Nine of Swords [Reversed]

On The Front Lines—MORNING

I duck behind a wooden crate when the shooting starts. Many do also. But, there is little cover in the tiny garage being used as a makeshift motor pool. I am shot several times in the legs by the semi-automatic. Others are not so lucky. I jump into a jeep prepared to take out into the city after the culprit, leaving the less wounded at my back.

A corpsman, caught without his gear grabs me as I try to lift a damaged leg over into the jeep.

“Don’t worry about me,” I try to shrug him away, “Tend to the others. I am going after the bastard.”

“I am afraid you may be bleeding out through your femoral artery,” he pleads, “But I’ve got nothing to put over the wounds. Wait, maybe this will stabilize it.” The medic snatches a bagel from one of the mechanics’ breakfast tray. He shoves it over the most severe gunshot wound. I wince with pain and mutter.

“Stabilize it.” I repeat, “Stable. Bagel. Stable. Bagel. Stabilize. Bagelize?”

Now it’s the corpsman turn to shrug; during the delay, a few of my men have meanwhile jumped into the jeep and I turn the key and motor off, waiting till I am around the corner before tossing the bloody bagel into the bushes.

We find the tiny cripple, a local partisan, obviously deranged, hiding in a tree in an otherwise homey, shaded neighborhood. We yank him down and radio for the local civilian police to come get him. Before we can hand him over to he soon escapes again on foot.

No matter. I have been watching the movements of the insurgents over the past few weeks that I’ve been in-country, and know that they secret themselves in a small earthen den by the levee. I re-group my squad, now a posse, well-armed to smoke him out. We won’t make the mistake of calling the local police again.

There is much confusion trying to relay the location of this underground network, but M16’s, in hand, we manage to sneak up and down the banks of the levee until we find an entrance to the hideaway. We press inside single file until we find a larger chamber. They have left some battered sneakers and some empty tins of food, but there is otherwise not much else in his little hovel. Someone in the back shouts.

Fuck.

It’s a trap.