The Crimson Sands

A Story by SeanTheWriter

A young soldier has been seemingly left behind by his squad and he has been gravely wounded, but in the face of death, he questions the morality of the war he has been fighting for.

I watch the white clouds move slowly with the dark sky as I lie dying on the blistering sands, crimson blood spilling onto this once virgin-land. Long ago this was a place of happiness and laughter: children would play hide and seek with one another and fly colourful kites into the diamond sky with their families keeping a watchful eye over them, making sure they were safe. But that was a long time ago. Not anymore.

Now the barren sandy lands are soaked with the blood of foreigners and natives alike, the bloodshed unavoidable for many in this war-struck land. In my head I can see children running from us, crying over corpses that were once their guardians, looking to find the green meadow they only dreamed about when they slept at night, dreaming of a false fantasy only to be met with cruel reality when they wake in the morning in the days ahead. It’s horrible. These innocents should be safe, without any fears of death haunting their dreams, but here they are in a war zone with death around every corner where every choice they make could affect their lives forever…

Like so many soldiers before me I feel death approaching, pain burning like a wildfire and with every breath I take I grow weaker, paler and colder. I laugh a little, not because I find it funny, because of the sudden realisation that this is it. Sasha is back home with our kids Ryan and Susie, oblivious to what is going on here. I’d always joked about how I would die, but I didn’t actually mean it. I didn’t think I would die like this. A single tear trickles down my face. I want to live, for my family and the people I care about, to see their faces again and go to the parks together, walk the dogs, be a happy family. But I don’t think I ever will again. I will never see my Sasha and when she hears the news of my death, she will mourn for weeks, months, years even as she holds onto the blissful memories of me… of us. Ryan and Susie will be too young to understand what is going on. I can picture it now, an official stamped envelope delivered personally from the royal service and inside a letter talking about my heroic feats on the battlefield, how I died valiantly for my country and queen, how I saved countless lives, saved the people, killed the enemy… But did I really save countless lives?

Like the pain, it’s dawning on me that I don’t know what we’re exactly fighting for. They always told us that we were fighting to save the people in the area, but that’s not true, is it? I’ve seen countless oil trucks whizzing past my squad with our soldiers driving them, heading back to the docks. Was this war just for resources? Are we stealing from this already poor country? Are we the true villains and the rebels the valiant heroes defending their country from us? I can’t believe I was oblivious to this. I have spilt the blood of rebels who want to keep their country safe, murdered them over the greed of my country. I feel the vomit rising up from my throat as I register this, tightly clenching my fists into a ball as the sand drowns my hands.

But wait... my squadron was with me when the fighting started and now I can't see them. Where are they? Did they fall back? Were they all killed? Or are they still here? I can only hear the faint eruptions of gunfire, my hearing being impaired from the explosion of a grenade. My eyes hazy with the overwhelming dizziness making the world constantly spin around me. I use my hands to try and push myself up in an attempt to sit up. I lean against the sandy brick wall, or what is left of it and finally I sit up, groaning from the immense pain in my side. How long has it been since they vanished? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? I don't know. I touch my forehead weakly with my bloody and scarred hand. I’m burning up from the shrapnel that ripped through my body and I know I won’t have long to live. Not long now.

I can barely see my rifle on the ground right next to where I am marooned. I reach over to it and instantly stop as pain courses through my body, making me scream loudly. I fall back against the wall, tired, sitting there for what feels like decades, listening to the constant ringing in my ears which is like the thunder of gunfire. Then, I remember I have my pistol. I pull it out of my holster and click off the safety mode. I feel the grip of the gun, comfortable in my hand. I gaze at it nestled in my hands when suddenly I notice a figure pointing a rifle at my head - it’s my rifle. My vision clears and to my temporary shock, it’s a young boy. He has black hair with green eyes and soft features. He is wearing a red bandana over his mouth and a white t-shirt with blue jeans and an overcoat. I stare down the barrel of the gun.

Then our eyes meet. He looks scared, nervous and obviously fresh to war. He c***s the gun, now pointing it straight at me, the barrel touching my forehead. His tongue begins forming shaky words I do not understand. He won't do it. He's too scared, too young I tell myself, so I use all my strength and energy to muster up two words as clearly and loudly as I possibly can.

“Do it.”

He trembles with complete fear, looking at me just when I hear a loud, sudden gunshot echo from across the dunes. The boy jumps, hearing the discharge of a gun before looking down at his chest in shock. Blood seeps through his shirt like a waterfall, staining his white shirt. He looks at me with immense pain and sadness. He brings his left hand to above his heart and starts coughing and wheezing, dropping to his knees as more and more blood spills from his chest, dripping down his hands as he tries to cover the fatal wound. Then finally the child falls to the ground, the rifle slips out of his hand as he slumps next to me on the crimson sand. He reaches for me, looking right into my eyes with his movements becoming slower and slower breathing his last breaths until finally, he stops. His unsettling frozen shocked gaze is locked onto my eyes as if he is staring into my soul. I look in horror, my mind reliving the moment, rewinding it over and over again. He was someone’s son, someone’s child. I watch in anguish as the boy’s blood mixes with my own and the crimson sand.

I see a blurry figure standing far in the distance behind the child, holding what seems to be a sniper rifle in his hands. My vision starts to slip as he and several other shadows advance towards me and one of them goes over to the boy and almost suddenly I can feel myself drifting from this world like the sand that’s slowly slipping in my hand. The void is starting to consume me. I can feel a stretcher beneath me... Several dark figures start to surround me and I feel my body being lifted up into the open. I can hear my heartbeat, rising with every breath I take. I can’t focus, it’s hazy and I can’t think properly. My eyes start to droop, my pistol slips from my bloody hand until it finally comes to rest in the burning crimson sands.