Tuesday, August 17, 2004
Rating: R -- frequent, bloody violence
In the Irish Rising in 1916 against the British, a young Sniper lies in waiting on the roof of a warehouse.
The darkness had pulled itself like a blanket over Dublin City. Times were
tense between Britain and Ireland. A warehouse, dilapidated and abandoned, stood
opposite a bank on a dark street near the GPO.
A Kid lay on the rooftop. A .303 Lee Enfield rifle fitted with a sniper's
scope lay in his grasp. His finger waited, anticipant, on the oily trigger of
his weapon. 1916, the third day since the rising had broken out. He had turned
eighteen this year.
He had been drafted into a group of snipers, and been stationed around the
city. He found that he had quite a talent in sniping, when given a brief
tutorial by one of the older snipers. He was now one of the many snipers
stationed around the city. He was aware of several British snipers that lay in
wait for some sign of Irish activity, all posted on three different buildings
around the bank. One sniper on one, three on the other, and another lone sniper
lay down on a building just below the one Sean lay on, in a position he could
easily shoot him from. But something held him back. His youthful innocence, his
ignorance of the ways of a soldier held him from carrying out the duties of one.
The Kid noticed he freezing cold, and considered lighting a smuggled
cigarette. He removed one from the pocket in his jacket, and placed it between
his lips. He took out his lighter and lit.
The warm heat of the cigarette filled his mouth and throat.
Almost immediately several shots were fired from the lone sniper across the
street, and the bullets fortunately embedded themselves in the solid brick. Sean
spat the cigarette out and slammed down on it with his fist. The lone snipers
now knew his position, the one across the street and the one in the building
below him. He cursed his recklessness, and lay down as low as he could. The
sniper below him had to be taken out.
A feeling inside the Kid prevented him from taking his gun and shooting him.
He crouched down low, and peered stealthily over the edge of the building.
Through the darkness he could see the faint figure of a man, busy searching
in his kitbag, a long sniper rifle lying loyally at his side.
The man shifted his head slightly, and the Kid quickly withdrew his head from
view. He stayed still for a second and stared at the ground. The cold, eerie
midnight silence was the only sound.
All of a sudden, the tinkle of bouncing metal was heard. His eyes grew wide,
and he turned his head around to see a grenade, its metal shining malevolently
in the moonlight. He lay still for half a second, noticing the pinless-ness of
Without thinking at all, acting purely on impulse, he shifted his body,
clasped the grenade in his hand and flung it over the side of the building. A
scream came from the doomed British soldier.
The Grenade exploded halfway down, enough to do away with the British soldier
and to blow a mighty hole on the ceiling of the warehouse on which he lay.
The Explosion sent dust and tiny pieces of shrapnel flying, not to mention a
very visible blast. Immediately, the other British snipers began firing towards
The Kid's direction.
Fear and anxiety filled his mind. Would he ever get out of here? Would he be
struck with a fearful guilt for killing a man?
Suddenly, he was filled with a tremendous, fiery feeling. This war was his
time. Sniping his piece de resistance. All his body parts shook, his muscles
tightened. He was an Irishman and proud of it. Proud of the Country, willing to
do anything for it's independence and peace.
He mounted his rifle on the bars and looked through the scope. The British
soldiers had stopped firing, at least for the moment. He looked through the
scope and found the sniper above the shop opposite him on the street. He was
reloading his rifle and cleaning the scope, all in great haste.
The Kid aimed his rifle, his sweaty finger over the trigger. His aim was dead
in the center of the British Soldier's forehead. He waited.
The soldier put his eye to his scope and aimed his gun. The Kid was caught
off guard, and shuddered slightly as he pulled the trigger.
The 9mm bullet shot out of the barrel of his gun and zoomed through the air
at a speed of 250 meters per second. It reached the British sniper's scope and
broke through the glass., zooming right on through, it then penetrated the
eyeball, the impact pressure sending blood spurting out. The Bullet came to a
rest upon entering the brain and lay there.
The kid watched the British soldier slump over, dead, dropping his rifle on
the street below. He now brought his attention to the three snipers on the
building in the west of the area. He didn't take his time in capping off the
first sniper, taking aim and shooting him in the chest as he surveyed the area.
He winced and fell over the edge of the building. This alerted the other two.
They frantically lay down and got their weapons loaded.
Although he was on the tallest building, his being at least a storey over the
others, The Kid couldn't get a proper aim on them, with the light as it was and
with their frantic movement.
One of the snipers mounted his weapon on its stand and expertly aimed towards
the direction of the bullet, which had killed his comrade, had come from. He put
his eye on the scope.
The Kid, however, got him in clear view and pulled the trigger anxiously,
only to hear a disappointing click.
To his horror and utter dismay, he acknowledged that he had forgotten to
reload. He saw through his scope, the British sniper was aiming, directly at
He immediately threw his body to the right, as the opposing sniper shot a
bullet straight through the air, hitting the Kid in the shoulder as he moved. He
fell on his back. A Piercing pain filled his left shoulder and blood gushed out
from his wound.
