Ten More Minutes

The machine gun nest erupted in a spray of dirt and metal fragments. Martinez rolled left, pressing himself against the muddy creek bank as shrapnel whistled overhead.

"Johnson! Cover me!" he shouted, breaking from cover to drag Williams back behind the embankment. Blood seeped through Williams' jacket, dark against the olive drab.

"I'm hit bad, Sarge," Williams gasped, his face pale as creek water. "Real bad."

Martinez pressed his hands against the wound, feeling the warm blood between his fingers. "You're gonna be fine, soldier. We're all going home."

The gunfire tapered off as the sun began to sink behind the treeline. In the sudden quiet, Martinez could hear water trickling over stones, the distant call of a cardinal somewhere in the woods beyond the battlefield.

Johnson slumped against a fallen log, exhaustion finally showing in his shoulders. "Darn firefight," he muttered, then looked up at Martinez. "Sorry, Sarge. Told my boy I wouldn't use language like that anymore. Trying to set a better example." Johnson's voice grew softer. "Kid's stronger than I ever imagined, though. Last time we talked, he told me he found his momma crying one night. You know what he said to her? 'Momma, don't cry. If something happens to Papa, I'll take care of you. He told me before he left, I'm the man of the house for now. But only until he comes back.'"

Martinez felt his throat tighten. "Ten years old and already carrying that weight."

"Makes me want to be the kind of man who deserves that faith," Johnson said quietly.

Martinez nodded, understanding completely. Then something glinted in the mud near his boot. He reached down and picked it up, turning it over in his palm. "Oh, look, I found a bottle cap."

Johnson raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. They'd all seen stranger things in war zones.

Williams had gone quiet, his breathing shallow but steady. Martinez kept pressure on the wound while scanning the opposite bank for movement. The enemy had pulled back, but they'd be regrouping soon enough.

"How long have you been deployed now, Martinez?" Johnson asked, cleaning his rifle with practiced movements.

"Eight months," Martinez replied, not taking his eyes off the treeline. "My son's probably grown three inches since I left. He's at that age where kids just shoot up like weeds."

"Mine too. Ten years old and already asking about joining up when he's older." Johnson's voice carried a mixture of pride and worry. "Part of me wants to tell him stories about the family tradition - his grandfather served in Vietnam, great-grandfather in Korea. But the other part..." He gestured at Williams, at the blood-soaked ground around them.

"The other part wants to keep him far away from all this," Martinez finished.

"Exactly." Johnson opened a can of field rations, the metal lid catching the fading light. "My son loves beans. Kid could eat them cold, straight from the can. Drives his mother crazy when she finds empty cans in his room."

Martinez smiled despite everything. "Kids and their weird habits. Mine collects rocks. Not special rocks, just... rocks. Has a whole shoebox full of them under his bed."

The conversation was interrupted by the distant rumble of approaching vehicles. Both men tensed, weapons ready, but the sounds faded without materializing into a threat.

"You know what the hardest part is?" Johnson said after a long moment. "The not knowing. My brother was deployed here last year. Different unit, but same general area." His voice grew quieter. "I lost him same way Williams got hit. Sniper fire during what was supposed to be a routine patrol."

Martinez looked at his friend with new understanding. "I'm sorry, man. I didn't know."

"Haven't even told my son yet. How do you explain to a ten-year-old that his uncle - his hero uncle who taught him to throw a baseball and tie his shoes - isn't coming home?" Johnson's hands had stopped moving on his rifle. "The kid was so excited when I got deployed. Thought we'd be serving together, like in the movies."

"Kids don't understand that war isn't like the movies," Martinez said gently.

"No, they don't. But maybe that's a blessing." Johnson resumed cleaning his weapon. "When I do make it home - and I will make it home - I want to be the kind of father my son deserves. Someone who can teach him about honor and service without..." He gestured at the carnage around them.

Williams stirred, his eyes fluttering open. "Sarge? Am I gonna see my family again?"

"Absolutely, soldier," Martinez said with more confidence than he felt. "Medics are on their way. You just hold tight."

"My little girl's birthday is next week," Williams whispered. "Promised I'd call her. She's turning six. Wants a purple bicycle with streamers on the handlebars."

"You'll get her that bicycle," Johnson said firmly. "And you'll teach her to ride it."

Williams managed a weak smile before closing his eyes again.

The three men settled into watchful silence as darkness crept across the battlefield. Martinez found himself thinking about home, promises made and kept, and the weight of legacy passed from father to son like a baton in an endless relay race.

"My grandfather used to tell me stories," he said eventually. "World War Two. He'd sit on the front porch after dinner and talk about his unit, about the friends he made and lost. I never understood why he looked so sad when he talked about the ones who didn't make it home."

"And now you do," Johnson said.

"Now I do." Martinez shifted his position, keeping watch. "But you know what else he used to say? That every generation hopes their children won't have to carry the same burdens, but if they do, they hope they've taught them how to carry them with honor."

"Think we're teaching our kids that?"

