Lessons of war. 2,400. adult. (standard:adventure, 2429 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 19 2020	Views/Reads: 1187/864	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
An ex-sniper goes rogue and is executed.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

“Army and Navy Surplus” stores. 

Of course, when Vietnam came along -- as well as fear of the draft -- I
joined the army.  From my standpoint it was better to choose my own job 
than let the military do it for me later after being drafted.  I didn't 
mind basic training, being in good physical shape from high school 
sports.  My marksmanship was exceptional and I jumped at the chance to 
go to sniper school. 

While in training, I not only became a better and more knowledgeable
marksman, but learned useful skills such as jungle and desert survival. 
 How to live off bugs, vines, and strange tubers you can find in a 
jungle.  Also, how to trap animals -- and men.  Those skills would help 
me later in life.  In Vietnam, I learned to fend for myself.  I learned 
to kill and not only do it well but enjoy it. 

I relished the process of killing, and how easy it was.  A twitch of my
finger and a life was snuffed out.  Whether for food or pure pleasure 
made little difference.  I learned to look at people in a different 
light ... as potential targets.  As a matter of keeping my sanity, more 
as objects than sentient beings. 

It was a godlike feeling to see a face in my sights, knowing that with a
tightening of one finger they would no longer exist.  Just one shot 
would start a series of actions with their compatriots, who would fear 
for their own lives, knowing I'm out there somewhere.  In his 
companions, I would instill an abiding reluctance to cross open spaces. 
 A fear of lighting a cigarette, afraid of dropping their pants to take 
a crap.  They would fear doing anything that could catch my attention.  
I enjoyed that feeling in others, and the fear my friends showed when 
they didn't think I was looking. 

Their, the targets', families would grieve and curse me.  Actions they
would have otherwise been destined for would go undone while they 
rotted in the cold earth.  Maybe their unborn son would have grown up 
to be a famous man -- now no chance. No chance at all.  A whole chain 
of minor and possibly major events snuffed out by the twitch of a 
finger -- my finger.  It gave me an erotic feeling, maybe even better 
than sex.  Certainly as intense. 

And there was the applause from my own people.  Awards and medals up the
ass, pay raises that came with advanced rank.  The way normal grunts 
would look at me at the EM, then NCO Club.  Some with appreciation, 
many with fear.  Most of them talked about killing, some were 
proficient, but there were few in my league -- and they knew it.  They 
did their killing in a group, while I simply walked out one night with 
only one companion, a spotter.  On our own, we would kill and kill 
again.  The grunts knew, envied, and shuddered. 

A few days later, we would appear back at the wire, dirty and
disheveled; visible symbols of acts most men would never have had the 
guts to attempt, much less accomplish.  We held a special status and 
took no shit from anyone. 

That respect extended up to the Commanding General, who treated me like
a particularly dangerous pet.  I gloried in the attention, extending my 
one-year tour to four. 

But all good things must end.  At the cessation of conflict I found
myself back in the States -- feeling like a fish out of water.  My new 
company commander had never been out of the United States in his life; 
a book soldier.  Most of the troopers I came into contact with had 
never fired a shot except on the rifle range. 

The few other combat guys soon got out of the army, their contracts
terminated.  When my third enlistment came to an end, I saw no reason 
to sign another.  It was a different army.  You could only live on past 
laurels for so long, telling combat stories to people largely 
uninterested or uninteresting before it became too old.  I got out. 

*** 

There wasn't much work to be found.  All us veterans of that war had
trouble in that respect.  I think my resume, and know my hard eyes, 
scared employers.  About a minute into an interview, they would drop 
their gaze and I knew it was over; that I was wasting my time.  I had 
money saved -- little chance to spend it in Nam -- and rented a cheap 
hotel room. 

It didn't take long for rejection and alcohol to take me in hand.  Cheap
hotels and cheaper drinks became my lifestyle.  In my lucid moments I 
did a few muggings and a growing reputation for violence led to other 
minor crimes.  Hell, they came easy, easy to do and easy to get away 
with.  I liked to think that I retained a little intelligence, since I 
was careful in choosing my actions and was never caught.  I made a 
habit of always being straight and sober when working. 

