Chapter 1: Clash in the Desert
We're both into this world naked and screaming. If we're lucky, that's how we leave it. Yup, I'm talking about death--the one thing we all have in common. Or so I used to think.
Can we call it a common tie that binds us all when it meets us in so many different ways? Is the death you face with eyes wide open the same experience for the other guy, who got hit by a runaway bread truck?
We both comfort and terrify ourselves with the notion that we won't know when our number is truly up. You'll never see that stray bullet coming. Terminal cancer? Not always. You might last another ten, twenty years, and meet your end in a quiet sleep.
Me? I figured I've died a million different ways, jumping back and forth, over and over, changing and rechanging everything. History's written by the victors, you say? Then I'd say it's rewritten by the losers.
That is, me.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's set the scene.
Date: June 5, 1967
Location: Abu-Ageila, Sinai Peninsula
Mission: Prevent World War III
"Wait just a darn minute," you must be thinking to yourself. "Weren't you just in 1988?" Hey, who's telling the story here? I'll get to it. Promise.
Like I was saying about death, you just never know for sure how or when you're going to meet your maker, assuming you believe in one. I guess in that case it's meeting your unmaker--you know, worms and bacteria and so forth. The creepy crawlies in the dirt that feast on your corpse for all eternity. Some legacy, right? Make sure I'm cremated, will ya?
I scanned the area through a pair of binoculars, just for show. I certainly didn't need them to get a good lay of the land. I had a decent view from the top of a T-34. Soviet model, as I understand it. Egypt had quite a few of them--sixty-six in total for this battle, but thirty-three in this battalion, holding the area against an inevitable Israeli advance. No, I really didn't have any interest in this war. Not directly. I was here with a specific purpose in mind.
The darkness of midnight enveloped us, the only light coming from artillery in the distance, as the battle raged elsewhere. We were to stop the Israelis here. The Egyptians had put out a call some weeks prior to fill out their ranks with mercs, and the pieces fell into place. I definitely wasn't a Jew, and they couldn't make me for a spy, so they didn't ask too many questions--not after I proved I knew my way around a tank. I have to say, tank technology is one of those things that didn't change much over the years. Sure, things became more automated and less manual, but the basic idea remained the same: roll over here, blow something up, roll over there, do it again, and hope nobody hits you with an AT missile or manages to blow your tracks off.
Within a few hours, the Israelis would close in on our stopping line, and the formation would collapse. My so-called brothers-in-arms would run like scared children. The well-oiled Israeli infantry would clean up the rest.
There was little to do in the meantime but climb back inside my tank and wait. At 0407, I knew they'd arrived. Our T-34s had been refitted into tank busters, in keeping with the plan to stop the Israeli advance here. It would fail miserably, but I intended to succeed here. I did my job as instructed, spotting enemy tanks to take out as they came over the dunes. Combat grew closer and closer, and it was only a matter of time before my tank would be disabled. I expected the crew to desert when they realized the battle was lost.
Shell after shell rattled my battered Soviet tank, until it became immovable, the main cannon jammed, and our machine guns ran out of ammo. Nothing left to do but run.
The Egyptian tank crew said nothing to me as they climbed out and made for the hills. Good riddance. I came out soon after, watching the sun come up. Israeli tanks rolled by, chasing the vulnerable tank crews and remaining infantry from the area. A lot of perfectly good tanks got left behind, I noticed, not to mention some decent artillery. A real shame. At least the IDF would put it to good use.
It was one of those battles they made me study in Officer Candidate School, and seeing the tail end of it up close, I had to admire the way the Israelis managed to surround and take a position at which they were outmanned and outgunned. Superior hardware played a role, but so did tactics. On the ground, things are messy. People make mistakes. Information is often incomplete. The fog of war. In space, it's a lot simpler. There isn't often anywhere to take cover. Battles are won and lost on who has the most powerful engines, the most accurate weapons, the strongest hull plating. A maneuver like this would never work out there in the void, which is why it fascinated me.
The tanks cruised on past me as I leaned against the side of my battered T-34, lighting up a cigar. Pretty soon, infantry came through--mostly young men, a hell of a lot of reservists, called up for one of the shorter wars of the twentieth century. They didn't think much of me--it wasn't like I had an aggressive posture. Not even holding a weapon. Maybe they didn't quite process my presence, my lack of an Egyptian uniform, the obvious disparity in my complexion and demeanor. Or they were too busy chasing the bad guys up ahead to worry about some lone soldier who clearly didn't belong.
I scanned the faces of each one, looking for a positive match. Believe it or not, this was the easiest way I could find to locate my target. I knew for certain he'd be here on this day, at this hour, with these people. And it was at this point in history his influence could best be minimized. A footnote. A nobody.
