Mark were medically trained, but we feared the gunshot to the back penetrated an organ.
“We need to get to the truck,” I said and Mark nodded. We took turns carrying Joe.
“I think they’re coming,” Joe gasped.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said knowing the enemy would not cross the bridge. We were finally safe but Joe was not. We took turns carrying Joe. Tired, we reached the truck after a difficult retreat. We laid Joe in the back seat and Mark got in the passenger seat. I pulled the key from my pocket. I carried the key with me at all times in case of emergency.
The truck fired up and we rushed to base. Joe’s wounds were serious. As we drove I could see the tan seat slowly turn red. Mark and I did not exchange words. After thirty minutes we arrived and rushed Joe to the medical facility. The doctors took him away and our job was over. We found our way to our beds and quickly fell asleep.
In the morning I met up with Mark and we went to the medical facility to find out about Joe. At the facility, we were quickly linked up with the doctor who treated Joe the night before.
“How is he?” I asked.
“He will be alright. We had to amputate his leg and the bullet in his back did not penetrate far enough to threaten his life. He is in stable condition and we will be sending him home to his wife tomorrow.”
Satisfied with the news, we went to the barracks and laid down in bed.
I thought to myself:
In war there are winners and losers. Joe doesn’t know it yet, but he is the winner. The war will be determined in time but one thing is certain: Joe’s wife has lost this war.
