Ryan heard the unmistaken pop of gunfire in the distance. The shots weren’t directed at his platoon. Not yet anyway. Private Ryan wondered how long until the shots started zipping over his head. It didn’t matter, he thought, he had his plan. The one he always had, the one that always worked.
He was 8 months into the war and bravery wasn’t the reason he had made it through Tunisia; bravery wasn’t going to be the reason he was going to now make it through Sicily.
Private Terrance Ryan didn’t even want to join the Army, he had no interest in joining at all. He did join though, after a night of drinking just a little too much, to impress a girl. That was Private Ryan in a nutshell, thinking with his cock but he realized early the best way to make it through a war. When the gunshots started, he simply waited until it was the most chaotic, then found a nice quiet spot to play dead.
A few bullets zinged feet above his head, he heard them slam into trees. It was soon going to be time. Once the bullets really started flying he would hunker down and ride it out.
Ryan suspected that some of the other guys in his platoon were onto him but he didn’t care. He figured he would be going home soon. He didn’t want any medals and didn’t expect to rise any further in rank. Nope, he just wanted to go home.
“Get ready boys!” Sergeant McMann yelled from his fox hole.
Private Ryan was ready.
The landscape erupted with muzzle flashes and the thunderous cracks from the gunpowder exploding, expelling deadly projectiles towards the platoon.
Ryan fired three shots from his Garand, he always fired three shots. He didn’t know why he had chosen three but it seemed like a good number. After his three shots, he casually dropped his rifle then dropped to the ground, closed eyes and slyly smirked.
Ryan laid there for a minute before he realized something was off. He opened one eye and saw the Private who shared his foxhole with him, Private Bartelli was down on the ground.
“What the hell are you doing?” Ryan asked.
“Same as you. Going home.” Bartelli answered.
Private Ryan had a horrible realization; no one in his platoon was firing back. Not a single one. Not even Sergeant McMann.
“Shoot them,” Ryan said to Bartelli.
“Fuck you. You shoot them.”
“Fuck you. This is my gig.”
“Mine now.”
Ryan peaked out of the foxhole. A group of Italian soldiers were out in the open, headed toward the platoon.
“Get up and shoot them.”
“No,” Bartelli said.
“They’re coming.”
“I don’t care.”
“Damnit,” Ryan whispered but wanted to yell. He didn’t have a choice. Ryan looked down at his weapon lying at his feet.
“Really!” He yelled. “No one is doing anything?”
Silence.
Ryan had no choice. He picked up the rifle and engaged the group of soldiers that were advancing on their position. He killed eight of them. Wounded at least two more. The allies won a major victory in what was later known as the Ploy of Italy.
Private Ryan received no credit for his part.
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