[IF-2] Scars of War

#1
Three snippets about the past of a character in a story I'm writing. It follows the transformation of a man from frightened boy with a gun, to ruthless killer, to leader of men.

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ôZakrai, listen to me. It is a simple operation. You raise the rifle up, align the rear aperture with the front post and pull the trigger. It can be used effectively against a man sized target out to four hundred meters and is useful up to eight hundred meters for area fire. As you should know, you work the bolt to eject the spent round and chamber the next round,ö said a big man dressed in fatigue pants and a desert camouflage smock to a young boy holding a rifle nearly as tall as he was. The boy was similarly dressed in fatigues and a camo smock. Around them in the camp were the other mercenaries of the group. They were lying around fires gambling, drinking, eating, sleeping, and cleaning weapons.

ôColonel Heut, what's it like to kill a man?ö asked the boy, slinging the rifle over his shoulder as the two walked around the camp.

ôWith a gun, it's a pretty quick business. You just pull the trigger, maybe see a spray of blood from the other guy, and fire again if they're still alive. It's a lot different with a bayonet, knife or other close quarters weapon. You have to get the feeling of fear when the other guy is up in your face and get in their face and hit him as hard as you can as fast as you can until he dies. You're likely to get some blood on you in hand to hand. With a grenade, you throw it in their direction and get your ass behind cover. You don't normally stick around to watch the effects. It really messes a person up,ö replied Heut.

ôYeah, but you killed your first man at one time. What do you feel when you did that? Since I know that I'm going to kill someone as a mercenary, I want to know what it's like,ö replied the young Zakrai.

ôWell for me, I killed my first man around your age after joining some mercenaries since raiders had destroyed my home. He was a raider fleeing us. I picked up my rifle and lined up the sights in between the man's broad shoulders. The gun bucked in my hands, but I saw some blood spray out as I shot him. I was pretty happy that I'd hit him. The raiders left him behind and we all ended up gathering around him. He wasn't quite dead. He really couldn't do anything. We weren't taking any prisoners. The other guys cheered me on as I affixed the bayonet and stabbed him again and again, even after he stopped moving. I couldn't help but feel disgusted with myself as I stood over his corpse. Of course, it gets easier. Anyone who believes otherwise is a deluded fool. It's a good thing it gets easier.ö

ôThanks Colonel,ö said the boy as he hopped into a foxhole to take watch.

ôDon't mention it, Zakrai.ö returned the mercenary commander.

Zakrai waited in the foxhole scanning the flat horizon of the desert in front of him. This was a rockier area rather than the dune seas where resources were scarce and wars broke out often over what was available. He took a sip from his canteen and ate a some of his hardtack. He grew tired out in the foxhole and as night came, he pulled his jacket out from his rucksack for the cold desert night. He looked out through a pair of binoculars. Zakrai spotted a blur of motion.

ôI see something out there!ö shouted Zakrai to alert the camp.

Within moments, many other soldiers were ready and waiting at the edges of the camp. Another sentry looked to confirm. He could see the silhouette of an armed truck. Several other came up over the horizon. Tank hunter teams brought up their recoilless rifles. One of the recoilless rifles a warning shot that exploded near one of the vehicles. They armored vehicles drew near.

The mortar teams fired several flares up into the air to illuminate the battlefield, not that there was much to illuminate over the flat expanses. Heavy machine gun fire began to rake their positions, kicking up dirt. Zakrai couldn't help but be scared when one of the large caliber bullets ripped off the arm of a guy near him. He grasped his rifle with white knuckle terror.

A recoilless rifle fired, sending out a shot that blew one of the technicals sky high, scattering metal, burning fuel, and men across the ground. Men hopped out of the technicals to start advancing as their transports circled around. Tank busters wrecked a few more, but the approaching enemy footsoldiers were drawing near. They fired their guns into the air and in the general direction of the mercenary camp.

Somebody yelled, ôFire at will!ö and Zakrai cautiously exposed himself from his foxhole to point his rifle to the far enemies. He could pick out individual men at this distance. The attackers were already falling under the ripping fire of automatic rifles. He lined up his shot and pulled the trigger. His heart was pounding as the rifle roared. After a short delay, the man dropped.

ôThis isn't so bad,ö thought Zakrai as he chambered the next round. The weight of the gun was starting to be more comfortable than awkward and the volleying guns around him made him feel no fear or hesitation. He added his own rifle to the roar of the guns.

