Picture
You never really know what it is going to provoke the guilt, but you do know something eventually will.  And when that something does, it comes out of the clear blue.  It is one of those things that you cannot protect yourself from; you fool yourself into thinking that you can anticipate it, that you can control the situations that lead to it, but you cannot.  There is only one fool when you seek to fool yourself.  You would think that I have learned that by now.  Kate's Diary has 13 entries, this in number 9.


Here in Sierra Vista, tensions are still high.  The wildfires have everyone primed in a way that things which they wish to get off their chest find voice in the right company.  The good thing about the wildfires is that life has not been lost.  While people are thankful to the firefighters for this, the loss of lives past resurfaces… in the right company of those whom are cherished most.  For that, I am thankful.  It is hard though, listening to the stories of those closest to you sharing their coping of the loss of loved ones’ past.  It takes me back to days of old.  When the inner rouge roamed free.  The stalking wicked, merciless in his own right.  He never missed and vengeance birthed the banality of evil.

There was nothing worse than the Barrett.  Thirty pounds of pure hell.  A day on the range meant a week of soreness.  Forty .50 Cal rounds would have you feeling like your arm was about to fall off, the recoil was simply brutal.  I hated it.  Plain and simple.  I was good with it because I knew the math the behind it.  I hated it because the weapon was as unforgiving on the shooter as the shooter had to be on his enemy.  The Barrett was just in an unjust world.  You can only imagine my displeasure being put on it.  It wasn’t the extra weight, it was that lugging it generally meant using it, and using the Barrett meant… well, using the Barrett.
Picture

Dryfus was instinctive.  He just followed gut and would randomly do things because his gut told him to.  I bare the scar of his gut to this day as he yanked me out of the path of a sniper round.  It just grazed my left arm.  Burned like all hell.  Heart level, left bicep and triceps as he pulled me to the right.  Three seconds later, we heard the discharge of the weapon.  A sweet shot ruined when you calculate the distance and factor in the wind.  A very sweet shot ruined by Dryfus’ gut.  I owed him big for that one. 

There was no one with Drufus and his gut to protect him two days later… a debt gone unpaid.

The mission was simple; “immobilize a troop transport - targets of opportunity as presented.”  Perfect for the Barrett and incendiary rounds.  One shot into the engine block and it was over, a target far larger than what we trained to.  Only it would not be the engine block sighted in on; it was the perfectly presented fuel tank.  Stopping the truck meant very little to me that day.  Igniting the truck meant watching the retched occupants burn to death; flames would escort them to hell, no better than the rogue in me to inflict the worst imaginable fate of will upon the retched – a far more enticing thought.  They could sit and await a death of flames, or they could attempt to run and be slaughtered from afar.  Either way, a meeting was being arranged and my hand was to deliver destiny.

The recoil tight and sharp as the dust was shaken from the rooftop.  Two thousand and two hundred meters later sparks ejected from the fuel tank.  A second round exploded into the driver’s side door.  The truck stalled and stopped as flames started spewing from the tank.  It was just a matter of time before the unfolding fate would be realized.  A third round thundering into troop compartment was released to hasten the reality. 

From the rear the troop compartment, occupants began hopelessly scurrying for cover.  Short lived was the safety of the open air.  My sense of humanity was left in the fallen gut of another.  While running for your life is better than sitting and awaiting death; on this day, opportunity was a mere target awaiting a discretion that would never come.  One by one, some two by two, magazine after magazine, the dismembered heaps piled.  Vengeance in the turnabout of foul play.  The incontrovertible deliverer of death had spoken.
Picture

For when the rogue walks, the enemy is laid to rest.

And they fell.  Husbands, fathers, sons and friends that would go forth to be mourned at times when they were least likely to be remembered.  Days like this one when good friends come together for the sole purpose of enjoying each other’s company.  Their names will be called off followed by the profound memories of their simple smiles, laughs and aspects that made them the individuals they were.  Snuffed from existence by the rogue from long away.

That is what makes such random turns in discussions difficult.  Watching how we mourn our own while feeling the guilt of forcing those to mourn in similar fashion.  Watching the anguish while knowing how much anguish I have caused.  Innocent days turned into difficult emotion.  A skill set good for one thing and one thing only; to bring death and force a will upon the unsuspecting from a soul where benevolence refused to exist.

Watching those close to you mourn those whom were once close to them can be unsettling.  You assume the guilt for their emotion.  Not that you have harmed them, but have harmed so many of the innocent like them; and even enjoyed doing it. 

Sitting on the rooftop methodically acquiring and neutralizing targets was justice served my way.  It felt great avenging a brother.  A sense of remorse only to follow in the years later at the hands of those mourning their own.  When the reality of death transcends the reality of life.

Don’t forget to follow me on Twitter @PJ43033, add me on my personal Facebook , or like my Facebook Fan Page.