No Directions To Follow

Mom and Dad raised me to follow directions.  Their lessons stuck.  Never wanted to be an officer.  A grunt following orders, that was me.

That's not an excuse.  Just needs to be understood to see how the events of a patrol shook things up.

The Lieutenant was taken out by a sniper.  A decent guy, if still learning his job when he bought it.

Serge took over.

"Keep your heads down," he hollered.  "Once the copter picks the Lieutenant up, we'll move out."

Right to the point.  Sergeants are good at that.  No time for ceremony.

"Single file behind me," Serge said, taking the lead, and the greatest risk.  Too much risk as it turned out.

The bastards took out another decent guy with an IED.  Never had a chance.

We hunkered down, called in another copter, and sent the Serge homeward bound.

Probably because I was the "old man" at the age of 25, the rest of the patrol looked to me.

Out here, staying in one place makes you a target.  That's why the Serge moved us out.  I took the same approach, only in two lines.  Each could provide cover fire for the other.

An hour later, I gave a hand signal.  The lines separated a little more, and moved forward using a shuffle step.  Less noise and no rhythm to catch attention.

Five bad guys were eating their lunch behind a crumbling wall.

They were almost as surprised as the brass was when we called in their capture.

They were both more and less then they appeared.  High ranking, but not fearless.  They spilled everything they knew.

Leading a successful patrol increases your confidence.  Not to become an officer or non-com, but enough to take on the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge without a prompt.