 |
About This Site
Daily Musings
News
News Archive
Site Resources
Concept Art
Halo Bulletins
Interviews
Movies
Music
Miscellaneous
Mailbag
HBO PAL
Game Fun
The Halo Story
Tips and Tricks
Fan Creations
Wallpaper
Misc. Art
Fan Fiction
Comics
Logos
Banners
Press Coverage
Halo Reviews
Halo 2 Previews
Press Scans
Community
HBO Forum
Clan HBO Forum
ARG Forum
Links
Admin
Submissions
Uploads
Contact
|
|
|
Musings of a Soldier
Posted By: Michael Ives<warriorofscotland@yahoo.com>
Date: 1 October 2009, 5:29 pm
Read/Post Comments
|
The night approaches. The remains of a cigar hang from my fingers, the ash falling on one of many corpses spread before me. I lift it and puff deeply, savoring the sharp, tangy taste of the smoke before tossing the cigar butt into a pool of blood. It hisses as it's extinguished, a harsh sound in a harsh environment.
The smoke from the cigar intermingles in the air with the smoke from the battlefield. Thousands lie dead in New Mombassa, human and non-human alike. Through blood and thunder, we have emerged victorious, but a nagging voice in my head asks, at what cost? I stand and begin walking, my boots scuffing against scattered weapons and broken equipment. One catches my eye- kneeling, I pick up an alien weapon, the Needler. The glassy quills protruding from the weapon glow iridescent purple in the failing light, almost pretty in their sanguine, passive state. Having seen the grisly injuries and deaths inflicted by this weapon, though, I find no charm in them. Turning the weapon over, I toss it back next to its former owner, a short squat alien whose air tank has been shattered by bullets. A Grunt. I feel a sense of kinship, oddly enough, with the alien, because I've seen how the Covenant use them as cannon fodder. It must have seen many of its friends, even family, killed in a brutal war of attrition.
There's my teammate, Drake. Or at least, what's left of him. Looks like those damn Jackals got to him. I pause next to one of their bodies and cave in its skull with my boot. Small comfort, I know. From his body, I take a handful of M7 clips. Though it goes against humanity to steal from the dead, I have a feeling I'll need it. Besides, I'm sure Drake understands.
Quietly, a voice begins to sing from across the field. It's O'Malley, one of the Marines from the 105th Division. Several others join in, in a song based off colonial flip music. It reminds me of the Sarge. He liked that kind of thing.
Step by step, heart to heart, left right left,
We all fall down like toy soldiers.
Bit by bit, torn apart, we never win,
The battle wages on for toy soldiers.
We're fighting a war we know we can't win,
Battling on for an unforeseen end.
The sounds of slaughter drift on the wind,
The legendary end of many toy soldiers.
Guns on the ground, ships in the air,
Constant killing and nonstop warfare.
Many a man found his friends lying there.
Merely tossed aside like a child's toy soldiers.
Step by step, heart to heart, left right left,
We all fall down like toy soldiers.
Bit by bit, torn apart, we never win,
The battle wages on for toy soldiers.
If we could go back, which road would we take?
Sure as hell this, because of what is at stake.
Not our land or our freedom - our lives they will take.
And we will not fail, loyal toy soldiers.
Let's lock and load, boys, we've got work to do.
And stick to your squadmates tighter 'n glue.
Stand up and salute to the red, white, and blue.
Then move out with us, ranks of toy soldiers.
Step by step, heart to heart, left right left,
We all fall down like toy soldiers.
Bit by bit, torn apart, we never win,
The battle wages on for toy soldiers.
Step by step, heart to heart, left right left,
We all fall down like toy soldiers.
Bit by bit, torn apart, we never win,
The battle wages on for toy soldiers.
Picking my way through the bodies, I climb up a hill, blinking as the setting sun shines in my face. Placing my helmet back on my head, I tint the visor and gaze down on the field, looking for any vehicle that might have survived. There are several Covenant ones, but I'd prefer not to take them. Besides being difficult to operate, I have no way of knowing if they're in good condition. Well, that Ghost there, the one on fire? A week's pay says it's no good.
I see one; a Mongoose, battered but serviceable. Judging by the insignia on the side, it's even from my division. The words "We Go Feet First" are scratched on the side; irregular, but somehow fitting. Holstering my M7 and mounting it, I set off in search for the rest of my squad. We must finish this fight. I know no other option.
For I am ODST.
|
