The Last Hour (Thompson Sisters) by Sheehan-Miles, Charles (reading well .txt) 📕

combination of grunts and sign language to tell them what we were doing, and then the four of us led the little legion of kids to the schoolhouse and got them inside and under cover.

As soon as the kids were under cover, we took up positions: Kowalski and Paris inside the building covering the door, and Roberts and I on either corner to provide crossfire if needed.

I radioed in. “We’re in position. All the kids accounted for.”

In the distance, I heard the pop of a rifle, then another, followed by a low-pitched burst of machine gun fire. That had to be from third squad, somewhere out along the road. The cold was settling into my bones, snow soaking into my right leg, despite the thick uniform and knee pads.

Another pop of rifle fire, this one closer. It sounded like it was just on the other side of the tree line.

“Roberts,” I called and pointed at my eyes, then to the alley that led to the trees. The alley ran right beside the girls’ school.

A hair’s breath later, all hell broke loose. Another pop from a rifle, then another, and a chunk of masonry right over my head cracked. I slid prone to the ground, extending my rifle in front of me, and aimed toward the trees. I didn’t feel the cold anymore, because my heart was thumping and my body was suddenly charged with adrenaline. Another shot hit the snow near me, burrowing a gouge and then slamming into the building to my right with a crack.

I took aim at the tree line and squeezed the trigger, firing a three round burst into the woods. The sound of the rifle set my right ear ringing as it slammed against my shoulder.

“Motherfuckers!” Kowalski screamed, directly across the street from me. He stood up in the doorway, his M249 machine gun raised at his shoulder, which was crazy, and began firing wildly directly over my head. I cringed and put my hands over my helmet, which was probably the most useless thing I’ve ever done, and then rolled over and looked behind me just in time to see an insurgent crumpling to the ground, riddled with bullets from Kowalski’s machine gun.

Everything went quiet. Was it just the one? We didn’t have any way of knowing.

“Lieutenant, spot report,” I called over the radio, too rattled at that point to use proper call signs. “Insurgent down next to the girls’ school.”

“Roger, Bandit 11. Remember your proper radio procedures. Bandit six out.”

Jesus Christ. Eggers was a cold fish. But at least he got the job done.

Half an hour later, the woods and village were clear. No more insurgents were found.

I’m moving, damn it (Ray)

“Load up, guys. I want everything ready to go in five more minutes.”

“Yeah, I’m moving, damn it,” Kowalski said. “Don’t get your panties in a wad.” He was back to his normal sour self this morning, a grim frown on his face. All the same, he threw the last of the gear on the Humvee, tightening down straps and making sure everything was ready to go.

A small crowd had gathered in front of what passed for a municipal building in Dega Payan, though it was virtually impossible to tell the difference between that building and any of the other dwellings. The kids were in the crowd, and Kowalski walked over to them and kneeled down. He made a funny face at the little girl with the ribbon and she giggled.

At the head of the crowd was the grey old man we’d seen on our first arrival in town. Jamshed, the interpreter, listened to the old man for a couple of minutes, then turned to Lieutenant Eggers.

“He says, with Taliban in the area, why are we leaving now?”

Eggers grimaced. “Tell him the Taliban is here because we are. They’ll follow us out. We have orders to leave, I’ve got no choice.”

Jamshed frowned and spoke to the old man in Tajik again. The old man didn’t wait to finish, instead erupting in angry gesticulation as he spit out a series of words.

Jamshed shook his head, answered, and then withstood another verbal assault from the old man.

I called my guys, then put my fist at shoulder height, shaking it in a left to right motion, the hand signal to get in their vehicles. Paris and Roberts turned to get in their vehicle, and I slung my rifle over my shoulder and was about to go to mine when I heard a distinctive sound, a small thump, like a rock hitting the snow.

Everything froze, as the eyes of every single soldier and civilian zeroed in on the small metal device that had landed at the feet of the girl with the ribbon in her hair. I felt sluggish, unable to move fast enough, as I shouted for the crowd to get back, and Hicks shouted, “Grenade!”

Kowalski spun, shoved the little girl hard, and she fell backward away from the grenade. Then he threw his body on it. He hadn’t even made it all the way to the ground when it went off with an unbearably loud whomp and his body was thrown five feet in the air and came down in ruined shreds.

The children screamed, and mothers did too, grabbing their children and running as fast as they could. Yelling from the squad and team leaders increased the noise as the platoon deployed, weapons at the ready. Half of them had their rifles trained on the male villagers.

Sergeant Colton screamed at Jamshed, “Who the fuck threw that grenade?” He grabbed the interpreter by the shirt, shouting directly in his face. “Who the fuck threw it?” he screamed, spittle flying from his lips into the face of the Afghani interpreter.

The men in the village were frozen in place, a dozen rifles trained on them, as our platoon instantly turned from protector to captor.

I screamed for a medic and ran forward. Kowalski lay face down, and blood poured out into the snow faster than should ever be