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A few years passed and Zakrai was a little older and a little wiser. He had grown so that the rifle was much less awkward in his hands. He was now a platoon leader and had been issued a pistol as a result. They had been hired by a village for protection. Bandits had been raiding the town and kidnapping people, especially girls. Young girls fetched a good price at the slave markets. In front of him were several captured bandits. The barrels and bayonets of his men's weapons surrounded them. They were worth nothing now, having been interrogated into giving up every bit of intel they knew.

ôThey said we were going to be set free,ö pleaded one bandit.

ôWe lied. Scum like you don't deserve to live. We also don't need to be honest with them,ö said Zakrai coldly as he chambered a round into his pistol.

ôCome on man. I've got kids out there. Think of what it'll be like if their dad dies,ö pleaded another.

ôTough shit. You should have thought of that before you decided to go out raiding villages,ö answered Zakrai as he pointed the barrel at one of the bound bandits.

ôDon't kill me,ö whimpered the bandit facing imminent death. He began to sob and snot came out of his nose. Zakrai pulled the trigger. Blood and brains sprayed out from the back of the dead bandit's skull into the uncaring sands.

ôBe thankful, gentlemen. This is quick and painless. I could have ordered my men to bayonet you to death. I was ordered to dispose of you, and I'm doing it myself. Sometimes leaders need to get their hands dirty,ö said Zakrai as he methodically blew out the brains of each and every bandit as they begged for their life.

ôFucking hardcore, Lieutenant,ö commented Ricky, his platoon sergeant as the platoon looked with disinterest at the bodies of the men Zakrai had executed.

ôThanks, Ricky. I'm thinking of growing a beard. What style do you think would look good?ö asked Zakrai casually as he holstered the smoking pistol.

ôI don't think a mustache would look good or full beard would look good on you. I think a chinstrap would look good, though,ö answered the platoon sergeant honestly.

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Another few years had passed and Zakrai was now the commander of the battalion of mercenaries he had been with since he was a child. Colonel Heut had died a little bit before and of the company commanders, he had been elected by popular vote. They had acquired a few twelve centimeter howitzers to bolster their eighty-five millimeter mortars.

He observed the smoking lines of battle. The enemies had him encircled in the town of Saribass. It was resource rich, especially in water. They wanted the resources and the mostly unprepared town had hired him and his men. One of their higher ups was quite the pacifist and held quite a bit of clout which was why they were so unprepared. On the account of her clout, they had few weapons and barely any training. His men had dug in, making foxholes, trenches and bunkers around the town. Enemies were already approaching.

ôIt's been said that if you want peace, prepare for war. I don't think you understood this reality, ma'am,ö commented Zakrai to the middle aged woman who had been opposed to the fighting.

ôPossibly. I still believe that this situation could have been resolved peacefully,ö responded the woman.

ôPossibly. Sometimes, people want something and don't care if they have to kill others to get it. That is the root of war. I should know it better than anyone. I'm paid to kill and have been for a while.ö

ôA life of thriving on war doesn't exactly lend itself to an impartial judgment of war.ö

ôA life of enjoying peace doesn't lend itself to an impartial judgment of war either.ö

ôI suppose. Do you think we can make it?ö

ôPossibly. I don't think they have the amount of artillery that I do. Still, it's my battalion against the forces of several other villages and whatever mercenaries they may employ. Look ma'am, we'll fight it out to the bitter end.ö

ôWe should seek peace. War simply burn through men and material like nothing else.ö

ôWar is quite profitable. Every good soldier finds a way to just chill so they don't get burnt out.ö

ôIt doesn't sound like a good life. What if you were to settle down here? That way we can have some sort of standing army and you don't have to kill for money all the time.ö

ôI barely remember a time when I wasn't at war. Maybe before most of my village was killed and I joined the mercenaries that I now command. I've been at war since before I hit puberty. I really don't know what it's like to not be at war.ö

ôI would be willing to show you the peaceful life. It's nice around here. You should stay and learn to live without killing.ö

ôI'll take you up on that. First, we've got to grind those fuckers into the ground so they are no longer a threat.ö

ôI agree. Let's get this nasty business finished.ö

Zakrai left and began to walk over to his command center. It was time for what he did best, killing. The battle had already begun. His guns were already thundering, hurling explosive death to the front lines. He was in his element, and this time he was fighting for something more than just cash.
 
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