Intro to a larger piece still to come

There is an old house in Iraq. It sits amidst the rubble from a bombing. The house is not empty as one would think, instead it stands as shelter for a platoon of US marines caught in the middle of a fire fight.  Bullets are flying from every direction. They are hitting the old stone and ricocheting all around.  A young marine is in fear for his platoon.  He sees the dust flying and the building crumbling with each gun shot.  His heart is pounding, the gun shots are deafening in his ears. He can hear his soldiers being hit and see the blood from their lifeless bodies staining the broken walls.  His mind is racing trying to get a step ahead of the enemy. He tries to move but the sand gives way under his feet. It sticks to his body using sweat and blood as the glue. 

His body and soul have been worn and broken from his service to his country.  He thinks of his young wife and daughter back home and the daughter still in her mommy’s tummy.  The thought of them gives him strength, determination. He will not go quietly. He sees that he is the only soldier left, the others have all fought their last. He shakily rises to his feet. He checks his weapon and notes there is only a single round left. He takes a few deep breaths and says a quick prayer. He prays for his family, prays for his soul. He knows there is only one way to keep from becoming a prisoner. He was trained to always leave that one last round for himself if he is ever in such a situation. He takes a picture of his family from his breast pocket and says a silent goodbye.

He chances a glance out the window and all he can see is the lights from the Iraqi guard’s guns. He notices their black uniforms in between flashes.  He hears them calling for him to come out and drop his weapon. He knows that his gun will not leave his hand until his heart stops beating.  He steals his nerves and opens the door. He raises his gun to his head. He was determined they would not take him prisoner.  He heard an order being given to shoot the weapon out of his hands. He smiled inwardly to himself. He was a US Marine, he would never drop his weapon.  He started walking forward. He felt the shots. With each one he knew his time had come. He had held out long enough for his men. He had fought valiantly and showed them their respect had not been misplaced.  He started counting each time he was hit. One. Two. Three. Its going to take more than that. He thought. Four. Five. Six. He started getting weak, but held his grip firm.  He said his final goodbye as he felt himself growing weak. Seven. Eight. Nine…

A shot rang out in a small town in East Tennessee. It was the tenth within the last five minutes. That morning’s newspaper headline read:

“Marine killed by police had PTSD”