"I hope so. I pray so." Martinez looked down at the bottle cap still clutched in his hand. "My son's probably wondering where I am right now. If I'm safe. If I'm thinking about him."

"Are you? Thinking about him?"

"Every minute of every day. When I close my eyes, I see his face. When I eat these terrible rations, I think about how he'd probably love them - kid has no taste buds, eats everything with ketchup." Martinez laughed softly. "When I'm scared, really scared, I think about getting home to him. About teaching him to fish in that creek behind our house. About being there for his first day of high school, his graduation, his wedding."

"The creek behind your house," Johnson repeated. "That sounds peaceful."

"It is. Or was, before I left. Clear water, rocks perfect for skipping, trees that lean over the banks like they're trying to see their reflection." Martinez's voice grew wistful. "He loves playing down there. Always comes home with his pockets full of treasures - rocks, bottle caps, whatever catches his eye."

"Sounds like a good place to be a kid."

"The best." Martinez paused, listening to a sound that might have been wind through the trees or might have been something more dangerous. False alarm. "Sometimes I wonder what he's doing right now. If he's playing by the creek, pretending to be soldiers like his dad and uncle."

Johnson winced at the mention of his brother. "Kids always want to be like their heroes."

"Problem is, we're not really heroes out here. We're just trying to survive, trying to make it home to the people who need us." Martinez looked at his friend. "Your son doesn't need a hero. He needs his father."

"Same with yours."

They fell silent again, each lost in thoughts of home and family and promises that felt sacred and fragile in the gathering darkness.

Williams stirred again, muttering something about purple bicycles and birthday parties. His fever was getting worse.

"Where are those medics?" Johnson asked, scanning the darkness behind them.

"They'll be here," Martinez said, though worry gnawed at him. "They have to be."

The night stretched on, filled with small sounds and large fears. Martinez found himself making bargains with whatever gods might be listening: Let us all get home. Let Williams see his daughter's birthday. Let Johnson figure out how to tell his son about his uncle. Let me teach my boy to fish in that peaceful creek where bottle caps shine like treasure in the mud, and war is just a game that ends when someone calls you in for dinner.

The stars appeared one by one overhead, the same stars that shone over his son's bedroom window back home. Martinez allowed himself to imagine the boy sleeping peacefully, dreaming of adventures and heroes, secure in the knowledge that his father would come home because fathers always did, because that's how stories were supposed to end.

Somewhere in the distance, an owl called through the darkness, its voice carrying across the water like a lullaby.

"Martinez," Johnson said quietly. "Promise me something."

"What?"

"If something happens to me, if I don't make it back... tell my son about his uncle. Help him understand that some people are worth fighting for, worth dying for. But also tell him that the best way to honor that sacrifice is to live a good life, to be kind, to choose peace when he can."

"Nothing's going to happen to you," Martinez said firmly. "You're going home to your son. We all are."

"But if it does—"

"It won't." Martinez's voice carried the weight of absolute conviction. "Because I promised my son I'd come home, and I keep my promises. And you're coming with me because your son needs his father, and because someone has to help me explain to a ten-year-old why war isn't really like the games he plays by the creek."

Johnson smiled, the first genuine smile Martinez had seen from him in weeks. "Deal."

The sound of helicopter rotors cut through the night air, growing louder as the medics finally arrived. Martinez felt some of the tension leave his shoulders as he prepared to help load Williams onto the stretcher.

"Hey, Martinez," Johnson said as they watched the medic team work. "That creek behind your house? It sounds like exactly the kind of place where a kid could have the best adventures."

"It is," Martinez agreed, thinking of clear water and smooth stones and a boy with pockets full of treasures. "It really is."

"Dinner time! Come inside!"

The voice cut through the evening air like a blade through silk, shattering the battlefield into fragments of imagination and creek-bed reality.

The boy looked up from where he knelt in the mud by the water's edge, three small plastic soldiers clutched in his dirt-streaked hands. The elaborate battle scene he'd constructed from sticks and stones and fallen leaves suddenly looked very small, very quiet.

"Can I have ten more minutes, Mom?" he called back toward the house, not moving from his position. "Please?"

A pause. Then: "Ten minutes. But hurry up - I don't want your beans to get cold."

"Thanks!"

The boy turned back to his soldiers, carefully positioning them behind their creek rocks and bottle caps fortifications. He picked up the one with the tiny plastic rifle, the one who represented his dad doing a tour with the Army, Corporal J. Martinez, and made him scan the opposite bank for enemies.

"Don't worry, Williams," he whispered to the figure lying on its side in the mud. "The medics are coming. You're gonna see your little girl again."

He moved Johnson closer to Martinez, their plastic faces frozen in expressions of determined courage.

"You know what, Martinez?" he said in Johnson's voice. "That creek behind your house sounds like exactly the kind of place where a kid could have the best adventures."

The boy smiled, water trickling over his hands as he played in the gentle current. Around him, the evening settled into peaceful quiet - no gunfire, no explosions, just the soft sound of water over stones and the distant call of his mother preparing dinner in the warm, lit kitchen.

He had ten more minutes before the war had to end.

Ten more minutes to spend with his dad.