Kenner, Michael
By Matthew CraigRunning through the overgrown woods of this bastard jungle wasn’t the glamorous position Kenner had in mind. No no, he had not joined the marines to be a groundhog hunter. Sniff ‘em out, chase ‘em down, take ‘em out. Simple mission statement; it couldn’t have been a bigger misnomer. The training ground in North Carolina had been nothing compared to this underbrush, overgrowth, and dense canopy. There had been days of walking that his battalion had not seen the light of the sun directly upon their camouflaged faces because the trees were ruthlessly reaching skyward absorbing all available rays of energy. The only real advantage was the protection from rain.
The mission itself was disgusting to the minds of his fellow marines; they weren’t told that the enemies they would be hunting down would be other than adult male. For some sick reason, Yeager, a rookie 20 years old, had begun keeping track of the number of young girls, boys and women killed in the process of completing the mission. The total reached into the mid 30’s. In boot camp, you aren’t told how much children cry when shot in the midsection; it's enough to rip hardened trained military men to shreds. That’s where the majority of the men were now, shreds.
The usual vigor and enthusiasm of “Semper Fi, do or die” had fallen to a mid-tempo “Let's not die.” Only one thing made it possible to kill the young gun wielding targets; once the first tunnel had been flushed out, they immediately lost 2 men. Two shots fired, two marines dead, killed by a 13 year old boy and a 19 year old girl; that’s what their ages were guessed to be. Every time Kenner saw another child shot, it took him another step away from his “Marine” state of mind, the place he had created where there are only two choices, live or die. Four holes cleared today alone, and no way of telling how many more to go. Kenner thought he could do it.
The signal was given and passed back to Kenner midway back in the line of slowly creeping soldiers. A hole was found, and a grenade about to be dropped. Kenner took his safety off, checked his clip; he had only 16 shots in the hole. Closing his eyes for a millisecond, he traveled to that emotionless cold place of justified death. Opening his eyes, he saw the miniature green pineapple fall past the plane of the ground. One...two...three, the explosion, dirt everywhere. Something hit Kenner in the forehead, just a stone, but enough to break skin so blood trickled down to the bridge of his nose. Silence, the crackle of gunfire, the first one popped out of the hole, dead. Then the rush, two at a time, Kenner took aim, popped two shots off. The second fell dead. Kenner began counting shells to prepare for his clip change. Thirteen to go, two more shots, the enemies were flying out of three different holes now, hopping up and dodging around behind trees, some marines began chasing, others concentrated on the hole. Kenner had downed 3 more but used 7 shots, down to 4.
Kenner began the mental search for his extra clip- belt? chest strap? side pocket?...side pocket. Two more shots, missed, two in the clip, Kenner began to reach for his side pocket. A shot flies towards Kenner, who has blood in his mouth; then he can taste it. The bullet rips through his left shoulder, missing bone but without doubt shearing muscle. Kenner lifts his rifle, and expires one of his last rounds uselessly. The blood in his mouth becomes tasteless, his mindset gone, he focuses attention on his shoulder, falling to the ground. With back to the enemy behind a large tree trunk, Kenner assesses the situation; gunfire and yelling enter his senses for the first time. Then Kenner realizes he is in a war.
The pain in his shoulder seers him like a match that has burned too close too quickly. Kenner thinks back to his training, what does he need to do? His memory of training fails him, his memory of his wife does not. Long blond hair, green eyes that remind him of the bay he used to go sailing in as a child in Tampa, Florida. Laurie, their daughter, whose laugh could make even the most stoic person crack into giggling and whose hair and eyes were the same as her beautiful mothers. Laurie loved to swing on the tire Kenner had hung in the back yard, it was in that same swing that she had been playing one summer morning. That damned swing. The same summer morning she had fallen from it, and punctured her left lung, and breathless, lay on the ground in pain, trying to yell, but hopelessly whispering for her father, for Kenner, to help her, to hug her, to kiss it and make it all better like a decent father would.
Gunfire again woke Kenner, the image of his daughter giggling while swaying to and fro stuck in his mind. He yelled, threw himself to his feet, picked up his gun, and began running towards the hole he had last shot at. Climbing out of the hole was a young girl.....with blonde hair and green eyes. Kenner blinked, raising his gun, time slowed, thoughts sped. He aimed for the chest, gun moving up to eye level in a slow fluid motion. Kenner’s finger slipped from the trigger, he opened both his eyes, looking again at Laurie, his dead daughter, the daughter he could have, should have saved. Deep into those green eyes he stared for what seemed like hours, until the green turned to brown, and the hair from blonde to black. A gunshot in the silence. Kenner saw the tip of the bullet, heard it crack bone. Then the ground, the twigs breaking, the dirt flying, as he fell to his knees, then to his right side, as if protecting his wounded shoulder, even in death. Even as he pushed Laurie higher and higher on her new tire swing that hung in the backyard under a comfortable old oak tree.
