Hmmm...after this just six more weeks of FFF to go! While I'm definitely going to miss getting comments and hearing feedback on my stories, I'm also going to enjoy having a little more free time :)

Edited to fix the glaring continuity error pointed out by Erinn

---

Jon The American
Jon hunkers down deeper into the foxhole as the staccato gunfire continues. He glances at his watch but can't see a thing. He rubs the face against his shirt and tries to angle his wrist to catch some of the fading daylight. His best guess is that it's coming up on nine o'clock — sorry, 2100 hours — but the watch face is too scratched and cracked to be sure.

They should be done firing soon but Jon's annoyed nonetheless because he likes watching the sun go down; the colours are a nice contrast to the olive drab surrounding him. If you settle down nicely, your rucksack doubling as a footrest, and you ignore the craters left by artillery fire, you can almost forget you're in a war zone.

He rolls onto his stomach, crawls over to his trunk, flips open the lid and digs out a PowerBar. He closes the trunk without looking to see how much food is left; it's depressing to think about.

He crawls back to his favourite spot in the foxhole, the only place he can really get comfortable, and munches down the energy bar. He crumples up the wrapper and throws it out of the foxhole behind him and into some thistles. Thistles and dandelions seem to be the only plants left that will grow on the pock-marked battlefield.

"Goddamn PowerBars," he says aloud, "Why couldn't we have been sponsored by Cliff Bars or some other outfit? Anything but PowerBars. Cardboard dipped in chocolate sauce. And it isn't even good chocolate sauce. Tastes like cheap Canadian shit."

He can't even remember if he used to like them or not.

"I talking to myself again. Well, it's not like I'm really talking to myself. Or rather, I realize I am. I'm just talking out loud. I miss Joey."

Private Joseph Lindbladder had been assigned to his foxhole but was killed by shrapnel a few weeks back. Or maybe it was months. The brass hadn't sent a replacement yet, which really sucked because they usually sent rations and toilet paper along with the replacements.

"God, they're still shooting," he says, "They must have got resupplied."

Or maybe some colonel is visiting or something, and they have to look like they're really trying. Suck up or get shipped out somewhere even worse. Jon knew what it was like.

Serves 'em right though, for being Canadians.

On the other hand, it was difficult to picture someplace that was worse. Jon's foxhole had been dug in the middle of field that was itself smack in the middle of the ass-end of nowhere. When has was shipped out here, his third tour, he hadn't heard of the place before and by now had forgotten where on the map it was. He'd air-dropped in and remembers seeing a broad expanse of scrub brush and small trees. He'd had to scramble to cover through half-hearted enemy gunfire where he found the bodies of the grunts he was replacing.

He buried them after dark on his first night in graves three feet deep. He'd gone through their pockets before burying them, of course, disappointed to find no stashes of booze or pot. It was rude, really. Jon made it a point to always leave a couple of ounces of vodka in his flask for the next guy. It was just professional courtesy.

"Enough already!" he shouts as the gunfire continues overhead.

On either side of him, fifty metres to the east and west, are two more foxholes, each with one or two fellow Americans. He's never spoken to any of them beyond the occasional shout of greeting or warning. Jon idly wonders if they're the same guys or if they've been replaced in the last while. The line of foxholes stretches out, maybe to infinity, at least all the way around the globe.

Two hundred metres across the field are the filthy Canadians, arrayed in a line of similar foxholes. Jon occasionally spies on the Canadians with his army-issue binoculars. It's ostensibly for reconnaissance, but the truth is he used to do the same thing back home with the neighbouring apartments. He's always annoyed by how much they look like he does. Similar uniforms, similar bored and hungry expressions. The only real difference is that they were sponsored by Coke instead of PowerBars. Jon had expected Canadians would be uglier. In the cartoons he used to watch they portrayed Canadians as very ape-like. Monkeys dressed in shabby clothes. But those guys, stick a PowerBar in their hand and Jon wouldn't be able to tell them apart from his own guys.

Joey always said he could spot a Canadian from a hundred yards away. "They walk all stooped," he used to say, "Like a guy with a cinder-block stuck on the end of his necktie."

During lulls in gunfire he even did an imitation of a Canadian walking around that used to make Jon laugh until his stomach hurt.

Jon decides they are going to go all night with the shooting. He was going to wait until they'd stopped and then return some fire, strictly as a courtesy, but decides to bunk down instead. Lately he's been sleeping longer and longer and somedays never seems to shake the cobwebs out of his brain.

---

That night, he dreams of home. Of going home.

He's riding on a bus with a bunch of other grunts. They are all of them done up in their dress uniforms. Jon looks down and sees his boots are polished for the first time in maybe years. He'd traded his shoe shine kit early in the war for some fellow's extra allotment of underwear. Best move he'd ever made.

The bus rolls along a pastoral scene, alternating fields of sunflowers, canola, corn and wheat. Jon has the window seat on the bus and leans his forehead against the cool glass. A farmer on a bright red combine waves and Jon lifts his hand to return the gesture.

The farms give way to suburban housing, large stucco houses with great big lawns. Plastic children's play structures. The bus rolls on by. Jon lives in barracks on the military base. He'd have to make sergeant, or maybe even warrant officer before he could afford a place like those.

Eventually the bus arrives at the base, at the main parade square. Jon gets off the bus along with the rest of his platoon. They're greeting by a joyous crowd and a military band marches by in front the bus. There is shouting and cheering and music. Jon presumes they must have won. No one ever comes out to greet a losing army.

He awakes with trombones and drums fading in his ears. He's happy and relaxed for a moment, remembering the dream, until he realizes it wasn't his dream at all. His brain had replayed for him one of the television commercials the army plays for you before they send you to the front. Everyone from the fields to the marching band, it didn't belong to him. None of it.

