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One- Creative Writing Essay 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 mans 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 didnt know any of this. George didnt 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 Georges squad. Whaddya 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. Cmon, were 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. Okay, settle down now. He may look comical, but hes 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 6 hours. You were formed as a rapid reaction force. Today, you fulfil that role. There was a shocked silence in the barracks. Every man attended to his weapons and kit. They sat on their bunks, writing final letters, cleaning firearms, assembling combat gear; webbing, body armour, radio sets. They knew that without proper preparation, they were going home in a cheap wooden box. On the helicopter, George lay on a stretcher, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, unknowing of his weakening pulse and massive blood loss. There were two dressings around what was left of his legs, and a line in his arm. The rotors buzzed like maddened flies, and the medic next to him noted his pulse. George dropped out of the paroxysm of nothing he was in, and lapsed into another flashback. George Robertson woke up. It was too early. Hed got the sack yesterday from the garage where he worked. He remembered how the boss had said something along the lines of an irreparable deficit between costs and sales. George had said to his best friend Mark about how the boss quite possibly had a deficit between his mouth and brain. George had liked his job at the garage- he liked working with machines and going down the local afterwards with his mates. Out of all the jobs in Sheffield, all thirty of em, thought George, that had to be the best one. He had thought about going down the Job Centre, but what would they have for a lad with 5 GCSEs in Sheffield? The steel industry had packed up about twenty years ago, and no office would take him with his qualifications. Damn. Sheffield can offer me no more, he thought aloud. He needed a job where he could travel, and carry on working with mechanical stuff. Preferably without being a gypsy who fixed caravans, he chuckled. Just then, the pho ne rang. Hello?, George answered. He couldnt be bothered with anyone today. A right mate?, answered the voice at the other end, in a thick liverpudlian accent. It was Mark. You got any ideas for a job? Me mams chucked me out again George laughed aloud. Its true what they say about scouse families, then? As a matter of fact, I do have an idea for a job. What would you think about joining the army? Sounds good to me- pay, free house on a base could be just the thing. Hes destabilising! In the hot and damp medical tent, orderlies milled around the man who lay on the table in the centre of the floor. George was dying. He thrashed around on his bed, his mind not registering the pain his body was in. Finally, the surgeon arrived. He wore a bloodstained apron, with scalpels and capped syringes full of morphine hanging out of the pouch like a sinister infant kangaroo. He had a weather-beaten face; hed seen it all before, too many times. Whats going on with him?, the Doctor inquired. Massive internal bleeding he needs surgery now, sir, recommended a senior medic, brandishing x- ray photos at the Doctor, who brushed past him. Uncaring of the swirling melee, like a ghost in the night, the Doctor walked to George, who was still thrashing about on the table. The Doctor took Georges arm, and took a syringe from his pouch. The needle slipped into the skin, like the mouthpiece of a hungry mosquito. A thumb pushed the plunger, and the Doctor shouted Ten millegrams morphine going in. A minute later, the potent opiate did its work and the thrashing stopped. His pulse was still weak, but had slowed to a safer level. His blood pressure, though, the Doctor noted, was through the floor. The room was silent and still. The doctor breathed in long and slow. Get this man to theatre. Im going to do what I can.. The Doctor said, and walked away to get ready. Oh, and contact HQ. They have to inform his family. The shaking stopped as the ramp on the Hercules transport reached its fully open position. The thirty young men checked their parachutes one last time. They looked at the light by the door- still red. The men turned their heads to the standing figure of Lieutenant Lewis. He shouted out the orders that they already knew about and had studied countless times on the way to this god-forsaken place. Stand up! 60 seconds!, he shouted over the whistling wind. The men stood up, unclipping their arrestor hooks from their chutes. Clip on!. The men took the hooks and attached them to the line running the length of the cargo bay. 30 seconds! George looked over at Mark, who was facing forwards, looking at the helmet of the man in front. He heard another man whispering the Lords Prayer; someone else simply closed his eyes and raised his head to look at the ceiling. George thought of all of his friends at home, his family, his little sister, and his girlfriend. He had never had a chance to tell