Chapter 1: A Knight’s Tale

            “A knight there was, and that a worthy man,

            That fro’ the time that he first began

To ride out, he loved chivalry,

            Truth and honor, freedom and courtesy…”

            -Geoffrey Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales

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      A large figure sat with its back against the wall, pulse racing, adrenaline flowing, breaths quickening.

      Breathing.

      In and out.

      Just breathe. Breathe deep.

      Ahhh!! Painpainpainpain! My leg... I-I see red! Lots of red!

      I-I can take it! It's just blood. Just blood.

      *Ratatat!!*

      Gunfire! Right, gunfire! That's why I'm here! That's how I got shot! That's why I'm behind this wall. That's why I'm in this house. Gunfire.

      -We were ambushed! That's it! We were just on our routine patrol and then-

      *BAM!!!*

      An explosion! An RPG! Our Humvee flipped God-knows how many times before we stopped. Must've hit the ground under us, 'cuz the chassis took the brunt of the shockwave. Unfortunately, so did Parsons. Said he always liked the window seat. Always said he could see the faces of the people we were helping. See their smiles. He saved my neck more than once, and now he ended up doing it by accident. I guess I can't pay him back for those times.

      Mackenzie musta flew thirty feet to be as far away from the 'vee as he was. I saw him when I crawled out of the debris. Had to run to the knocked-out fool and drag him into this house. He sat on the top of the 'vee, behind "Skipper", our gunner. He said they've been friends 'fore joining, but they were at each other's throats so often, I think he just got claustrophobic in that tin can. Fresh air despite the stale company, I guess.
      "Gilligan" and Tarski were in the front; not sure if either one made it. I bee lined for Mack so I didn't get the chance to look back. Especially when the shooting broke out. Everything they tell you in Basic means nothing if you can't handle the gunfire. The feeling of being shot at with the full intent of causing your death is the make or break moment that defines a soldier. You don't think when you're being shot, you act. Snap judgments separate the life and death of you or the soldier next to you. Those snap decisions also seem like lunacy when the adrenaline finally burns dry, or at least the ones I made that day did.

      There was a family huddled in the corner of the home, frightened by the fact that this likely would be their day to die. They would die, not because of anything they did, but because I chose on impulse to run into their house, and because someone wanted me dead in spite of whomever innocent would fall from their actions.

      I wouldn't have anyone else spill their blood on my behalf though. Parsons' unknowing sacrifice was already too much for my life, so this was the least I could do for this family. I looked into the father's eyes and patted on Mack's shoulder, passing the responsibility to him, whether he really understood me or not. Leg wound or not, I was leaving, hoping to draw all the fire away from the house and its occupants.

      I checked my M-4's magazine and safety. If I were to make it through this alive, Sgt. Tarski most surely would chew me out on how many rules in the manual I'd broke pulling this stunt. If he's still alive, that is. No guarantees.

      I placed my hand against the wall to try and stand without putting pressure on my bleeding leg, but it still hurt like no other. Hobbling slowly towards the doorframe, I was breathing heavily and feeling dizzy. I hastily peered around the corner, seeing no one, despite the sounds of gunfire persisting nearby. I tried to collect myself as best as I could before turning the corner to move back to the smoking Humvee. This time, however, I stepped out to an insurgent approaching the house. Our eyes locked as we both squeezed triggers. 

      I felt a the heavy impact of a bullet on my vest, knocking me prone. I saw a bright light briefly before feeling weightless, and then I slipped into unconsciousness.