"One" - Creative writing.

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“One”- First Draft

“Medic!” the cry rang out through the hot street. Another gunshot, and men scrambled for cover like scared rabbits. The man still lay bleeding in the middle of the road. The war had started today, and he was already dying. He made an attempt to crawl for safety. Too late, he looked pleadingly to his comrades. A rifle bullet cut through stifling air and bit deep into the man’s backbone. He writhed, screaming in pain. A final shot, this time better aimed. A burst of blood from his neck and a gargle, and he was gone forever. He was dead. His radio crackled. A few miles away someone needed help.

 “Med Evac to grid 647- 321. Landmine detonation. One casualty. Serious.”

George Robertson lay in the muddy field, in a pool of dirty water and his own blood. Like a Valkyrie coming to claim him, a helicopter buzzed overhead, and two medics kneeling beside him spoke in terse, quiet voices. Of course, George didn’t know any of this. George didn’t know that his legs were a smoking ruin and that his pelvis had been smashed, fragments forced into his gut and spine. There was no pain, only the purgatory black of unconsciousness. A memory formed in his mind.

The morning rally echoed out over the barracks. George woke up and sat on the side of his bed. Still dark outside, he thought, as he glanced at his watch. Five thirty- what was going on? Someone knocked at the door, and came in. It was Mark, Georges best mate. They had joined the army together, about a year back. Mark was from Liverpool and was the funniest person in George’s squad.

“Whadd’ya reckons going on then?” asked Mark in his thick scouse.

“Dunno”, replied George, still half awake. “Might be about that thing in the Novistranos islands”.

“Oh yeah. Yeah, I read abou’ that. Big time drug dealers rule half the place, I heard” George, finally, was dressed. The two men walked out into the warm June night, across the parade ground where they drilled three times a week with that idiot Sergeant Major. Another rally call echoed through the mist.

“C’mon, we’re late!”, exclaimed Mark loudly. “Leg it!” The men ran into the briefing hall, and not a moment late. Colonel Smith was stepping to the front. The men sat down.

 “The situation in the Novistranos Island group has changed, gentlemen. A military coup has taken place there, led by a drug dealer called Pedro Alvarez.” A picture of the man in question flashed up on the projector- he had a bushy moustache and wore huge sunglasses, with a straw hat on. Some of the assembled men laughed- he hardly looked the billionaire, mass murdering drug dealer he was.

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“Okay, settle down now. He may look comical, but he’s anything but. He bribed the army some weeks ago, and took control of most of the country. He sent the tanks into the capital last night. Latest estimates put the death toll in the thousands. The President is dead. The cabinet have either been murdered or defected to the rebels. This is serious. Novistranos has a capable army, with around 150,000 professional soldiers, and an unspecified number of reserves. NATO says we need to act fast. The Prime Minister makes a statement this afternoon. Prep for combat. You leave in ...

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