MacSalterson
TNPer
- Pronouns
- They/Them
September 2nd, 1973
Heavy boots crunched through the field of browning grass. The air was unusually chilled and dead, a sure sign of winter's approach. The group's breaths puffed out rhythmically, white vapors against the muted background. The compound was not far, 30 meters at most. No alarms had been raised at their approach, lending the tableau an unnaturally peaceful atmosphere. A contingent of twenty or so soldiers in a loose line pushed forwards towards the wall, a set of concrete dividers about three meters in height. No guards were on the watchtowers. This was not run by professional soldiers, obviously. Either green recruits or even perhaps civilians. No matter.
About forty seconds later, the group reached the wall. Sfan exhaled. He had ended up to the immediate left of the gate. He checked his weapon, an Ilian semi-automatic, dating to the mid 1940s, and gestured silently at the soldier across from him to breach the door. The man was about five or so years older than Sfan, though he looked to be in his forties due to the graying hair adorning his face and head. The man nodded, stepping out to the center of the door and slamming his heel into the rusty bolt. The door shook, but held. Before waiting for signs of response to the clamor, he slammed again. The bolt broke, and the doors swung open. Sfan's men poured into the compound, weapons at the ready. A bell rung from the central building, about 20 meters ahead of them. They must have been heard. A brief moment of silence, save for the bell, set in. Sfan swept his weapon to the left, eyeing a barn that must've acted as the storage facility, evidenced by the arm's crates. Both Gojan and Andrennian alike were stacked along the sides. Sfan chuckled to himself at the apparent irony. Then, gunfire exploded as the soldiers manning the compound swarmed out to combat the intruders. Five burst out from the barn, firing immediately. A soldier directly in front of Sfan caught a round to the shin, but kept firing. Sfan's returned fire, a sharp crack. He saw a crimson spray bloom from the back of his target. Kill. The group from the barn was quickly cut down, and Sfan rotated on his heels to face the center. Two of his soldiers went down, struck while they were reloading. Another one struck, but not injured. He kept firing. A momentary lull. Sfan shouted to advance and begin clearing buildings. He ran quickly over to the barn, certain that those five were not the only ones guarding the storage. Another two followed him, the soldier who breached the door and a younger member of his contingent.
They entered, quietly, Sfan taking point as they advanced. An intersection formed by shelves and crates was about ten feet ahead. A clatter came from the right, causing Sfan to tense and pause. He continued, aiming his rifle at the right side. He rounded the corner quickly, swinging his rifle to the right. An enemy! He fired quickly, not giving time to analyze the target. His bullet struck true, and the person's head snapped back as they fell, killed by the shot. Sfan looked more closely and cursed. It was a child, no more than twelve or thirteen years of age, who had been dressed in an oversized uniform, clutching an older revolver. A damn child.
The rest of the raid went by in a blur. Sfan went through the motions automatically. He didn't count how many more he killed, he just fired until there were no more enemies. Seeing the child he had felled without a second thought shook Sfan. There were several more child soldiers in the compound, he was told, though he hadn't seen them fall. But for each one, the same image overlaid their corpse in his mind.
A damn child.
Heavy boots crunched through the field of browning grass. The air was unusually chilled and dead, a sure sign of winter's approach. The group's breaths puffed out rhythmically, white vapors against the muted background. The compound was not far, 30 meters at most. No alarms had been raised at their approach, lending the tableau an unnaturally peaceful atmosphere. A contingent of twenty or so soldiers in a loose line pushed forwards towards the wall, a set of concrete dividers about three meters in height. No guards were on the watchtowers. This was not run by professional soldiers, obviously. Either green recruits or even perhaps civilians. No matter.
About forty seconds later, the group reached the wall. Sfan exhaled. He had ended up to the immediate left of the gate. He checked his weapon, an Ilian semi-automatic, dating to the mid 1940s, and gestured silently at the soldier across from him to breach the door. The man was about five or so years older than Sfan, though he looked to be in his forties due to the graying hair adorning his face and head. The man nodded, stepping out to the center of the door and slamming his heel into the rusty bolt. The door shook, but held. Before waiting for signs of response to the clamor, he slammed again. The bolt broke, and the doors swung open. Sfan's men poured into the compound, weapons at the ready. A bell rung from the central building, about 20 meters ahead of them. They must have been heard. A brief moment of silence, save for the bell, set in. Sfan swept his weapon to the left, eyeing a barn that must've acted as the storage facility, evidenced by the arm's crates. Both Gojan and Andrennian alike were stacked along the sides. Sfan chuckled to himself at the apparent irony. Then, gunfire exploded as the soldiers manning the compound swarmed out to combat the intruders. Five burst out from the barn, firing immediately. A soldier directly in front of Sfan caught a round to the shin, but kept firing. Sfan's returned fire, a sharp crack. He saw a crimson spray bloom from the back of his target. Kill. The group from the barn was quickly cut down, and Sfan rotated on his heels to face the center. Two of his soldiers went down, struck while they were reloading. Another one struck, but not injured. He kept firing. A momentary lull. Sfan shouted to advance and begin clearing buildings. He ran quickly over to the barn, certain that those five were not the only ones guarding the storage. Another two followed him, the soldier who breached the door and a younger member of his contingent.
They entered, quietly, Sfan taking point as they advanced. An intersection formed by shelves and crates was about ten feet ahead. A clatter came from the right, causing Sfan to tense and pause. He continued, aiming his rifle at the right side. He rounded the corner quickly, swinging his rifle to the right. An enemy! He fired quickly, not giving time to analyze the target. His bullet struck true, and the person's head snapped back as they fell, killed by the shot. Sfan looked more closely and cursed. It was a child, no more than twelve or thirteen years of age, who had been dressed in an oversized uniform, clutching an older revolver. A damn child.
The rest of the raid went by in a blur. Sfan went through the motions automatically. He didn't count how many more he killed, he just fired until there were no more enemies. Seeing the child he had felled without a second thought shook Sfan. There were several more child soldiers in the compound, he was told, though he hadn't seen them fall. But for each one, the same image overlaid their corpse in his mind.
A damn child.