The American Dream

The American Dream

All the men were excited, ambitious to serve their nation. At least it seemed that way, I had gazed at the bazillion golden grains that spread across the beachfront and the lemons that twirled their teeny ballerina boats apart the battlefields, merely I was envious, however; I’d rather be crushed by a tank, lacerated by barbed wire, hammered by the dense & blistering bullets of a plane, shredded by the razor-sharp shrapnel of a grenade or slaughtered by a slant. The truck had rattled, coming to a sudden stop, suddenly I had felt anxious, as if a rattlesnake had strangled my virtuous heart diminishing any thoughts of survival whatsoever. Am I no better than the men that remained within the comfort of their homes?

I had risen from the hard leather seat and stepped out of the raggedy truck. I swung my Lee-Enfield over my shoulder seizing its beauty within the grasp of my palm, an object which possessed no life but could impeccably take it. We had cautiously marched through the empty plains of Okinawa, sight as precise as a hawk for hours oblivious of what awaits beyond the subtle fauna. The stretch appeared silent except for the constant breathing of that lanky bugger tailing the Battalion and the short beetlebrain who’d constantly babble about politics & how Marlene Dietrich is the most attractive specimen in all of U.S.A

A thunderous echo had filled the murky sky, amusingly that lanky bugger almost crapped his trousers. “Get down!”, I laid vulnerably breathing heavily against the barrel of my rifle, fingers desperately wrapped around it’s frame, itching to sling it's trigger. I had questionably turned towards Sergeant Michael, his fingers crossed, “Oh Lord, grant me life after death, Amen”.

As I cautiously stood, a roaring blow tarnished the silence of Okinawa, painlessly piercing through the fine blankets of skin that had once cushioned Michael’s skull. I scuttled to the nearest trench, leaping within its narrow pillars. I nestled against the pillar, glancing across the field of slashed sandbags and the muddled barbed wire. I mounted the Lee Enfield; shoulder against its wooden stock doused in the finest lacquer, a hunter staring at his prey through his tunnel of demise, thirsty for the claggy blood that gushed from his neck.

“Joseph, take cover!”, I turned & tumbled over a hefty chunk of timber. I laid incompetently with my sight fixed at a Mk 2 Grenade, while the tips of my fingers ploughed the griddle surface of the foul soil and the vivid blood that had once pranced throughout my veins had instantly perished. The numbers; 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, had endlessly repeated itself & the oxygen within my lungs had vanished, while my eyelids had seemed heavier & heavier before completely shutting.

An exhausted blast rippled the soil & nudged my shoulders. “HAHA, this better be Heaven!”, I gradually raised my eyelids… to the streams of blood & to the organs scattered throughout the trench. “This isn’t Heaven, this is Hell”.

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