I saw it as just another jungle, albeit one without greenery.  A jungle
in the truest sense; kill or be killed, be a predator or prey.  I was a 
predator, living from day to day, year to year, no conscience or love, 
my only goals being survival and pleasure.  Being myself, of course I 
carried a pistol, no sooner be without one than without a belt for my 
pants. 

Also being myself, I didn't worry too much about accumulating enemies. 
My sense of fear had been burned out long before.  I have to admit I 
haven't really felt fear since midway through my first year in Nam.  
Not that bone-numbing kind where you shake and your mind is deadened.  
I still retained common sense, in that I tried to avoid dangerous 
situations.  After all, you can only walk into danger a certain number 
of times, and all you have to do is lose once. 

Then the time came when, drunk as usual, I heard that some of the people
who didn't like me were waiting in my hotel room.  A friend told me so, 
and I had no reason not to believe the bastard.  Having my pistol with 
me -- an army issue .45 of course -- I forgot my oath to only work 
sober and drunkenly decided to do something about it. 

Sneaking up the fire-escape of the hotel, I paused outside, a flight
down from my room, to throw up from exertion and alcohol.  I remember 
thinking of how far down I had gotten to let my stomach be upset so 
easily.  I took time to urinate over the side and get my thoughts 
together before going silently up the final flight, watching for loose 
rungs or noise. 

Pausing outside my window, I edged over to peek inside.  The lights were
still off but I could see several dark shapes that didn't belong there. 
 It being a hot day, the window was open to any errant breeze.  I had 
nothing worth stealing and a certain reputation in the neighborhood, so 
I never bothered about locks or open windows.  Shit, most of my 
neighbors were burglars anyway.  A hotel lock wouldn't phase them. 

Feeling reckless and angry, I pulled my pistol and stuck my torso into
the open window.  Someone inside yelled and I saw the flash of a shot.  
Of course I fired back, taking hits myself and waking up in the 
hospital -- the police ward. 

Turns out I shot four cops, killing three.  You try to explain that they
didn't identify themselves. That they fired the first shot.  That they 
were sitting in my own apartment, as I was -- or at least my upper 
body.  Not a chance -- so here I am.  Waiting for that final needle. 

Silently, unresisting, I'm led to the table and lie down on the cool
surface.  Paper crinkles under me as I try to get comfortable.  Two 
guards slip straps onto arms and body, legs together, arms extending 
across the two table extensions -- avoiding my gaze as they do so.  I 
feel the pain of their tightening, one by one. 

For some reason, I can't resist stretching already tense muscles to test
the straps.  Damn tight.  No chance, as if I care at this point.  Hell, 
I've had a good run in life.  Screw it.  Better than dying of old age, 
one body part failing after another.  Fear?  Fuck your fear.  I did 
hope to die with boots on, guns blazing, though. 

A man in a gauze mask and white coat, not that I'd have recognized him
anyway, comes over.  His back to me, almost against my face, he fiddles 
around at the little table. I spend the time making faces at a large 
mirror. I know witnesses are sitting behind it -- screw them.  I wish I 
could give them the finger but those joints, palm down, can't bend that 
way.  My bowels try to loosen, but can't, the result of a recent enema. 
 A thick rubber band on my cock keeps me from wetting myself, as if I 
would.  This shit doesn't bother me all that much, or so I keep telling 
myself.  I've come so close to death so many fuckin' times that the 
thought evokes only curiosity about the “other” side. 

My gaze returns to the room.  As I grin at them, the warden and guards
avoid my look.  A preacher stands alone in a corner, tears in his eyes. 
 The asshole.  The man in white, as though we have to worry about 
germs, swabs my arm with cool alcohol.  Then he turns again, with a 
hypodermic in gloved hands.  I can't help tensing as I feel the cool 
needle scratching at the skin of my arm. 

Concentrating on the needle, I feel a prick as it enters my skin.  I
dimly notice the man step back, and wait, looking at me with sad but 
curious eyes. 

My arm and brain go numb, heart beating fast as though ready to tear
itself from my chest, as dimming eyes see him bringing another needle 
over and bend down, white coat covering my vision.  I can't feel the 
second, as my mind drifts, vision too. It's so damned hard to keep a 
thought, to concentr.... 

The End.


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