any of them he was shipping out. He thought more of them, imagining their faces, imagining their voices. A huge explosion interrupted his reverie, and the plane lurched to one side. One unfortunate man was thrown out the door screaming, spinning uncontrollably to his death. Another was hit by burning kerosene from an auxiliary fuel tank that exploded next to him, and ran screaming through the door. Missile hit! Repeat, missile hit! Evac, evac, evac!, the pilot screamed through the intercom. Ejecting! There was a roar as the pilot saved himself from certain death. Shocked, George looked at the still red light at the back of the plane. He muttered a hurried prayer. Lets go!, screamed the Lieutenant. No- one needed telling twice. Like lemmings running to a cliff, they charged for the exit. Some of the men got out in time. Others were not so lucky. The planes nose jerked upwards as another explosion severed the arrestor line, and all the men in the plane were thrown out of the door, all spinning. except for the charred remains of what had been the co- pilot, who had been immolated in the first hit. The plane span downwards, hitting the ground with a cataclysmic explosion. George coasted down through the sky. He was still processing what had happened on the plane- it had happened so fast. One second he was thinking of home, next second he had watched two men die. Was this war, he thought? Was this what it was really like, simply watching your friends die completely randomly and without reason? War was hell, he decided, and hed been in one for less than a minute. He wanted to go home. Back in Sheffield, the Robertsons sat watching the TV. They saw the pictures of air strikes on the Novistranos Islands. They saw the British planes roaming the skies, firing missiles at seemingly random intervals at unseen targets. Another year, another war, the correspondents had said. Itll be over soon, they prophesised like fortune tellers, as they always did. The telephone rang. Hello?, said John Robertson, in his gruff voice. Is that Mr Robertson?, inquired the voice. Speaking. What do you want? My son is in a war zone. If youre another double glazing salesman- John was cut off by the insistent voice of the caller. Mr Robertson, could you take a seat please? I have some bad news. Its about your son, George. I cant do any more. Stitch him back up, you. All we can do now is hope. The Doctor took off his gloves and walked away from the dying man. The Doctor knew hed be dead in a few hours. There was so much damage to his arteries. Almost all of them were ruptured. Anyway, the Doctor reasoned with himself, hed never walk again- he had no legs. He would have to have a colostomy bag too- that much damage had been done by bone shards from the pelvis, shattered into hundreds of pieces. The doctor went into his private room, lay face down on his bed, and wept. There were so many dead just so many. All young men with their lives ahead of them. War. War. War. A three-letter word, with so many implications. George thought again. He was drifting away from these thoughts now; he was running out of the energy to think them. He remembered back to when he hit the ground. George unclipped his parachute and took his SA-80 from his pack. He had come down in a clearing, luckily. In training, they had showed the pictures of men who had landed on trees. Nervously, he spoke into his radio microphone. Bravo 2-6 to any friendly units, respondBravo 2-6 to any friendly units, please respond, over Bravo 2-5 here. Whats your status, George? It was Mark. Im OK, he replied. The plane. How many got out alive? Do you know? I saw 12 chutes as I came down, including yours. I was last out. The last thing I saw was the back of the plane completely shearing in two. theyre all dead. Sixteen men hurled to their doom. Sixteen friends. Sixteen families. It all sank in. OK Ive looked at the map. Meet at grid 502-178, said Mark. Roger, see you- George stopped talking. Hed seen something move in the trees to his left. George immediately went prone, and looked around him. He crawled through the undergrowth, and saw a man walking away. He looked in his early twenties maybe the same age as George. He carried an AK-47, and wore a red t shirt, with the words Always Coca Cola emblazoned on the back. George moved again, this time snapping a twig. The man turned around, eyes wild with panic. He lifted his gun to shoot George. George instinctively pulled the trigger on his rifle. A shout of gun, and the man was on the floor. George lay there, stunned. Hed just killed a man. He got up to look at the man. and jogged. The rendezvous couldnt be far away now. A half hour later, George was being briefed by the lieutenant. They had 11 men in the squad, and the main force had landed on the beach a few miles away. Helicopters buzzed overhead.. Now that the war is through with me George stepped forwards. Im waking up I cannot see. His foot hit something metallic.. Deep down inside I feel the scream.. Landmine! shrieked a squaddie. George was in terrible pain. This terrible silence stops me.. The world went white. Now the world is gone, Im just one, Oh God help me.. The pain stopped. George remembered no more. Hes dead, Doctor.