Sunrise

Sunrise

"What do you say, guys?"  Sgt. Maple looked out at the sunrise where it

met the sand.  "Man, ain't she a beauty!"

Pvt. Andrews and PFC Randall had already been admiring the flattened

skyline with the pink and blue paint.  Yes, it was pretty, but the pink

was disconcerting.  Neither spoke.

Andrews was from the Midwest, Iowa, in fact, and the pink sky in morning

always meant bad weather to the farmers.  Nothing more special about

this one other than the fact that it was far from farming country.  The

middle east was certainly not his idea of beauty.  He suddenly wished he

had drank a second cup of coffee.

Sgt. Maple turned to look at the two.  "What's with you guys?  We had a

good day yesterday.  Didn't lose one person.  Isn't that a reason to

celebrate a new dawning?"

"Hell, no!"  Randall decided that it was time that he speak up.  "I'm

just not as optimistic as you are this morning, Sgt. Maple.  Don't you

realize that we lost three men the day before?  Or did that escape you? 

I don't think I have one damned thing to be thankful for right now!"

Maple looked at both men and wondered if it was worth an argument to say

that they should be thankful for every minute that they didn't lose

anyone.  He remembered the day before very well.  Sgt. Mulligan had died

in his arms, in fact, as he screamed for a medic, his hand brilliant red

with the man's blood as he applied pressure to his heart.  He prayed and

screamed and prayed and screamed although he knew his friend wasn't

going to make it.  Tears flowed from his reddened eyes onto his

sunburned cheeks finding a final resting place on the left lapel of

Mulligan's camouflage shirt.  Covered with sand that had been blown

around with the stifling hot wind, his mouth was dry and his throat

hoarse.  This was the worst moment in his entire life, and he felt

suddenly more angered by Randall's statement.  Mulligan had become his

best friend here, and now he was gone.

"Randall, did you sit and hold your best friend while he died?  Did you

have his blood on your hands, and did you cry like a baby when he was

finally gone?  Did you hear the sucking of his blood as he tried to

breathe?"  Maple paused for a moment.  "I didn't think so."  He turned

and walked away from them and went back to the operations tent.

"Man, Randall.  You just open your mouth and insert that number twelve

boot, don't you!  He was the wrong one to say that to.  What were you

thinking, Man?"

Randall was pensive.  He had, indeed, watched the entire scene play out.

 He didn't hold his best friend as he died; he was holding off the

insurgents, hoping and praying that the medics would get to Mulligan and

fix him up.  He didn't want the Sergeant to die.  He had always thought

he was a good guy, funny and happy all the time.  He could make a joke

out of anything and make you laugh no matter what you felt otherwise. 

"Yes, Andrews, I know.  I guess I just couldn't get the sight of

Mulligan out of my head.  I guess Sgt. Maple was right."  He was quite

for only a few seconds and then, "I think I'll get another cup of

coffee.  Let's go.  I'll buy."

The two turned and walked away from the sunrise, both deep in thought

and trying to find the hope that seemed to live in Sgt. Maple.