I woke up recently with a story going on in my head, a story which I narrated, and I kept on doing so for a while even after I had awakened, confused. Then I began to emerge from the mists of sleep and realized that my dreaming mind was imitating Boris Vian. Now, I don’t like wars. I despise them. I hate people who wage them. They symbolize the ugliest face of mankind. Thank God we are also capable of love. But to paraphrase PIL, this is not a love post. It’s just the result of me once more remembering a dream, and deciding to rewrite it, in hope of ridiculing the very act of war.
We halted our advance because Charlie who was trailing found a cow and decided to milk it. At first the sergeant got angry, but seeing that Charlie was actually getting results, he ordered the company to fall back on his position and we all sat in a semi-circle and started cheering for him. But soon more cows arrived and one of them stepped on a land mine too close to us; Charlie and the milked cow are now spread over a 5 meter radius, the biggest parts of them barely big enough to make hamburger patties. Those are the risks of war.
So the sergeant had us push forward all morning, still covered in blood and milk, looking like we had just escaped a horror show. Around noon we found an abandoned church and adopted it as our new outpost. The pipe organ was still intact and everyone tried to play a few notes, which sent the serg’ into a fury and also probably caused the shit we’re in now.
We’ve been defending our position for two long hours. The enemy arrived as silently as a troop of ghosts and they took out Sheen and McDouglas who had been stationed outside as sentinels. I didn’t like McDoug, so it’s as well, but Sheen always carried a saucisson that I wish I could’ve saved. Then the enemy opened fire on the church, probably thinking we were going to panic and run out like rabbits. We did panic but we couldn’t run, most of us having dropped our weapons and undressed to wash off the cow meat…
By the time we got our defenses up, the attacking party had almost turned the church into gruyere cheese. But Blondy managed to drag the heavy caliber up the tower and began spraying the plaza, forcing the bastards to retreat behind the trees and take a break, which they probably spent eating the saucisson. But it was a trick because one of their snippers slipped around the perimeter and took out Blondy without even giving up his location.
So now we are pretty freaked out, carefully watching what’s happening outside through little holes in the tainted glass windows, wondering why the hell we didn’t stay by the cows to eat burgers. I’ve still got blood all over me but I don’t know what part of it is mine, I was right underneath Blondy. We’ve also lost Jones, Mitchell and Lewis. The sergeant is missing an arm and still foraging through the debris looking for it; I wish he’d stop that, he’s making too much noise and giving them something to target. But then again, I can sympathize. He can’t shoot without it.
This bloody war had already cost me two fingers, which I keep lovingly in a plastic bag, despite the smell – one gets sentimental at the strangest times. I have a few extra pounds of shrapnel buried near my stomach but they have stopped hurting now, not sure if it’s a good sign or not. I don’t think they were from the grenade that left me stuck here. It must have been the exploding ammunition canister. Thank god I had just kiddingly told Jones he had a nice ass, making him stand in front of me outraged, when the grenade flew through the window. His ass was ruined, along with most of his body, but he saved mine.
But now, as the others are about to hit us hard again, I really wish I could drag myself to the more protected east corner, behind the choir’s bench. I could sweep the entrance with one long blast, making them regret their decision to enter – and they will, and they’ll have to step over a pair of amputated legs. As it stands, I’ll be right in their path and the first to go, which is as well because I wouldn’t want to finish the war without my legs any way.