Lost Soul

Soldiers never die they just...

By Bill Joyce

0
4 min.
21

To whoever finds this ...

This is my final testament to a life lived as I choose. I leave it to others to judge the value of my purpose and actions. I make no excuse or have any misgivings for the path I took in this lifetime. I believe that I was born to be a soldier and I will die as a soldier.

Chapter 01 – Note Left Behind

To whoever finds this…

This is my final testament to a life lived as I chose. I leave it to others to judge the value of my purpose and actions. I make no excuse or have any misgivings for the path I took in this lifetime. I believe that I was born to be a soldier and I will die as a soldier on the battlefield.

The last warrior team to know me calls me Jason Alexander Bennis. It is a name that has served me with distinction and includes an honorable discharge from the US Army Rangers. Do not spend time researching as it, too is an alias. The life before the army was not filled with the normal enjoyments of a childhood in America and my past is covered and to be left a mystery.

This locker holds the contents of my life. Pass them on to others who can make use of them. I have no family to consider except my brothers and sisters in battle. The three bank accounts are to be turned over to Sarge at WCM for distribution through his charities.

I know that the last battlefield is close and I ask my fellow warriors to grant me this one boon. Please let me lie on the field of battle. It is where I am most alive. It is where my soul will find its eternal rest. Do not drag my corpse home for stone markers and solemn mornings. To end in battle is the celebration I seek to fulfill my earthly adventure.

Signed

Jason A. Bennis

Soldier

Mission Wrap-up

The headquarters of WCM in Fort Davis, Texas had grown to include a separate ready room, called the bunkhouse, where mercs could come and store personal belongings while out on a mission. Joan’s silver and black 1963 Corvette Stingray maintained a prized position in the center of the room. Anyone entering the room knew Joan. There was no reason to provide additional protection. Her reputation, alone, made sure even the hardest merc wouldn’t touch her stuff.

Jason had a small locker along the back wall. He was also a frequenter of the loft bunks when he was not out on a mission. His life was all about the battlefield and, try as he might, Sarge rarely got the boy to seek other interests.

Sarge took it upon himself to make the final arrangements and was the first to read the note attached to a sealed folder containing the bank records. He sat on the stool in front of the bank of lockers, rereading the note and thinking back over the years since he met the ground pounder with an attitude and a smile. He would wander in from the desert and stand at parade rest near his office when he needed an assignment. Sarge had come to rely on his abilities and his desire for long-term missions usually as a solitary hunter.

Jason wasn’t a trained sniper like John, but he was good at quiet infiltration and information gathering. He was also very good at armed engagement leading from the front on the battlefield. It was on the battlefield in a devastated African nation that he had sent Jason to his death.

The mission was to rescue some missionaries and all knew it was going to be a hot insertion. All agreed to risk their lives. Eight soldiers were sent and seven returned, bringing out the three nuns and the priest captured by the warring faction. It hurt deep within the soul of the sergeant who gave the order. Success had a price to pay and it was another regretful burden the old soldier would have to bear.

Sarge called Angel to put the bar in Colcalcita on notice. In four days, on Thursday night they would hold a soldier’s toast. The town had become accustomed to the comings and goings of mercenaries and other members of WCM. The bar owner understood the need for the evening, being a retired marine no longer on the battle lines. He cleared out any delicate furniture and put away the expensive decanters and glass shelves behind the bar. In their place, he produced service pictures and flags from the regiments of those who would attend. They weren’t rowdy. Just larger than life compared to his normal patrons. They moved with a swagger that delicate furniture usually succumbed to, especially after the first ten toasts.

There, under the box in the locker, was a memoir written by the soldier they called Jason.

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About Bill Joyce

Bill is a writer of prose, a poet in his own mind, and self-proclaimed master of words. Long-windedness is due the personal enjoyment of his inside jokes, most of which fall on deaf ears. He calls himself an Author.

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