[ OT ] Sunday Free Write : Leave A Story , Leave A Comment - End of Camelot Edition

I wrote this for my high school english class a couple of weeks ago, I do n't write very often but I am curious as to what others think of my work: 
 
 **Shell Shock** 
 
 Eight weeks of living hell, but my squad mates and I just called it basic. 
 Five mile runs with full gear on every morning, those of us who weren ’ t out of breath complained of course, but the drill sergeant shut us up quickly enough. 
 
 It ’ s to prepare you for war. 
 
 After our morning “ warm up ” we were served our breakfast: stale bread and half an egg. Our grumbling stomachs complained to our CO for us. 
 It ’ s to prepare you for war. 
 Up till noon was PT: jumping jacks till we watered the grass in our sweat, pushups till our shoulders gave in, running obstacle courses till our elbows were scraped raw. Some of us just gave up right there, but we pushed them on. 
 
 It ’ s to prepare you for war. 
 
 We marched off to the firing range after lunch, with our rifles in tow. They handed out M1 Garands, the first of its kind, pride of the army. It ’ s a heavy and cumbersome sonuvabitch, but it will probably save my life. But you see, the beautiful thing about it is that we don ’ t have to stop firing after every shot. We don ’ t even have to think about it that much; just got to keep pulling that trigger. 
 
 Bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang 
 
 After the sun finally hit the sack, our CO dismissed us for some R & R. While most of us were rushing to the mess halls, I went straight for the barracks. I wanted to have some quiet time to write to my son, Robert. It would be his fourteenth birthday next week, and I wanted to get the letter sent out first thing in the morning. 
 
 I was never much of a patriot; I wasn ’ t looking forward to going overseas neither. But every time I had my doubts, I would think of Robert; so sweet and innocent, filled with so much potential, but still so naïve. I just keep telling myself that I am doing this for him, to keep him safe. I decided that I needed to fight this war so that Robert and every other kid like him wouldn ’ t have to. 
 
 
 We were lucky. By the time we crossed the pond, some other poor bastards had already braved the worst of it for us. With the P51s flying overhead and the Sherman ’ s at our sides, the Jerrys just kept on running. 
 Every battle won, every Kraut surrender, meant another town got liberated. The villagers would cheer us on while we entered, smiling and laughing like they haven ’ t in years. Some of the local ladies even went the extra mile in giving a couple of lucky bastards a warm welcome. Don ’ t get me wrong, it was tempting, but I wanted to tell Rob about the parades thrown for us by the people we ’ d saved, the stories of the brave men out with me on the front, this wasn ’ t the kind of story I wanted to be writing home about. 
 
 Our platoon was assigned to take a small abandoned village just 9 miles from Berlin. Intel said not to expect too much resistance, so we let our guard down a little - we got careless. While I left to take a leak, the sound of gunfire got me lying on the ground in a heartbeat; my training kicked in. To my left, my squad was pinned down by an MG nest in one of the houses across the road. 
 Without thinking, I ran up the house from the back street nearby. 
 They left the door slightly open, I could count two, no three hostiles inside. They were too busy firing on my squad to hear me coming. 
 
 Amateurs. 
 
 I took a deep breath and kicked the door open: 
 
 The beautiful thing about it is that we don ’ t have to stop firing after every shot. We don ’ t even have to think about it that much, just got to keep pulling that trigger. 
 
 Bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang 
 
 After my clip hit the floor, I noticed the MG nest was quiet; too quiet. I loaded another clip just in case, and moved up to confirm my kills. 
 
 I looked first at the one closest to the door; his blood soaking the uniform that was one size too large. His face unblemished, with some traces of plumpness about his cheeks, and a few strands just beginning to sprout from his jaw. 
 
 The MG nest was quiet; too quiet. 
 
 The rest of my squad finally caught up with me, slapping me on the back, cheering. One of them even said I should write my kid about this; let him know how brave his daddy was. 
 
 I couldn ’ t understand them; my ears were ringing too loud to make much sense of anything else. It was just like the time a mortar landed right next to my foxhole. “ Shell shock ”, they call it. 
 They were congratulating me; promising to buy me a round when we get back. But one thing kept playing in the back of my mind: 
 
 > I was fighting for freedom. 
 
 > I was protecting my brothers. 
 
 > I am a hero. 
 
 Or so I ’ ve been told. 
 

