Short Story

The story that this book tells is the personal story of the deployment of Nicholas Irving aka ‘The Reaper’ a Ranger sniper during a 100 day deployment to Afghanistan, during which this sniper has 33 confirmed kills. The author tells us of his feelings and his actions during the various encounters, and while he does not tell the story of each and every one of his kills, it shows stories of how the modern battlefield works in places like Afghanistan and Iraq.

As the plane lands in Atlanta, Georgia two hundred others and I are escorted by Drill Sergeants to the buses. Several hours go by and finally I arrive at Fort Jackson, South Carolina. I glance at my watch, it’s three o’clock in the morning. The Drill Sergeants are screaming “MOVE PRIVATES! WE DON’T HAVE ALL DAY!” I run as fast as I can to formation just to stand at the position of attention for three hours. The morning sun is beating me in the face and the Drill Sergeants are still yelling.

As I left my foxhole, Lieutenant Gipson quickly spotted me and instructed me to walk over. He told me that he wanted me to help him dig his foxhole. He commanded me to go retrieve the shovels from behind the tree across the sod. I hurried over to the tree and got a hold of the shovels. When I laid hands on both of the shovels, both of my hands still shivering and shaking. I could hardly even pick them up, so I decided to lug them under my armpits. I was certain my hands were quivering because as Azar fell to the ground when Lieutenant Gipson hit him, I remember him striking my hand with his head as he fell down. I knew they were going to quit behaving like this. When I made it to Lieutenant Gipson’s area, my hands were still shaking. I didn’t know how I was going to be of service to Lieutenant Gipson since I could not hold the shovel properly. Consequently, I told him that I broke both of my hands, so I was unable to help him. As a consequence, he told me to sit down out of his way. We started talking and that’s when he began to tell me his life story and how he got here in Vietnam. He told me that he was from Mississippi and both of his parents got slaughtered by the Ku Klux Klan when he was 18. His mother had always wanted him to go and fight in the military. However, he wanted to attend university and study medicine. When his parents passed away, he instantly knew that he had to go fight for America to satisfy his mother’s orders. He told me that he wanted to see everything in his mother’s viewpoint as she was a wise woman. He looked in his bag and showed me is father’s boxing gloves from his last boxing match before he died. He also told me that the night of his last boxing match is when he could not make it because he was in trouble with the cops for burning down one of the member’s house. He didn’t regret the events of his childhood because it was the reason why he is fighting in

Approaching the American breastworks in the pitch-black night was not the most reassuring feeling in the world. True, our forces were far superior to the motley crew of American soldiers that lay before us, but confidence could only do so much for a man in my position. The thought of dying at the hands of these insane, untrained American soldiers crept into my mind and distracted me from my surroundings. Stumbling slightly in the darkness, I stopped dead in my tracks when I realized just how close we were to the breastworks. I held my breath and crouched down, as did many other men around me. All other sounds around us ceased. Slow, cautious movements and near-inaudible whispers came from behind the breastworks. I scanned my dark surroundings

When the helicopter landed, I was the first out. I was greeted by a small, scrawny man holding a clipboard, one of the paper-pushers as the Sergeant in charge of leading us called them - they didn’t fight, they only made sure supplies got where they needed to be - and that nothing was missing. The moment we got off, shots began to ring out. I had no idea what to do, I didn’t know from where the bullets were coming. The tree line to the north was empty, the citizens were running for cover - my brother was already dead - and he hadn’t even exited the helicopter. I realized who was shooting now.

As I stood in the gunner’s hatch completely focused with a firm grip on the 240B machine gun that was mounted on top of the Stryker I was assigned to. I listened to all the radio traffic that was being sent across the net hopeful and eager that maybe there was a chance we could recover the Soldier that had been taken captive. My heart was racing and the anticipation was high that night as it was pitch black and all you could see was the gun fight’s that were ensuing all throughout the Area of Operation (A.O.). As I scanned the surrounding area we were assigned that night to block off, all that kept running through my mind was we have to get this guy back.

“War” develops throughout a year in the Korengal Valley of eastern Afghanistan. The delightful, rough landscape is sharply chilly in winter and bursting hot in summer, the troops enduring in primitive conditions through long extends of pounding weariness punctuated by brief, nerve racking scenes of battle. Junger was right in the heart of the activity. Truth be told, he 's so much a part of the contention that he 's constrained as a writer to think about the topic of whether to take ownership of a weapon he may really need to shoot in battle. The substance of this war, battled in such is impromptu creation, as a rule including brief yet serious firefights with a frequently undetectable foe. The way to every trooper 's survival lays more on his unit 's capacity to connect than any demonstrations of individual gallantry, a perception Junger bolsters with authentic material and research on the

