G.I. Joe

G.I. JOE

He was the only one left alive. The rest of his platoon were killed. Their bodies strewn throughout the building. It was an all-night battle. The fight took its toll on both sides. Since the enemy was on the offensive, they lost more men. Unfortunately, they had more soldiers to spare than he did. There was a pause in the battle now. The enemy replanning, regrouping, reloading. They also had time to spare.

The radio was out. A .50 caliber round had punched a hole right through both the radioman and his equipment. There was now no way for him to contact Command HQ. He was also low on ammunition. Just a few mags for his M-16 rifle. Two grenades, one fragmentation and the other smoke. A Beretta with one full clip. And a M9 bayonet. As he struggled to stand, he could feel the impressions of the enemy rounds that would have killed him if he hadn’t been wearing his Kevlar vest. He was exhausted and thirsty. So very thirsty. He checked the canteens of his dead brothers-in-arms. Finding one half-full, he emptied it in a few gulps. He found another canteen, almost full. This he would save for later... if he survived. And that’s a question he asked himself, “Would he survive?”

The enemy would continue their attack at any moment. He had to make his last stand. If he could just survive until morning, there might be a chance that reinforcements would arrive. Picking a spot with his back against a wall, he dragged the corpses of his fellow soldiers and stacked them to create a barricade

around himself. With their bodies covered in body armor and equipment, he could continue to fight and take cover when the bullets flew. Feeling only a tinge of guilt for using their bodies in this way, he reasoned that this was now a fight for survival. And, in a way, they were still in the fight, even though dead.

He rummaged through their bodies for extra rounds, food, and first aid kits. As he was doing this, he felt something both strange yet familiar in one of the pockets. He pulled it out. In the half-light, he could make out that it was a toy, or more specifically, an action figure. It was G.I. Joe.

Sitting back, he situated himself behind the human barricade. He had done all he could. Now was the time to wait and rest and think. He knew his situation was hopeless. Outmanned and outgunned, the only thing he could do was delay as far as possible the inevitable. They would come for him. They not only wanted the building but they wanted him dead. They wanted all the American soldiers dead.

He also had time to feel... unfortunately. It was an amalgam of emotions consisting of despair, dread, fear, guilt, and intense sorrow. It was the sadness that caught him off-guard. He would have thought fear or despair would be the most paramount but it wasn’t. In the dead of night, breathing in the hot and humid air, he was surrounded by both his friends, all dead, and his enemies, all biding their time. If he didn’t survive, he would die alone. It was sad, and in a way, he was grateful. Sadness was much preferred than the horror awaiting him.

He looked into the faces of his dead compatriots. Some with their eyes and mouths wide open as though shocked at their own deaths. Others had both their eyes and mouths closed. They looked peaceful. It was the few he looked away

from with mangled faces, open skulls, and protruding eyeballs with blood like tears dripping down onto the dirt floor. He felt the guilt profoundly. Survivor’s guilt. Some of these were good soldiers, better than him. Some had families unlike himself. Some pursued and lived out a moral and spiritual life. A blessing to those around them. He always knew right and wrong, even in the most complex situations. His struggle was that he usually chose the wrong. He was no blessing to anyone. He always thought and felt himself to be a curse. An affliction. A burden to others. Hence, the survivor’s guilt was strong.

He opened his hand and looked at the small G.I. Joe. A cascade of boyhood memories flooded his mind. He remembered collecting all the G.I. Joe action figures, both soldiers and enemies. These toys were conduits to his imaginary world. A world he constantly escaped to. Growing up in an environment of abuse, both physical and sexual, he had no literal escape. So, he escaped inside his mind. Inside his world where he had control. Where, in his imaginary world, the good guys won. And when he got older, he wanted to be like one of these good guys. To be one of these soldiers. To become G.I. Joe. And the day came, when he met with an Army recruiter on the campus of his school and signed up at the age of 17. Like G.I. Joe, he wanted to win.

He tried staying awake. The constant adrenaline dumps he experienced during the previous attacks now took its toll on him. He felt both incredible fatigue and sleepiness. Little by little, his eyes slowly closed. The darkness and quietness certainly didn’t help. His last thought before falling asleep was a small

hope that the enemy had given up. That they had actually left. Unfortunately, he would find out... they had not.

It was the whispering that woke him. He had thought if they tried getting in, it would be loud with guns blazing. But no, they were quiet this time. Very quiet. The whispers were barely audible. Luckily, he had always been a light sleeper. All he could see were moving shadows in the darkness. Their rifles were drawn, at the ready. One pulled out a red-lensed flashlight and scanned the immediate area. The red light hovered over rubble, spent rounds, and bodies. It was moving in his direction. Once the red light reached him, they would know the stacked bodies was a barricade and that someone was still alive.

He slowly raised his rifle and positioned it over the body of his platoon leader. The rifle had a full mag with a round in the chamber but the selector switch was on safe. It was so quiet that he knew they would hear him if he turned the switch from safe to full-auto. He had to wait until they were all ducks in a row. As he waited, the red light was drawing closer to him. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. His breathe hastening. Sweat forming on the palms of his hands. The strong urge to defecate. The red light reached the barricade. The ducks were now in a row. He quickly switched to full-auto and all hell broke loose.

