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He acknowledges the warrior's arrival with a slight nod. His coat is riddled with bullet holes, and yet it remains a handsome coat, its charcoal fabric unfaded. Already some of the men are setting upon him, wrestling his empty regulation pistol away from him, emptying the jar of bullets that has fallen to the ground by his feet, stripping him roughly of the coat. Congratulations, the captain says to the warrior. You made it. One of the young soldiers forces the captain's arm out of the jacket, and the appendage flops uselessly to the side, the rest of the captain following it, until he is pitched on his side, mouth puckered open, eyes unseeing as another young soldier draws a knife and slashes, freeing his utility belt from his body.  |
Take it, the warrior says to no one in particular. He wrenches his flak jacket off him, tosses it at the other soldiers. His inner layers as well, his utility belt, his canteen, anything with an insignia or style that signifies allegiance. Soon he is stripped down to a T-shirt, his pants, and his boots. The other men, still hovering over the captain's corpse, stare at him, the pile of belongings at their feet, and he can see deliberation in some of their eyes. Even though the thought may only last a moment, it is there: Should we kill him too? The warrior clears his throat. It is not meant as anything more than a pause, a moment to recuperate, but the sound has a guttural force to it, and the men take a step back as one. I'm done,  |
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