The men of SOG stepped into enemy saturated terrain and just after dawn, already dripping wet from due and humidity (Fluty, 2011). Left to their devices, the jungle was hot and oozing with what American GI’s came to call “the funk” (Bogguess, 1969). The next thing Col. Robert Howard, then a Sargent First Class (SFC) can remember is feeling the cool rush of blood over his head and eyes (Fluty, 2011). He was wounded horribly from an ensuing ambush that would instantly kill half the men with him that morning (Feherty, 2010). The men who were still alive ascended into the jungle to take cover and as Col. Howard came back to his senses, he could not see and his physical mobility was all but gone (Fluty, 2011). The next thing he recalls is a deluging and powerful smell of burning fuel and flesh. Col. Howard surmised that in his immobile and blind state that he too would soon burn alive. Then his site returned, soon followed by dexterity in his limbs. It was at that moment he retrieved a fragmentation grenade from his load carrier. The North Vietnamese soldier charring dead American and Vietnamese soldiers with a flamethrower suddenly stopped, nearly standing over Howard when they both realized that he was still a member of the living (Fluty, 2011).

Oh great it’s the sergeant is chasing me great why can’t I get a break.i’m really tired. I’ve been running all day. Okay he is getting close perfect a bunch of bushes.know he’s stopping what is he doing at this point. Yeah yeah hover right over the bushes where I am okay I should stop. Why does he breath so heavy seriously who does that it’s like a he’s blowing a tornado.finally he’s leaving seriously I was going to get blown away from that guy i don’t even know why i’m still talking about this. That was weird.time to get back on track. Yay more walking to the armory seriously this all happened in one day.okay i’m finally at the armory. You're kidding me there is no ammo our guns. So now I have to get ammo from the bodies gross still in one day.now i’m at the raid site my legs are on fire i’m so tired okay back on track. Time to pull the gun from the body. okay pulling the bodies cold gripping flesh this is completely normal done did it never going to forget that.now I got new ammo and a gun one clean shot should do it. Oh I see him. Boom! Done it’s over. Perfect timing a time window time to really go home. Finally back at the lab. Time to go to bed. It feels good to be in my time

“Where were you, soldier?” demands Sergeant Emerson as he raises his rifle. The man’s brown eyes widen with fear, while he searches the soldiers’ faces for someone he knows. Everyone remains rigid, but out of the corner of my eye I notice a

I had been awake for over 40 hours when they issued us our M16-A2 Service Rifles and cleaning kits. Little did I know that I would be spending night and day with this rifle and it would become a part of me. Receiving our rifles was the highlight of the day, we knew it was real now. After the armory we put on all 50 pounds of gear and walked for what seemed like miles to our new home, 4th Battalion Platoon 4005 Upper Deck Papa Company A Side. When we were introduced to our new home we were told to label all our new issued gear. 2 pairs of combat boots, 4 towels, 7 pairs of underwear, 7 sports bras, 2 sets of utility camos, etc. Once we had finished labeling all our gear we were able to hit the racks, I was asleep before my head hit the pillow. Being awake for 54 hours had taken its toll on me. But I knew this was the easiest day we would have during our stay.

My new, too-small boots make a loud thumping sound as I scuff through the enormous dirt landscape that seems to go on indefinitely. I can feel my belt tight around my waist heavy with bullets I pray that I don't have to use. The helmet I am wearing is strapped too tight under my chin, slightly pinching my neck. The open plains here remind me of a farm, once holding animals, now holding soldiers. After standing around awkwardly for a few minutes, watching everyone go about their training someone notices me and begins to come over to the ancient wire fence entangled with undergrowth that I have taken refuge near. The man struggles through the unruly crowd to reach me and immediately I notice that his uniform is different to mine, this man looks as if he is very high up in the ranks, perhaps a general. "'Ey son, how are ya?"

We picked up guns and bullets from the men that we killed. They were spread out and unprepared. We bolted down the street; most didn’t even see us coming. At one point our group of thirty soldiers encountered a few that had taken cover in a nearby neighborhood—not far from where I lived. We exchanged shots for a while before suddenly hearing the sound of rifles as their shots died out. We looked up to see from the windows above, people with hunting rifles, helping our cause. I looked up the street to see my mother and father, with a few windows unbarred, each had a rifle in their hands as well.

The next morning I woke up dreading what was to come. We were giving breakfast as well as a short period of the to get changed into our uniforms. Once we were ready, we were loaded into lorries as transported us to the trenches. Each man, including Stefano and I, were given a gun. I was given a M1903a3 Springfield rifle. It was known for being a reasonably powerful weapon. They used to train us as young boys, to shoot a gun. Nevertheless, I still dreaded the idea of actually operating one. As impressive as it was, it was notwithstanding the expectations of most men that were stood beside me.

The Drill Instructors stood stiff, barely moving to breathe. Finally, what seemed like hours later, the clock strained its long hand to ten o’clock. Showtime. A loud alarm signaled the attack and the Drill Instructors wasted no time to pounce on their prey. I charged first, stealthily pulling out my knife hand from behind and signaling orders. My knife hand cut through the air, sending recruits in every direction as they frantically searched for their right spot. My words were zipping through the air like bullet rounds. In my peripheral, I could see Sergeant Roller grinning from ear to ear, I had done it. I no longer needed my shell of protection, I was capable of standing on my