It was a clean sweep at mid-chest level but he couldn’t tell how many he hit. He heard shouting. A command in their native tongue was given. Then a hail of firepower was unleashed in his direction. Taking cover behind the barricade, he could feel the impact of the bullets as they penetrated the bodies of his friends. One body fell on top of him.

It was all rifle fire. It was nonstop but the barricade would hold. Then he heard what he wished he didn’t hear. The sound of several safety levers being released from hand grenades. Four were thrown in his direction. Two hit the front of the barricade. One hit the wall behind him, bouncing to the side, away from him. And one landed right beside him.

He grabbed the body that fell on him and rolled it over the grenade with him on top. The explosion pushed him into the air as the armored corpse bore the brunt of the blast. The other grenades exploded. Shrapnel raked his body in several directions. He slammed against the wall behind him.

All he could do was lay there and wait for their next charge. The impact from the grenade explosions alone did a number to his internal organs. Though his helmet and vest took the brunt of the shrapnel, a few shards embedded themselves into his arms and legs. He was wounded and he could feel all of it. Every bit of it. Which meant that he depleted all the adrenaline his body could produce. Adrenaline that can not only provides bursts of energy and strength but also a temporary numbness to the pain. He had no energy left and felt pain all across his body acutely.

Blood ran down his nose. There was wetness inside his pant legs. Either it too was blood - which would not be good – or urine or diarrhea. He was relieved when he smelled the foul stench. He had to take everything off. The Kevlar helmet, the armored vest, and the web gear. Everything was in shreds but it still so heavy. He needed every bit of energy he could muster to fight and move now.

Surprisingly, a quarter of the barricade was still up. He struggled to crawl toward it to find his rifle. He hid behind the small mound of flesh searching frantically for his rifle. He found it... in pieces. He now only had the Beretta, smoke grenade, and bayonet left. He tore fabric off one of the bodies and secured it around his nose and mouth.

This time they came in loud with guns blazing. They were yelling, screaming with rage. An all-night battle with heavy losses on both sides. Yet, the stupid Americans wouldn’t die. The enemy came in with pure determination like berserkers, not caring to take cover this time. They came to finish this. And all he could do... was pop smoke.

He could never play G.I. Joe with the other kids. Conducting missions, picking out the right vehicles, weapons, and equipment, creating elaborate fight scenes, and the blood, so much imaginary blood, it was just too violent and complex. The Joes were always outnumbered. They fought to the last man. Every mission was like this. In the desert, in the Artic, in the mountains, in the jungle, in the city. It didn’t matter. He always created these dire situations where all hope was lost. It was only the G.I. Joe who never gave up and fought to the end that saved the day. Even in school, he would replay those scenes over and over again in his head. He got in trouble plenty of times for daydreaming. His teachers thought he had a real problem.

This was it. He would enter the smoke and try to kill as many as he could. Win or lose, it was the end for him. And he was tired. So very tired. Just like the charging enemy, he too wanted all of this to end. If this meant death, theirs or

his, so be it. This was not suicidal thinking. He just realized he simply wouldn’t mind dying.

He rushed into the heavy smoke with his pistol drawn. Though he couldn’t see a thing, he certainly felt the enemy as he crashed into them. He immediately started firing. The beauty of being the last man standing was that there could be no friendly fire on his part. Every moving body was a target. He fired and fired until his pistol was empty. The enemy also fired missing him and taking out one of their own. He caught the muzzle flash in the fading smoke and rushed him.

He had to assume the enemy was armored up. That left him with only a few options as to where he could inflict damage or a killing blow. As he parried the enemy’s rifle to the side, he rammed the bayonet into his opponent’s neck and pulled out. He felt a spurt of hot blood hit his face and eyes, temporarily blinding him. Some of it got into his mouth causing him to heave and gag. The dying enemy soldier also held on to him refusing to let go. He tried to pry the enemy’s hands off him but he wouldn’t let go.

Through the blood and smoke, he caught sight of another enemy soldier aiming his rifle at him... and firing. He immediately turned using the dying enemy’s body for cover. The impact of several 7.62 rounds perforated the enemy’s corpse but it wasn’t enough. He felt one round hit his shoulder, another grazing the side of his head. He fell backward, hitting the back of his head. He was losing consciousness now.

He looked up as the enemy soldier stood over him, reloading his weapon. The enemy was talking to him. Cursing and yelling at him. But he couldn’t make

out what he was saying. He turned his head and looked out a window. The sun was coming up now. The morning light entered in, close to his face. As he heard the round enter the chamber, he closed his eyes. Past the soot, grit, dirt, and dried blood, a tear ran down the side of his face.

He heard several shots fired but felt nothing. Struggling to open his eyes, he saw no one. No one was standing over him. As he was losing consciousness, he turned his head to the side. He saw boots approaching him. American boots. Like G.I. Joe, he had won.

THE END