Picking Off Sniper Boy
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They said if I’d volunteer to be a sniper I’d get a lot of respect- maybe even a medal. But they didn’t happen to mention one relevant fact. Even as I would be taking aim at soldier boys my age, turning them into dead meat with a flick of my trigger finger, it never occurred to me that I myself might be a tempting easy target. I’d never know who the young marksman was who took aim at my rifle’s muzzle flashes and squeezed off a single round that hit home just above my right eye. The last thing I’d remember was surprised at how little pain I felt. I was spared the indignity of him stripping my body, leaving it lying almost naked in the dirt after he took my rifle and my new boots as his trophies. He did do all that, but now thanks to the bullet in my brain, I couldn’t have cared less. My time as a sniper — my time for anything — had just run out.
All models were 18 and over at the time of the creation of such depictions