The War After Armageddon

“My legs. I can’t find my legs. Where are my legs?”

Garcia felt down the torso, trying to figure out the body’s posture in the shadows. There was blood. Plenty of it. Sticky. Something stank. But he could feel both the lieutenant’s legs still joined to the hip.

Warily, he felt down the limbs. Feeling uphill, with the lieutenant’s head pointed down into the draw.

Both legs were perfectly intact. Right down to the combat boots. The bones didn’t even feel broken.

“Mama, don’t you let them take my legs,” the lieutenant moaned. “Tell them they can’t take my legs.”

“Your legs are just fine, Lieutenant. Your legs are fine. I checked them out.”

“I can’t find my legs. Who’re you? Where’s my mama?”

“She had to go out for a minute. She’ll be back. Don’t move, sir.”

Garcia felt along the body. It wasn’t the lieutenant’s legs that were missing. It was his arms. The machine-gun rounds had caught him perfectly at the shoulders, tearing away both of his arms.

Hands covered in blood, Garcia didn’t know what to do. There was so much blood, he was slipping in it. The brush, the dirt, everything streamed with blood.

“Tell my mama… I need to tell her something… please…”

“Yes, sir. I’ll tell her.”

There was no way tourniquets were going to help. There was nothing to tie them around. For a moment, Garcia listened to the firefight above him on the trail. That was where he belonged, he knew. But he couldn’t leave this man he didn’t like. Who was bleeding to death. Who should’ve bled to death already. The wounds were catastrophic, with half of each shoulder torn away.

His fellow Marine.

“I can’t find my legs nowhere, Mama…”

” “Hush up, sir. Please. Just be quiet. It’s all right.”

Revolted by what he found himself doing, Garcia eased down beside the lieutenant’s torso and lifted the man’s head into his lap. Blood spurted onto him like a hose filled with hot piss.

“My mama, she… she…”

“Yes, sir. She’s here now. She’s listening. She’s come to help you.”

“Mama… I tried to do right. I tried to do right, Mama. I tried to do right…”

“You did right. Everything’s all right now, sir. You’re going to be just fine.”

“Mama, I’ll do anything you say… please…”

“She just wants you to be quiet now. Just rest, now. Your legs are fine. Everything’s going to be fine.”

“I don’t feel right.” Suddenly, the lieutenant’s eyes widened. They looked perfectly clear in the light of the tracers and stars. “Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir. It’s me. Sergeant Garcia.”

“It was my fault.”

“Sir, anybody—”

“It was my fault. I take full responsibility. I — am I bleeding?”

“You’re going to be fine, sir. Just take it easy.”

“You’re lying,” he said. “You can be court-martialed for lying to a superior.” And he died.

Garcia said the quickest prayer of his life, then clawed his way back up to the trail. Hoping his return trip wouldn’t collect any mines he’d missed on the way down.

He felt as though he’d been swimming in lukewarm soup. His wet uniform collected dust. Making mud-puppy fudge all over him.

“Corporal Gallotti?”

“Here, Sergeant.”

“Go up the line. Pass the word. As soon as Cropsey and Larsen open up from the flank, we’re going straight up that hill. Tell everybody to stay low but keep going. Tell them to keep their fires concentrated on the machine-gun position. Anything to the left is blue. Got that?”

“Yes, sergeant.”

“Go.”

Gallotti scuttled off. Garcia tried to dry his hands and his weapon so the slime wouldn’t screw him up. But the lieutenant’s blood had already gone sticky.

How long had the business been going on? Ten minutes? Garcia couldn’t judge. More like fifteen, he decided. He just hoped Cropsey had taken his time and worked well to the Jihadis’ rear. Larsen would do what Crospey said, Garcia knew.

A grenade exploded up the hillside, followed by another.

“Let’s go!” Garcia screamed. “Stay low. Let’s go, Marines!”

He scrambled up the steep slope, thighs burning, the muscles long tormented. A stream of tracers flirted above his head. But there was no more machine-gun fire.

Voices began to shout on the high ground. In Mussie-talk. At least two of them. The firing above them stopped.

Garcia heard Cropsey’s voice. “Stand the fuck up. Both of you.”

More Mussie-babble.

“Cease fire, cease fire,” Garcia shouted.

“I said for you to stand the fuck up.” Cropsey’s voice again. “Raise your hands. Let me see them.”

Garcia saw two shadows rise, silhouetted against the sky. Hands high. Two English-speaking hombres. Good news for the S-2.

A weapon opened up. Two bursts. The Jihadis crumpled.

“Cease fire! Goddamnit.”

Breathing heavily, Garcia stumped the last twenty meters up the slope. Legs on fire.

Cropsey stood over the J’s. He watched the shadows where they lay, as if for signs of life. Weapon poised to fire again. He didn’t seem to register Garcia’s approach.

Garcia grabbed him by the upper arm. “What the fuck?”

“I thought they had weapons.”

“Their hands were in the goddamned air. I saw it.”

“I thought they had weapons, Sergeant.”

“Christ.”

“Anyway, they killed Barrett.”

“You just shot two men who were surrendering. The S-2—”