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Protect

A short story based loosely on the Middle Eastern theatres of World War I and II, from whence the gazelles roamed

By Anonymous, Year 9

Dusk was arriving, the sky a swirl of azure and persimmon sinking, dripping through the sand dunes and scattered cacti like a blanket unravelling upon the dreary gloaming. Rays of golden sun drizzled down the arid knolls like viscous yet mellifluous honey, and the lizards that once basked in their heat scampered under rocks to hide from the waking night. The yolk-sun oozed, sweltering heat seeping, seeking shelter beneath the sandy hillocks of which cloistered the slumbering critters. And as the world darkened, a myriad of wrens plummeted downwards to nestle in the branches. The desert lay in eery stagnation.

Upon the distant horizon, a marching sound arose. And like a line of ants the soldiers emerged one by one, footstep after footstep, scattering the slumbering animals with the heavy thumping of their leather boots. 1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4... Rhythmic beating permeated the thick air. With fatigues matted to chafed skin and their M249s slung loosely on their worn shoulders, they headed toward the remnants of a dilapidated town.

Abandoned she lay, yet an air of dread lingered; the metallic scent of trepidation embroidered into the rubble. Even the birds – as though aware of the danger arising – wailed, warning cries strangled in their throats.

As night unveiled itself, they trudged on through the debris. Two men approached first, dog tags reading ‘Alec’ and ‘Frank’. The remaining trailed along in heavy silence.

After a thorough search of the area, Alec’s voice rang out, “All clear!”. Then – flooded with heavy languor after hours of walking – the men relaxed, idle chatter echoing into the starless skies. And as they settled into the ruins, the night descended into a cold, languid sleep.

Where they gathered – herded like a pack of wolves – a fire was lit, sparks falling at their feet and warm flames licking at their heels. Their worn limbs lay stretched across logs, weapons scattered beside them, chatter and jokes of trivial matters pervading their speech. Alec shuffled past the boisterous shouting of his comrades to sit next to Frank.

“It’s pretty dark tonight, huh?”

Frank tensed – fingers instinctively snapping his rifle’s safety catch – but he relaxed his hands upon noticing it was merely his friend. He murmured a quiet reply, “Mm, quite cold too”.

Alec offered him a cigarette and he gladly accepted. They sat there for a while, soft gazes meandering the lifeless hills. A pair of ears perked up, sepia fur rustled by the wind, then gone again.

A crinkling of paper caught Alec’s attention. It was a crumpled photograph in his friend’s hand, “Your mother?” he asked.

“Yeah”, Frank replied wistfully, his eyes clouded over in thought.

“I think… I think I’d like to go see her, when I get out of

here”, he folded the paper back into his shirt pocket, “if I ever get out”. Frank averted his eyes, then chuckled softly; a somber sound. And by the dim light of his barely lit cigarette, it seemed to Alec that the worry etched on his friend’s features became ever more prominent.

And so, the night continued on. The soldiers fell into a deep slumber while Alec sat basking in the quiet and distant warmth of the flames. He turned to look into the distance, seeing nothing but darkness for miles. Nothing except what appeared to be a small light in the far horizon. He squinted his eyes. What was it? Frank mumbled drearily, but Alec’s gaze was following the approaching spot of glowing white. Brighter and brighter. His breath hitched; it was a tactical light. It fixed straight on Frank.

They had barely seconds before the explosions went off. A hailstorm of bullets rained down upon them. The calm and cold night seemed no longer barren as dust and debris twirled up into the sky, down their throats and into their eyes as the soldiers rummaged for their weapons. Alec moved – fumbling, desperate, grabbing frantically for his rifle as the ground beneath his feet gave a sudden lurch. Running by the light of the towering flames – faster and faster. There was not enough time. Alec looked back, but the troops of men clad in fabrics of red were advancing. Where was Frank?

In the distance – by a pile of rubble – Alec spotted a glinting object, small and silver. He squinted at it, trying to discern what it was. A dog tag.

The flames grew taller now – menacing, impending, encompassing the abandoned village in its wake. Alec weaved through its monstrous trails with stumbling legs that barely held him up.

Frank’s limp body draped across the rubble. Blood was seeping everywhere, through dust and debris, ash smothering his face and wounds, but Alec ignored it as he desperately dragged his friend onto the flat sand.

“Frank, we gotta go,” one hand cradling his limp neck, the other on his chest. There was nothing but a weak cough in reply, “Frank we have to go now, they’re going to-”. Something erupted nearby, a rush of hot air deafening his right ear. Frank’s eyes fluttered open and managed a weak groan; entrails of blood spilled down the side of his mouth. A gunshot wound. He choked, tears threatening to spill, “C’mon, you’re alright. You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay”.

Frank’s chest was heaving, struggling, “I- never should’ve left”.

“Stop it, you’re gonna be- you’re alright”.

“Tell-”

“Don’t you dare give me that speech, I swear to god Frankie”.

He said nothing in reply.

And with the gunshots ringing all around them, screams erupting and bombs exploding, moving ever nearer, Alec felt a sob throttle his lungs and the weight of it all crushing down upon him.

Frank, with all life and will remaining, whispered, weak hand resting on his pocket where the photograph of his mother was tucked in, “Tell her I died fighting”. And with that, his body went limp; yearning, lifeless.