I caught his face almost by accident. Young and lean, dark hair, moustache, a slight man. Practically a kid. He jogged past me without a second thought. "Mordecai," I called out in as forceful a tone as I could muster. He stopped dead in his tracks, turned to face me. His comrades paid no attention.
No time for discussion. I didn't want to hear him plead for his life, beg for mercy, tell me about his pregnant wife back in Tel Aviv, his future son who would grow up proud of his soldier father, a man who helped annihilate the Egyptians in the span of two days. That boy would latch onto his father's name and honor, rise to power himself, get a foothold in politics. That would go down to his son, and then the next. This man bore the seeds of the hawkish mentality that tore my world apart. His great-grandson would be there, egging it on, begging for war. Make them suffer. Make them pay. To hell with the innocent! There are no innocents in this world, only those who are naive of their own corruption.
It took a fraction of a second for me to play it out on my head. The son would have a war casualty for a father. The psych profiles on mother and father were clear. No father, no violence. No military. No political ambition. No pride. A nobody.
Just like his father. A bullet in his forehead and it was done. Blood mixed with sand. A few stragglers came back to check up on their friend, and wonder how they missed that Egyptian son of a bitch who took out their buddy.
But I was already gone.
"Scratch another one, DANTE. Good work."
Chapter 1
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Am I having a massive sense
Am I having a massive sense of deja vu here, or have I reviewed this one once before? Maybe I began it and then abandoned it for some reason? Oh well, whichever way, here's my notes:
The opening paragraph does not begin well;
We're both into this world naked and screaming. If we're lucky, that's how we leave it. Yup, I'm talking about death--the one thing we all have in common. Or so I used to think.
Firstly. We're both into this world... Shouldn't that be born? Well, actually, I would say thrust would be a better word to use here. Also, I don't know how lucky leaving it naked and screaming would be. When I die, I'm going to scream, simply for the sheer hell of it, but I'd prefer to at least be wearing some item of clothing.
A runaway bread truck? Shit, I hope not. That would just be about the most half-baked way to go. (Someone show me to the stage!)
That is, me.
I don't like this as a stand-alone sentence. You should work this back into the preceeding paragraph.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's set the scene.
I don't like that as a stand-along sentence, either. Paragraph structure can sometimes be a tricky business, it dictates the flow and tempo of the writing, and here, I think you're breaking it up a little too much.
Also, as a short intro, that intro, pre-date, is extremely short. It's like, here I am, but forget that, and let's do this instead. I think you're jumping around too quickly and should lead us in a little slower. Perhaps this would work better without such a bold date statement. You give us a date, letting the time shift settle in, but then you continue with the previous thought. I may be wrong here, but you haven't actually told us we were previously in 1988, so how can the reader's voice ask the question it does. I have just picked this page out from the "recent post" list, so if you do state about 1988 before this, then forgive me. But still, if you're going to perform the time shift you do, you should inform us of the pre-jump date on the same page.
"Wait just a darn minute," you must be thinking to yourself. "Weren't you just in 1988?" Hey, who's telling the story here? I'll get to it. Promise.
I also feel this paragraph is a little too conversational. You're providing the question for us to ask in too strong a way. Now, having read a lot of your writing on this series, I get that it is written in a very conversational tone, which is no bad thing, though many readers find it hard to get into. What do I mean by this? Well, essentially, the conversational context of it tells us everything that should be known, what it doesn't allow is for a reader to ask his, or hers. own questions, almost taking away from the imagination aspect of the reader's mind. Like I say, it's not a bad thing, but you have to be careful to avoid being so obvious and forthright as "Wait just a darn minute," you must be thinking to yourself. "Weren't you just in 1988?" Hey, who's telling the story here? I'll get to it. Promise. is. I hope you understand what I mean here. You're just telling us what we should be thinking, and leading the reader to strictly can be self-destructive. People are obnoxious, self-loving and obstinate. If you tell them how they should perceive, or react to something too strongly, you'll lose them.
Now, you may bridle at that and think "Shut up, you don't know what you're talking about!", but that's the way I see it. I don't actually care, or want to ask that question, and even though you have stated may you are still instructing us that's what we should be thinking. Maybe I'm just obnoxious, self-loving and obstinate?
Anyway, let's move on, shall we?
Make sure I'm cremated, will ya?
Ooh, no, please no. I don't care about cremation, but that ya, oh, no. It's outside of speech, it's in the main body of writing, it's just not right. Again, I understand the conversational feel, but colloqualisms such as this should be restraint to in-speech dialogue only. Slang is one thing, but unless you're Irvine Welsh (and let's face it, those are hard to get through), you should avoid using it outside of speech text.
Okay, now comes a huge chunk where I have nothing to suggest for, so this review won't be as long as it originally seemed it would be.
Ok, apart from those points at the start, the rest of this is pretty good. So, all-in-all, another fine page.