LEST WE FORGET 381 IRAQ Postcard Fiction by Jeanne Palmer The muffled gasp for help came from Greg’s left. He saw the guerrilla aiming his gun at a young boy approximately seven or eight. The village had spring from nowhere.Without stopping to think he ran toward the assassin hoping to tackle him before the gun exploded. Their platoon would quietly hesitate to shoot. To hesitate often meant death in this hellhole. His tackle wasn’t smooth but it flattened the man and flung his gun out of reach. From the corner of his eye, Greg saw the child standing frozen unable to move, the smell of fear and urine strong in the air. With all the power he could muster he slugged this excuse of a man who thought nothing of shooting a child. “Soldier! Stand down?” Even in this uncontrollable rage his fist stopped of its own accord before he could hit again. From early training days it was drilled into every man that when this command was given they stopped whatever they were doing. Panting, Greg slowly looked at the blood dripping from his arm and hand. The villagers were standing in shocked silence. He started rubbing the blood onto his pant leg only to realize he wasn’t wearing fatigues but swimming trunks. The blue waters of the Atlantic sparked beside him. Like a caged animal, he looked around. “Oh God, what have I done?”
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