Blowing my Own Horn

There’s an old expression that goes you have to blow you own horn.

Well, if that’s the case, today I’m blowing.

We’re not talking lightly. We’re talking an earth shattering, stand up and dance blow. Blow it loud for the world to hear. Think Louie Armstrong and that’s how I feel today.

I got a little good news today. I’m the sixth-place winner of the Writer’s Digest 2025 competition. I get some cash for it, a free subscription, and some serious kudo’s out of the deal.

The story is titled “Singing in the Valley of Death.”

And for your reading pleasure, here it is.

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     Sixth place, Writer’s Digest 2025 competition winner

SINGING IN THE VALLEY OF DEATH

There are things you never forget.

     Things like the first time you meet the person you’ll spend the rest of your days with.

     Or when your first child is born.

    Or a night when a thousand men are killed.

     We’d been in Iraq as part of the coalition forces in Operation Desert Storm for not quite forty-eight hours. We’d set up our perimeter for the night, and it was dark.

     This darkness was different. It was the kind that wraps around you like a cloak. It seemed to swallow up almost every scrap of light. I could see the rest of the platoon, the vehicle I was in and most of the convoy we were in.

       Maybe it felt darker because we’d been told that in a few minutes, a light show of destruction would split the night. Things were being set up for a massive MLRS (Multiple Launch Rocket System) strike against Iraqi positions.

     We watched and waited. In a way, it was almost like waiting for a rock show to start. We talked, drank our water, and chewed on chocolate bars.

     And then the show began.

     It was like lightning.

     The first rocket ignited and exploded out of the launch tube with a boom that hit you in the chest. As the rockets launched, it was as if lightning had struck. In that flash of white light, I could see the launch vehicles, the desert, and other convoys for miles around. Afterimages danced in my eyes.

     “Oh, my God!” someone cried. Whoops and cheers went up.

     The rockets arced up and away. One second, they were balls of fire racing up from the desert, and the next they were tiny dots of bright light aiming for something beyond the horizon.

     At sunrise, our convoy drove for an hour to where the rockets had fallen.

    The convoy stopped on a small ridge looking down into a small valley.

     Scattered throughout it were the remains of several dozen tanks, armored personnel carriers, and trucks. Most of them were burning. Others were just busted parts. I’ve seen scenes in war movies that were supposed to represent something like this. But there’s no way Hollywood captures the reality of a battlefield.

     Even when writing about it, words like “devastating” and “apocalyptic” are too small to describe it.

     We stood outside our vehicles looking at this wasteland. There was no joy here. No comments like “We really kicked their ass” to be heard. As I looked, I overheard someone say that the difference between murder and war was whether you needed an accountant to keep track of the dead or not.

    It was said with a dry laugh because it was supposed to be funny but wasn’t.

     This place was nothing less that murder on an epic scale.

     The smoke from burning rubber and fuel hung over the battlefield, burning the nostrils and making the eyes water. And mixed in with the smell of burning fuel was a sweet odor like burnt sugar.

     I’d smelled it before. As a sheriff’s deputy, I had gone into a burnt house to help recover a body. We found him. He didn’t look human. The body had drawn up into a fetal position and looked more like a roasted turkey than human. The corpse had reeked of burnt sugar.

     Once you smell it, you’ll never forget it.

     In the wrecks of the tanks and trucks, flames were consuming the bodies of our enemies. Many of the vehicles were overturned or were burnt-out shells themselves. I’m sure the crews were still in them.

     What spread before us had been part of the proud Republican Guard. They called themselves the Lions of Babylon.

     The MLRS strike had slaughtered them like lambs hit by a pack of wolves.

     “Hey!” someone shouted. “There’s someone down there!”

     A soldier was pointing. I brought my binoculars up.

      Sure enough, walking along a roadway through the maze of twisted metal and smoking debris, was a single man. He had his hands in his pockets and his head was down. He looked less an enemy soldier and more like an old man walking through a park on a wintry day.

     “Muniz. Bradley!” A shout came from our lieutenant. “Go down with the medics. Bring that man back.”

     “Yes, sir,” I responded. Several medics carrying a stretcher and medical gear rushed over and got in our HUMVEEs with us.

     “I’ve got over-watch!” Bradley yelled at me.

     I held up a thumb. What he meant was we’d take point, and he’d ride shotgun about ten meters back. They’d provide cover for us if anything went wrong.

     We drove down the hill towards the battlefield. I glanced up at my gunner. He was scanning for anything else moving, his weapon moving back and forth. My driver was careful as he weaved around pieces of metal that could have given us a flat or put a hole in an oil pan or gas tank. Of course, there was the ever-present threat of unexploded ordnance to watch for.

     We drove down towards the Iraqi.

     He seemed oblivious to our presence as we closed in on him. He just kept moving on as if we didn’t exist.

     We stopped, and I got out. We were maybe ten meters from the shuffling man, and he still hadn’t reacted to us. The medics and I stood watching as the man moved painfully through the smoldering battlefield.

      “Hey!” a medic shouted at the man.

     He stopped, slowly turned, saw us, and stood for a while as if he was trying to think. Then, with a blank look on his face, he walked towards us. His hands were still in his pockets. His head was covered in blood. That explained his confusion. He had a head injury. I don’t think it registered with him that we were American soldiers.

     Some of us held rifles up and at the ready despite the man being near death. As he approached, his knees gave way, and he collapsed into the dirt in front of us.

      The medics rushed forward.

      He was out cold.

     The medics began assessing him. I stood near them with my rifle, watching the perimeter. It wouldn’t do to have another Iraqi soldier nearby that was slightly more online than this guy. Maybe one with a rifle. He could take out a couple of us quickly. Our only chance would be to see him first.

     I suspect he was the only survivor of the strike. I wondered what he’d think in the years to come. Would he consider himself lucky or wish he’d perished with his friends and comrades?

     As the medics worked, I heard something.

     I looked around. What was that?

     I listened and heard it again.

     It was a faint musical sound.

     Maybe there was a radio in a truck still picking up music.

     I listened some more.

     It sounded more like an alarm on a wristwatch, one that hadn’t been busted in the battle. Maybe it was a wake-up alarm for someone who now never would.

      I listened carefully to the music. It seemed familiar. Then, with a smile, I realized what it was.

     In the dawn and in the middle of hell, a small bird was singing.

     I moved carefully towards the sound.

    There on a burnt and blasted battlefield, between two wrecked trucks, was a bush. It stood erect and intact. In it was a nest. And in the nest, a small bird sat.

       I wondered what terrors it had gone through the night before. While tanks exploded, and hell rained from the skies, it had sat on its nest. No doubt it was frightened. But it did what it was supposed to do. It stayed and protected the unborn chicks.

     Death had moved on, and what remained was the carnage of the battle.

     And the little bird, its nest, and its eggs had survived, unharmed.

      The medics had the wounded Iraqi on the stretcher and were carrying him over to our HUMVEEs. I wondered if he’d ever be happy with just being alive.

     I moved back, keeping my eyes open, and we went back to the rest of the convoy. A MASH chopper was called in to pick up the wounded man.

     I heard he made it.

     And on a burning battlefield, I learned a lesson about life from a small bird.

     That lesson is simple. When I’ve gone through the night and hell itself, there’s always a new dawn.

     And I need to sing praises for making it through it all.