A CHILD IN RED (1): Horrors of War
The helicopter lifted off, its rotor wash flattening the dust around Specialist Walsh and his fellow Archangels on the gravel Landing Zone (LZ). Sergeant Kerr had recommended they name their platoon Archangels because “They were the good guys, but totally badass.”
Wind from the rotor wash coated his rucksack and duffel bag with a thin layer of gray dust. He tipped the rucksack on its side and banged it against the ground, hoping to knock some off before throwing it onto his back.
The smell of burnt fuel lingered in the air below the helicopter. It blended with the damp smell of wet stone. Everything was cool and dingy here. The clouds hung low, choking out the sun. The Archangels would have their work cut out here at Combat Outpost (COP) Najil.
Sergeant Owens met them at the LZ and walked them up to their barracks. The entire base was built into the side of a hill. It was a series of steps flattened out to support the American construction, linked by a winding road that snaked its way almost a thousand meters up to the Death Star. The Death Star was an observation position designed to allow maximum visibility in the valley, and like so many other things, the previous unit hadn’t taken advantage of it.
“Your barracks are all ready for you guys. The last platoon bailed on us yesterday,” Sergeant Owens explained to them.
“No, battle hand off huh?” Sergeant Kerr asked.
“Apparently not, they took the first bird out they could, weren’t shy about it either,” Owens replied.
They walked up the sandbag path to the level above the LZ and followed Sergeant Owens to a stone path leading to yet another level. “That right there, is the Internet center,” he said, pointing at the small wooden building with sandbags on the roof and a satellite dish pointing into the sky. It was on the same level as a row of wooden barracks.
He guided them up another sandbag stairwell, which led to a larger road and a row of barracks hidden behind more sand-filled barriers. Spray-painted on the walls of the building were various images of hell.
“I would have preferred a pin-up model riding a missile or something,” Specialist Miller said.
“For real, I just want to dump my bags,” Walsh said, looking at the depiction of the river of blood with the tortured souls scrambling to get out. Devils paddled around in small rowboats, holding peoples’ heads under the water with their oars while their arms flayed above the surface.
“They did do a really nice job, though,” Miller said, staring at two centaurs on the river’s edge firing arrows at various sinners within.
Walsh adjusted his pack and pulled his rifle strap off of the part of his neck that it had already rubbed raw. “I’m going inside to dump my shit.”
“Cool, I’m right behind you,” Miller said.
Sergeant Kerr was walking into the building beside it. “This one’s mine. You guys are in that one.” Kerr pointed at the adjacent building. “That’s the junior enlisted barracks.” The buildings ran parallel to a cliffside, where a row of benches had been set up and a small pile of cigarette butts was in the center. Walsh opened the door of their barracks and found a series of makeshift walls. It looked like some Mad Max creation, an amalgamation of junk used to construct something functional.
“You got the second room on the right,” Specialist Agdal yelled. “I better not hear you masturbating tonight in there.”
“Why? You going to be too tempted to join me?” Walsh said, passing the first door and maneuvering past the protruding springs of the bed frame laid on its side to create a wall. The room was small, barely large enough for his bed and the table in the corner. He lurched forward and dumped his bags onto the bed. The cheap wooden bed was set onto four metal ammunition cans, flipped upside down, and worked well to elevate the bed, allowing more storage capacity underneath.
“Asalam alaykum,” a quiet girl’s voice said from behind him.
Walsh spun, banging his foot against the ammo can and knocking the can out from under one of the legs. The other wooden legs slipped from the metal cans and crashed onto the ground. He jumped back to avoid further damage, then looked to the doorway where he had heard the girl’s voice… but she was gone.
“What the fuck, Walsh?” Agdal yelled down the hall.
“For real, bro. What if I was trying to sleep?” Miller added from his room.
“Fuck you both,” Walsh said, turning around to his leaning bed, the back leg the only one remaining on the overturned ammo can. It listed lazily back and forth.
Climbing underneath, he raised the bunk with one hand and maneuvered the other three cans back into place with his free hand and foot. Once each can was in place, he looked closely at it to ensure it was settled.
“Qoo qoo qoo barg,” a girl’s voice quietly sang above him.
Nervously, he looked out and saw two small feet dangling off the edge of the bed.
“Miller!” Walsh yelled.
“What bro?”
