"You okay, kid?" a familiar voice echoed from the darkness. Henry didn't flinch. A tall figure emerged and joined Henry, sitting alongside with long legs stretched on the floor.
Ridley was a veteran around these parts, having been in service for over ten years in the army. But behind the broad shoulders and war-hardened face was a man with a big heart, and tonight he's here to help the rookie catch hold of the harsh reality of war.
"I can't get that face outta my head, Ridley. It's crazy. This doesn't feel like war, man." Henry mumbled silently. He mumbles a bit again before letting out a long breath of air.
____________________
It was supposed to be a simple task. Breach, secure the sensitive documents, leave, and don't die. You always had to add that last bit, they always said. Henry always nervously laughed it off. Sure, death comes thick and fast around these neck of woods, but then again these men loved exaggerating and making a job as a soldier defying death everyday seem like any ordinary 9 to 5 day job.
The door was slightly ajar. Henry took point and discreetly nudged it open, creaks of friction between rust and metal emanating from the hinges. As a dwelling place for sensitive documents, the interior was more cleaner than expected, somewhat refined, almost. He pointed to a kettle on the stove just to the right. One of his squad mates felt its side. Immediately he withdrew his hand, wringing it in reply.
Someone was still around.
Henry beckoned his team back into formation, and proceeded on sweeping the house. No sooner than we had reached the first door did Henry get his first piece of action. Nonchalantly walking through doorway, a sudden crack of shattering glass resonated throughout the household. Looking down against the dim lighting, Henry notices the fishing wire still taut against his ankles.
"Tripwire!"
What happened next was a blur. The swing of a door further up the corridor. The crack of gunfire against the still of the night. The shouts of locals and Henry's own men amidst the crackles of their weapons. The bullets whizzing through the air. The shriek of pain as the insurgent was shot to his grave.
Henry wasn't involved. He was too engrossed on an outline of a person behind the insurgent. Before he died in a spectacular fireworks of 5.56 NATO rounds, of course.
He had contemplated shooting at the figure, but then it didn't really involve itself in the crossfire, opting rather to watch on. It was only after the gunshots had stopped, after Henry's men started to march on, did the figure rush forward, instigating Henry to line up his sights. But then it stopped at the lifeless body, blood now pooling, crimson red against the faint lighting.
It was a kid, Henry thought. He could hear sniffles and quiet moans of the child, probably mourning the loss of a brother, maybe even a father.
Abi...abi....abi...father...father..father...
The boy then looked up, eyes locked with intent on Henry's. The vague illumination did nothing to cushion the cocktail of anger, sadness and helplessness all radiating from two brown eyes.
"Henry, let's go, come on!"
Henry didn't hesitate, quickly getting back on his feet and carrying on with the team, but not before taking a last glance at the kid, now slowly diminishing from sight as he walked away.
__________
"How do you do it, man? How do you not break down seeing all that?"
Henry looked up. Ridley's answer was simple.
"I don't, man."
"When you come across these people, these civilians of the country, you can do anything, but you never look into those eyes of theirs. Look at their foreheads, look at their feet, anywhere. The pain showing from them eyes will crack you up."
