Forest Fighter

A bullet thudded into the ground a few yards away from me. I nestled closer against the butt of my rifle. The oiled weapon smelled sharp and mechanical, in contrast to the loamy soil and musty heaviness of the dead leaves all around. It was a beautiful day, with sunlight flitting in and out through the branches and foliage of the trees.

The forest was seemingly endless. We had been fighting our way in for months on end. Arriving in the middle of spring, turning the soft muddy ground into a dark gash of footprints for mile after mile. Now we’d met true resistance, but the recent summery growth provided ample cover for prolonged engagements. Another bullet plinked off of a tree, further away. Either they were no marksman, or they hadn’t actually seen us.

I hadn’t seen them yet either, but every shot they fired told me more about where they were. The dappled light made it hard to see anything in these woods; it was to both of our advantage. Night would come eventually, then the silence and darkness would keep us both alive until morning.

We’d been probing enemy positions for three days now. Their perimeter must be immense, because no matter how far in we pushed or crept, there was no sign of any building, just hundreds of stealthy scouts roaming the woods. My mind was drifting. I focused on the leaves far ahead, looking for patches of shadow where someone might be hiding the shape and glint of a rifle.

I found a spot, nestled close to a stately oak. There was a huge dead branch that had fallen half way down but still leaned against the trunk. Just in the middle I thought I could see some movement. There was a flash of light, and a moment later a round crashed into my shoulder. I slumped forward, face down into the leaves.