The Alarm was not supposed to go off yet! We had been split into small units of three. Unfortunately for Security Restrictions, I cannot reveal details of our mission, the location, or even our true identities. “Slugger” was our sniper, there to protect us, so close to the munitions factory behind enemy lines. “Radar”, we named him after the M.A.S.H character, was our surveillance drone operator, capable of assimilating the precise GPS co-ordinates from the feedback data. My job (they called me “Boss”), was to observe the movement of missiles being unloaded through my night vision binoculars, and after verifying our target as non-civilian, ordering in the air strike.

We lay in the thicket bordering the target of our interest, and were close enough to hear the foreign chatter of the work crew beckoning the trucks reversing towards the warehouse entrance. Through my binoculars, I could even make out the rank of the personnel directing the operation, and I felt a surge of excitement that this had all the signs of a high profile operation.

Crouching around Radar’s screen, we analysed the data sent back from the drone hovering high above us. High enough to avoid detection, but too high to provide the same detail observed through my binoculars. At a satisfactory height to gauge the exact area, shape and co-ordinates of the building.

Radar suddenly gasped in excitement. His fingers sped over his keyboard as he converted the Lidar data into images. He whispered “There is a massive bunker secreted underneath the warehouse. We are going to need the heavy stuff”.

I made the call.

I gave the co-ordinates and stressed we needed nine minutes to remove ourselves from the location, back to the relative safety of our own bunker. I say bunker, but it was more of a burrow carved out in the copse, camouflaged from the enemy drones ever circulating above. Our “home comforts” were a bottle of alcohol, cigarettes, and praying we would still be alive the next morning. It had been our haven for the last three nights, and tomorrow we could leave all this behind and report in to receive our next mission. Slugger was due some well-earned leave. I hoped his replacement was as humorous and practical as Slugger is. The three of us made a good team together and had become buddies, swapping stories of our lives back home, and what we intended our futures to be once this soul-destroying war was over. The other two were more family orientated than myself. I was of a more senior rank and had shown skills as a leader of men. The other two were keen for the war to be over so they could get back to their loved ones. I was a single man hoping to have a long career in the military.

We hurriedly packed away our equipment, and started to head back to our burrow. Suddenly the air raid sirens began to go off, indicating that an incoming missile had been launched and detected. The alarm was not supposed to have gone off yet! We legged it, dropping our equipment in our haste, desperately trying to get out of the blast from the missile strike I had called in. We were crashing through the undergrowth, slipping and sliding in the mud underfoot. Branches tearing at our flesh in our haste to gain enough distance between us and the incoming missiles. We could hear the whine of the missiles approaching, about to find their target, even over the noise of the air sirens.

We did not make it.

The shock wave from the blast burst my eardrums and I was thrown into the mud, momentarily losing consciousness. I could feel an intense heat and realised my trousers were on fire. I could not hear myself screaming in pain as I beat the flames out with my hands. I sensed fingers of flame flickering all around me as my eyes closed, passing out once again with the pain.

The acrid smell of explosives mixed with the smell of burning flesh assaulting my senses, stirred me back into consciousness before I even reopened my eyes. The sight of Slugger’s decapitated head, his eyes staring into mine just a few inches from my face, at first fascinated me, but as my brain interpreted the grotesque images it was receiving, my fascination turned to disgust and horror.

His mouth open in a grimace of shock and pain, his eyes wide open but vacant. Blood slowly streaking down each cheek. It took several moments for me to realise the blood was not his.

The blood belonged to Radar. His body parts were strewn around the undergrowth, and I too was covered in his blood and gore.

I was more fortunate. I only lost my legs and my hearing. I spent two months recovering in the military hospital. That was three years ago, and the medics have managed to restore my hearing, albeit limited. I have prosthetic legs now and can at least still have some quality of life, but the memory of that night, the trauma and the guilt will always haunt me. Slugger’s lifeless head wearing its death mask and the strewn body parts of Radar still as real as that night I thought my own life was going to end before being found by our comrades when they lost contact with us. We were awarded medals – no doubt thought to compensate for the loss of their father for Slugger’s two young children. Radar’s young bride, married for just two months before his untimely death, probably had the same view as me. They can stick their medals, sat in their offices going home to their wives and families every evening.

Another night spent reliving my recurrent nightmare. As ever, I woke up screaming and shaking, soaked in sweat. My gaze slowly took in that I was at home, safe and sound in my own bed. Through the tears trickling down my face I could make out the glow from my alarm clock on the bedside table. It was still only five thirty. That ruddy alarm is not supposed to be going off yet.

Mervyn Sanders

@sandemer

United Kingdom

Mervyn Sanders has not written a story.