Jon yawns and stretches, tries to massage the stiffness from the back of his neck. He then grabs his binoculars, crawls to the south end of his foxhole and carefully pokes his head out, to see what the enemy is doing.

He can see two of them walking back to their own foxhole; one of them is holding a shovel across his shoulders. They aren't walking at all like Joey's caricature.

"Digging a fresh latrine," he says aloud.

You had to with two guys in a foxhole. When Jon was by himself, he usually just did his business in a corner of the hole where he didn't spend much time and then cover it with sand.

He holds the binoculars with one hand and with the other reaches over and grabs the strap of his rifle, pulls the gun closer. The Canadians are almost back to their hole. He transfers the binoculars to his other hand and holds the gun with his good hand, finer on the trigger. In a still wind, the Canadian line is just inside the range of Jon's rifle.

When the Canadians are back in their hole and out of site, he begins to fire. He fires off his entire morning allotment of ammunition and enters the number of bullets used into his army-issued portable computer. They dock your pay if you use too much, or too little ammo. He also records his estimate of two enemy casualties.

He eats a breakfast of PowerBar instant cereal and does a bunch of push-ups. Jon never bothers counting how many; he just goes until his arms get sore.

He then settles down with a bag of clothes for a pillow. The sky is a brilliant blue with patches of spotty clouds. Jon reaches into the pocket of his fatigues and pulls out a crumpled photograph.

The photo is a of beautiful young girl, sitting on the front steps of an official-looking brick building. It could be a government office or a school. The girl has curly blond hair that falls in a cascade around her head; purple tank top with spaghetti straps and a long, loose skirt with flower prints on it. She's smiling, but not quite looking at the camera, like she's annoyed that her picture is being taken.

Jon's memorized the photo by now but he still likes to take it out and look at it. He can recall all the details in it, but still needs to be reminded of the colours. Purples and reds are almost extinct in his world; critically endangered species that only crackpots claim to occasionally spot in the wild.

He doesn't know the name of the girl in the photo. She's probably Joey's girlfriend. Joey never showed him the photograph when he was alive; Jon found it amongst Joey's things after he was killed.

He's still laying there, idly looking at the picture but not really focused on it, when he hears the gigantic roar of a low flying plane. Half in a panic, he stuffs the photo in his pocket, rolls over and scrambles for his helmet. He pulls it on, fumbling with the strap and then curls up in a ball with his flak jacket pulled over his body.

He senses more than sees the shadow of the plane pass over him. Every muscle stiffens — if the plane is a bomber, his flak jacket will be scant protection from even a close miss. At least if it's a tactical nuke it'll be over quickly.

After a few minutes he decides the Canadians aren't bombing them. He relaxes, crawls to the edge of the foxhole and peeks out.

Sitting in the middle of the field, dead between his hole and the Canadians across from him, is a large lump covered by a parachute. He blinks once, then grabs his rifle and begins to sprint towards it.

"A resupply!"

Immediate gunfire. The Canadians are shooting at him and the guys on his side start laying down cover fire for him. Bullets whizz past. The Canadians are genuinely trying to kill him this time, unlike their usual token efforts. When he gets near the pile of supplies, he dives the ground and crawls the rest of the way. His mouth is watering over the treasures that might be within. Instant coffee, beef jerky, bottled water. Perhaps even peanut butter.

Jon is just about to lift up the parachute when he hears a scuffling on the other side. He stands up, rifle in both hands and is confronted by a Canadian soldier holding is own rifle in a pose mirroring his own.

Jon notes the Canadian army issues the same rifles as the American one, although on the side of the Canadian's rifle a Coke decal has been applied right above where the ammunition clips in.

The Canadian soldier says, "Stay the fuck away from our supplies."

"Yours! That was an American plane."

Jon is pissed off by the gall of the Canadians.

"Yeah, it was. So back off."

"Why the fuck should I back off from my own supplies?"

"Your supplies? You fucking Canadians, you're even too stupid to know which army you're fighting for."

"I'm no Canadian. You're the Canadian."

"Fuck you, you are."

Jon resists the urge to respond with, "I know you are, but what am I?"

They stare each other down for a few minutes.

Jon says to the ugly motherfucker Canadian confronting him, "I'm not backing down. We haven't been resupplied in months and I'm not letting some goddamn monkey-faced Canadian steal it."

"You crazy fucker."

Jon sees the Canadian's eyes narrow a bit and pulls his trigger before the Canadian can. He ducks behind the crate, catching only a glimpse of the spraying gore.

The gunfire intensifies, but eventually some of his guys will come and help Jon haul the crate back to their lines. The Canadians will use up a bunch of ammo in protest, but Jon has secured his claim on the supplies.

He settles down to wait out the gun battle, trying to guess by the shape of the boxes jutting against his back what's inside.

"Crazy bastard," he says to himself with a snort, "As if I would have forgotten what side I'm on."

5 responses to "Week #36 - Jon The American "

Karen wrote: Tuesday, 23 Sep 2008 18:07 He forgot what side he was on, didn't he? This was almost depressing, by the way, but that could be because I'm sitting in a math-ish class (also depressing). BUT I DID LIKE IT. I did, I did. I like how he was proud of the underwear and that he stole the picture of the girl.

Erinn the Bold wrote: Wednesday, 24 Sep 2008 17:33 I thought his binoculars were broken?

Dana wrote: Wednesday, 24 Sep 2008 18:18 D'oh? Continuity error? I'll investigate and yell at Val, who is supposed to be my proofreader.

Erica aka skinnypiglovin wrote: Friday, 03 Oct 2008 17:42 Good story, Dana!

Victoria wrote: Thursday, 19 Mar 2009 22:32 That was really chilling and disturbing, in a totally fascinating sort of way. Way to go!

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