Vietnam, 1975

Dying was the simple part. Our main problem was making it worthwhile.

Our strength was failing, but resolution undaunted. I could see him summoning his last remaining power. Steadily, calmly, muttering under his breath, he unlocked the safety. There was nothing to do but wait.

According to some heroic deaths are admirable things. (Generally those who don't have to do it. Politicians and writers spring to mind.) I've never been convinced by this argument, mainly because no matter how cool, stylish, composed, unflappable, manly or defiant you are, at the end of the day you're also dead. Which is a price I'm not willing to pay for post mortem popularity.

I've made a long and successful career out of running away at the decisive moment and it was with considerable regret, as the enemy bore down upon us, I realised I didn't have that fallback option. We were going out together.

The nearest I'd ever come to this last standing business before was when I was with General William Westmoreland Jr., we were cornered in a enemy hangar, in fact he only prevented it with his final intervention, running a prototype through the Learjet. Although, I wasn't all that overwhelmed with gratitude, that implosion almost cost me my faithful limbs.

"You've been a good soldier."

"Well, um, you've just been dandy too." I never dared to talk to him like that...

"I didn't say you were perfect."

"WHAT?"

"Far from it. Well lets face it you've generally managed to cock things up."

The bloody cheek! Insults at a time like this! When death bearing down, etc. I ask you.

"Which is why I'm letting you off the nooze. I order you to make an exit. Use this key, take the elevator to the mining shaft, head east."

He activated the defense mechanism. He readied two Gatling guns. A drop of perspiration streamed down his cheek. The enemy was battering its way in.

The ricocheting sound of bullets upon steel. The enemy had forced an entry. He was able to shoot a score of men before he was shot in the thigh. His knees buckled, the guns fell to the floor, his hands unable to support their enormous weight. Several more bullets pierced his being.

Ironically, amongst the cacophony and sparks, he looked serene, something which he never had, not even in the dead of the night. As his vision became a blur, and excruciating pain surging through him like lifeblood, he passed out.

A blinding flash. The parabola grew in size, engulfing the concrete and steel alike. Leaving metallic scraps and foe appendages in its wake. The stronghold had been taken.

A typical leader. Rigid, to the very end, didn't give me a chance to get a word in the edge ways.
Which is a pity, because at the last moment I'd have liked to tell him what I thought of him. Mind you, since in that split second we were, to all intended purposes, one and the same, I rather think he knew anyway.