Private Jim

by John Wells

It was Private Jim’s very first deployment, and he was nervous.  He had never faced a real enemy before, only the simulations in boot camp. But this was the real deal.

He could smell the smoke, hear the distant bombs, and feel the ground tremble under his feet.  Sweat gathered on his forehead and his breath shortened as he and his company got ever closer to the enemy.

Jim was the son of an avant-garde florist and conflict was not in his nature.  Training had been brutal.  He barely passed.   But now there was a war on and the country needed every able-bodied citizen to fight the evil narcissist at their border.

At last the commander called out “Halt!” as they reached the edge of a field.   Jim’s heart sank – for they were at the front line.  He could hardly think straight.

The commander shouted for them to take up their positions and Jim fumbled with his gear.  His head was swimming, his hands were trembling, but he finally got the box open and pulled out an olive drab typewriter, set it up on a tripod, pulled out a small stool, and sat down.

“Get those keys moving!” shouted the commander.

Jim fumbled with the shift lock  and the carriage return, and finally got a piece of paper wound into the paper bail.  Slowly at first, but picking up speed as he gained courage and confidence, he typed, “We fart in your general direction! Your mothers are hamsters, and your fathers smell of elderberries!”  He ripped the page out and handed it to the commander.

“Ah, a classic!  Nice job private.” The commander rushed it to the artillery men who loaded it into a cannon and shot it deep behind enemy lines.

Jim twisted another page into his machine. This time he’d try some new material on them!