Post by ♠SSGT Zeke Sturm on Jan 2, 2009 13:41:21 GMT -5
[[[If you want to join, feel free to do so, this is my excuse for being gone so long.]]]
Zeke opened his eyes. He was still in the hospital ward. He'd been there for a month and a half. He sat up in bed, and pushed his sheets off himself. When the nurse came over to force him back into bed, he waved her away. He sighed, and looked down at the bandages on his torso. They had just been changed, and this was the first time they hadn't turned red when he tried to move. He was healing. He recalled what had confined him to the bed almost two months ago...
Zeke was walking down a road on the outskirts of a town somewhere, looking through the fields. He poked through various ditches, looking for any soldiers who might not have been wiped out by the original massacre. His troops followed behind him, making more thorough checks in the fields for foxholes or MG nests. They had taken out two or three of the MG’s that day; the earlier group had been lax in checking for them. He sighed, and turned to tell his group to turn back to town, as they had gone as far as they needed, when someone yelled the dreaded words:
”GRENADE! GET DOWN!”[/color]
Zeke’s head turned to see a potato masher flying towards him. He began to run backwards, attempting to turn and flat out run, but the grenade made contact with his chest, and bounced off of him. Within inches of the bounce, the grenade exploded, launching the noncom back. He landed in the dirt, staining it red with the blood from the blast wound. He gasped for air as blood spurted from his mouth. He could hear bullets going off all around him, and saw his men advancing on an MG nest that had been hidden in a Japanese-style spider-hole, and two come towards him, checking his wound, and shouting, ”Medic!”[/color] Through blurry eyes, he saw his brother, a private in his group, try to help, but he was pushed back by another soldier, who told him to run for a medic as Zeke’s eyes closed over the world.
In the ward, Zeke shook his head to rid himself of the memory for a bit. He needed to get back to the battlefield. His wounds were healing, slowly but surely, and he had seen worse injuries on soldiers that were fighting. He shooed the nurse away again as he stood, and put on his fatigues, walking out the door to get his equipment back and rejoin the fray.
Zeke opened his eyes. He was still in the hospital ward. He'd been there for a month and a half. He sat up in bed, and pushed his sheets off himself. When the nurse came over to force him back into bed, he waved her away. He sighed, and looked down at the bandages on his torso. They had just been changed, and this was the first time they hadn't turned red when he tried to move. He was healing. He recalled what had confined him to the bed almost two months ago...
Zeke was walking down a road on the outskirts of a town somewhere, looking through the fields. He poked through various ditches, looking for any soldiers who might not have been wiped out by the original massacre. His troops followed behind him, making more thorough checks in the fields for foxholes or MG nests. They had taken out two or three of the MG’s that day; the earlier group had been lax in checking for them. He sighed, and turned to tell his group to turn back to town, as they had gone as far as they needed, when someone yelled the dreaded words:
”GRENADE! GET DOWN!”[/color]
Zeke’s head turned to see a potato masher flying towards him. He began to run backwards, attempting to turn and flat out run, but the grenade made contact with his chest, and bounced off of him. Within inches of the bounce, the grenade exploded, launching the noncom back. He landed in the dirt, staining it red with the blood from the blast wound. He gasped for air as blood spurted from his mouth. He could hear bullets going off all around him, and saw his men advancing on an MG nest that had been hidden in a Japanese-style spider-hole, and two come towards him, checking his wound, and shouting, ”Medic!”[/color] Through blurry eyes, he saw his brother, a private in his group, try to help, but he was pushed back by another soldier, who told him to run for a medic as Zeke’s eyes closed over the world.
In the ward, Zeke shook his head to rid himself of the memory for a bit. He needed to get back to the battlefield. His wounds were healing, slowly but surely, and he had seen worse injuries on soldiers that were fighting. He shooed the nurse away again as he stood, and put on his fatigues, walking out the door to get his equipment back and rejoin the fray.