“Come here and get this kid out of my room while I fix my bunk?”
“Fuck, man. A kid?”
The two small feet kicked casually and the girl continued to sing, “Qoo qoo qoo.”
From under the bed, Walsh saw Miller’s feet appear in his doorway, “What fuckin’ kid are you talking about?” Miller asked.
“Ummm, the one sitting on my bed.”
“Bro, your shit is the only thing on your bed.”
“Qoo qoo qoo,” she sang sweetly.
“What does she look like?” Miller asked indignantly.
“Fuck, I don’t know. All I see are her dirty red sandals. Don’t you see her?”
“Other than your dumb ass sliding around on this rodent-infested floor, no.”
“Qoo qoo qoo,” she continued to sing.
“You don’t see a little girl on my bed?” he asked, desperate now.
“I don’t get it,” Miller asked, confused about the conversation.
“You don’t see her?”
“Nope. But if there were a girl there, I would help you bang her. Is that what you are asking me?”
Two small feet kicked innocently above him while his elbow rested in a hard pile of rat droppings. His hand was dangerously close to a readied mousetrap.
“Well, I appreciate it,” Walsh ceded, sliding out from underneath the bed. I’m going crazy. It’s the first day, and I’m seeing an imaginary child.
“Whatever, it’s only the first day. Don’t be losing your mind just yet,” Miller said as he turned around and left the room.
He nervously watched the two dirty feet moving back and forth while she sang the same chorus over and over. A piece of him expected to emerge from underneath the bed and find two severed feet dangling. But when he looked, she was sitting as innocently as any child. She wore a long red dress with a simple red scarf wrapped around her head and had the brightest green eyes he had ever seen.
“Asalam alaykum,” she said with a big smile.
He sighed.
“Wa alaykum,” he finally replied, exhausting his knowledge of the local language.
She grinned and began to sing. Behind her was a mountain of bags to unpack. Walsh looked around and leaned around her to grab his personal bag. He pulled out a pad of paper and the box of crayons his niece had gotten for him to give to a village classroom when he arrived.
After showing the girl the paper and crayons, he set them on the small table and motioned her toward them.
“Laa ma sara marsta wakra,“ she said, extending her arms to him.
It only makes sense that the little girl I’m imagining is needy and has me wrapped around her finger already.
Walsh set his hands under her armpits and lifted her off the bed. Setting her down on the ground, she walked over to the table and began to draw. With her distracted and out of the way, he began to unpack.
For an hour, she sang quietly to herself while Walsh unpacked.
Smack.
Miller’s hand connected with the wooden frame of the wall outside his door.
Walsh jumped.
“You ready to see what kind of slop the cooks have prepared for us?” Miller asked, taking a step into the room.
“Umm, yeah,” Walsh replied, glancing over in the corner to see his companion had abandoned him and left only a small drawing behind.
“I see you have been busy,” Miller said, holding up a drawing of Walsh in his uniform and holding hands with a small girl in red.
“So it seems,” he replied, surprised that the drawing was real.
“Is this the girl you were going to share with me? She’s a little young for my tastes. You know I like my women, you know…women.” Miller laughed, setting the drawing back down and walking out of the room.
Walsh looked at the drawing and headed out the door.
This is going to end up being one of those movies in which it turns out I’m the serial killer, and I didn’t even know it.
Dinner was turkey disk and gravy with something that resembled mashed potatoes. Leave it to the army to make mashed potatoes a questionable food item. Walsh left most of the conversation to Miller, who was happy to talk about his opinions of the valley, its people—whom he had yet to meet—and their leadership.
He returned to the room to find three more drawings. Each drawing was of the small girl and himself: one inside the room, another outside the building, and a final one on the LZ with a Blackhawk behind them. Only the Blackhawk had a red cross on the side of it.
She didn’t return for the rest of the day, and although he expected her to be staring at him when he woke up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night, she was nowhere to be seen.
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The Story continues in The Horrors of War series.
If you want to know what happens after the last drawing burns, explore the larger story in Objective Two (OBJ 2)—a novel that expands beyond Kevin’s perspective and dives deeper into the haunted valley of Najil, the soldiers who survive him, and the darkness that won’t let them go.
Download Objective 2 – EPUB, MOBI, PDF
Book one of The Horrors of War series is available here.
