A short story about a soldier and his love for his weapon (not the war)
We first met in the Hindu Kush Mountains of Afghanistan. Her name was Mary Beth and her experiences far outweighed my own. I would not be her first husband, nor would I be her last. Now it’s not uncommon in Afghanistan to be married to multiple wives, and I was no exception. My first wife was from the Colt family, a high maintenance carbine that did not like getting dirty. I wasn’t to fond of her due to the constant jams in our relationship.
Mary Beth was a talker. Raised a Belt-fed, air-cooled, gas-operated, fully automatic machine from Belgium. Her words fired out at 2,733 feet per second at a cyclic rate of 650 to 950 per minute, impacting with 2,437 foot pounds of force. She could sway just about any argument.
The wedding was nothing formal, just the signing of some papers and she was mine to hold. That night I stripped her to her bare essentials. My fingers learned her inner workings, caressing and cleaning part by part. Next I applied lube in small amounts as I began working her bolt back in forth, again and again until satisfaction is reached as she clutches my shoulder for a short moment and springs forward. Afterwards we both need a little reassembly and a quick functions test.
Nuristan Province, Barge Matal, Afghanistan - On July 12, 2009. Six Afghan National Army soldiers held the Taliban flag that had flown over the district center for the previous two days, symbolizing the end of the Taliban’s control of the village. At the Afghan government’s request, members of Task Force Chosin were tasked with seizing the village from Taliban forces.(1-32 Infantry.”Battle of the Barge)
A 3 day cease fire was declared between Coalition and Taliban forces as my platoon began to set in, which gave our first days in the valley of death a feeling of uncertainty. Mary and I were position in an observation point 8,000 feet above sea level. The air was so thin 10 steps felt like a mile under the burden of our gear. The mountains were a beautiful green scared with black splotches inflicted by previous bomb drops. Carving its way through the middle of the valley splitting the village was a river, radiating a brilliant blue matching the color given to the infantryman upon completion of training. There was beauty to the sight before us hidden by the destruction laid down by both parties “fighting for the greater good.”
Once the cease fire was lifted, every morning we were greeted by snipers, and the sound of or return fire was a symphony equally great as Beethoven. It began with the brass, as every gunner positioned in the valley opened fire, followed by the incredible percussion of the mortars. Jets would roar through the valley, unleashing a massive 4000 pound crash of the cymbal. Then silence and smoke would roll across the battlefield, as muscles started to relax. The men in the valley stood back from their wives, all but the lonely sniper. His shot rang Loud and Triumphant through the valley, reigniting the brass.
What began as a 72-hour mission would last more than three months. When Coalition forces finally left 90 days later, 10 coalition members had given their lives, more than 50 were wounded, and 372 fighters were killed. Mary Beth and I finally parted our separate ways. Even though years have passed, my hands still remember her curves. My shoulders remember her weight, and my ears ring to this day longing to hear her voice one last time.
Thanks for reading, wrote this a while back for school, Hope you enjoyed it.