He thought whether he was an expert soldier or a fool. Looking on the bright
side, if he hadn't moved, that bullet would have hit him in the head.
He lay on his back and groaned. Such pain. This was his first taken bullet.
He came to his senses and bandaged his wound, ripping the bandage with his
teeth. He felt moisture underneath the bandage, but was sure that the blood had
stopped. He waved his arm a bit, to see how practical he would have to be. It
hurt, a lot, but was not utterly unbearable. The Bullet hadn't gone deep, and
hadn't damaged any of his main cables.
The Kid was in serious danger now. He leant over and checked his rifle. If he
were out of ammo, he would have low chances of survival. Luckily he had three
extra magazines packed. And he also had his revolver if the need came to use it,
and a bowie knife if needs came that desperate.
He reloaded his weapon with one hand, and tried to hold his rifle in the
sniping position. Good, he was able to hold it properly without awful pain. His
aim was a bit shaky, but he could manage. He peered over the edge. The Snipers
on the other side of the street were taking it easy, thinking he had been shot
The Kid propped his rifle and aimed, and cleared his mind. One of the
soldiers was drinking from a flask, and his attention was elsewhere. The other
sat with his gun in his lap. He would take him out first, him being the more
prepared. If the drinking soldier was shot, this fellow would have his rifle up
in a second, ready to shoot.
He pulled the trigger and shot the soldier in the chest. He dropped his gun,
his arms shot sideways with the impact. Lingering on the edge of death, he
looked like Jesus on the cross. This was a crucifixion with bullets.
The Kid shot another bullet to kill him, it hit through the bottom lip, and
the back of his head blew out.
He fell backwards.
The Drinking soldier abandoned his flask and rifle, choosing to flee for his
life. The Kid shot several clumsy bullets after him, missing him each time, and
he lost view as the soldier jumped onto a ladder and descended.
He waited. There were no more snipers in the area, and the fleeing sniper was
no longer under his responsibility.
He gathered his things, and left behind any unneeded items, such as his empty
flask, used rounds, and a newspaper he had brought to pass the time till
He slung his rifle over his back, and headed for the stairs. He walked
through the 3 floors and left through a side entrance, into a dark alleyway. He
stood and looked around; there was no sign of any activity. He walked down the
alley, and out onto the street.
Bang! A pistol sounded almost right beside the Kid, but the bullet embedded
itself in the butt of his rifle. He swung himself around to meet the British
soldier, pulling his piece from its holster. Another deafening gunshot sounded
as the soldier shot the revolver from the Kid's hand, sending it flying
backwards. He yelled at the top of his voice, acting purely on instinct, running
like a madman towards the British soldier, and shouldered him extremely roughly
in his chest. The soldier struggled, winded, and shot a bullet into the air. The
Kid kicked the soldier, who remained quite calm although he moved frantically,
and unleashed a series of blows to his face and torso with his fists, knocking
the soldier's revolver to the ground.
The British soldier was several years older, about twenty-seven, and the
Kid's strength was not strong enough. The soldier tripped him to the ground, and
grunted as he whacked the Kid viciously.
He quickly retrieved his revolver from the ground amid the beating and aimed
it towards the Kid's face.
The Kid struggled, pulled his knife from the scabbard, and tripped the
soldier by his legs. The soldier gasped and fell forward, landing directly on
the Kid's upturned knife. The knife plunged through the soldiers gut, embedding
itself to the hilt.
The look in the soldier's wide eyes was hellish. The eyes were as wide as
saucers. The pupils turned into dots, all color leaving his face. He gasped.
They remained in that position for three seconds, and a drop of blood dripped
from the soldier's lip. To the Kid's amazement, a look of complete peace came
over the soldier's eyes, and his body slumped over to the side.
The Kid rolled over, shifting the heavy corpse. He sat beside the dead
soldier, immobile for the moment, a tear of shock and stress flowing down his
cheek. Amidst this skirmish the blows had affected his shoulder wound. The pain
increased dramatically, and he passed out.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The Kid came back into consciousness several hours later, in a daze. He
noticed the gentle rocking of a truck. Maybe the British had captured him, or
maybe he'd been found by his own troops. Relief spread through him though, when
he heard two soldiers beside him speaking in Dublin accents.
He sat up and felt his wound, bandaged up and still in pain, although much
"Hey, Mick, this fellowҒs woken up at last." said a soldier beside him.
" Where am I? Where are we going?" managed Sean.
"We're in a truck, an we're on the way to the Jacob's Factory, and there
you'll be all fixed up."
"You're some sniper for your age, lad." he continued, "It's thanks to you
that this battalion wasn't killed back there where we found you."
But Sean couldn't acknowledge this, as he was already asleep. He descended
into a dream in which the war ended and Prime Minister Asquit and Michael
Collins shook hands.
The soldiers from both sides went home to their families and friends, and
life was something that could be called peaceful.
on 08/17 at 06:17 PM