He stands in the hole, cold mud past the top of his boots, leans against the stock of the sixty, and waits. The enemy patrol comes into sight, and he waits. He watches them over the top of the sixty, their breath coming in clouds as they stagger forward through the snow, closer. He knows that they are men, like him. Men with families, men who are loved by someone, somewhere, and he knows that they will kill him if given a chance.
He watches them for a moment longer, lets them get a little closer, and then he pulls back on the trigger and they disappear in a cloud of smoke and flame as he traverses the field at waist level, then at ankle. The big gun bucks and bucks and hot brass and links fall hissing into the snow and mud. He stops firing, the smoke clears, and nothing moves in front of him except snow being shed from a tree to his left. He lights a cigarette, and waits.
Your Tiny Hand Is Frozen
1 hour ago