Sebastian Bently Part 2

Iraq, 2014.

Private Sebastian Bently turned a corner, rifle in hand. His Corporal was leading the way. The man’s name was Corporal Peters and he was Bently’s battle buddy for the combat operation. The British F Rifle Company had been tasked with sweeping and clearing a building in an Iraqi city where a High Value Target was to be located and captured. Bently and Peters were on the fourth floor, finishing up a sweep.
“Stack up on the door, Private.” Peters ordered, moving over towards the final door, lining up beside it with Bently behind him. In one swift motion, the Corporal moved in front of the door and booted it open. The door would swing open with a loud bang and the Corporal moved in, rifle raised. Bently followed, moving through the doorway just as he heard a loud whizzing sound. Then, suddenly, boom.

Bently flew back through the door he’d just stepped through, a large cloud of smoke erupting from the doorway as he collided with the wall opposite of the doorway. Bently dropped his gun, falling to the ground and slumping down, not moving for several moments. He slowly opened his eyes, looking around at the smoke and flames around him, coughing a few times as he forced himself up. He’d look left, pausing as a large male rounded the corner and locked eyes on Bently. They looked to be a few inches taller and well over 60 pounds heavier than he was. Hesitantly, Bently backed up a little, holding his side as he watched the man. Slowly, the figure would reach for his belt, drawing a large machete as they stared down the smaller British soldier. Quickly, Bently looked down to try and find his rifle but the smoke covering the floor blocked his vision. So, with no over choice, Bently drew his combat knife and clutched it in his hand, holding it out as he took a small step back.

Clutching his machete, the man began to slowly swing it back and forth, making an ‘x’ shape with his swings, picking up momentum with each swing as he stepped closer to Bently. Sebastian started to panic. He looked to his right, praying to a God that he didn’t even believe in, just hoping his battle buddy was alive. However, the splatters of blood and chunks of what were once Corporal Peters on the ground confirmed his fears. Bently heard a loud roar and looked forward as the man lunged for him, swinging down on the smaller man. Bently, acting purely on instinct now, would dive forward, rolling passed the man and landing on one knee at his side. Quickly, Bently brought his arm back and buried the blade of his knife into the back of large man’s knee.

The larger Iraqi cried out in pain as Bently yanked the knife free and got up, spinning around to face the man as he backed up a little.
“'ant allaeanat!” The man cried out, turning to look at Bently with an angered expression, rushing to attack Bently again. He tried to duck under his swing, but was met with a rough knee to the face. A loud and sickening crunch came from Bently’s nose, the bone breaking. This sent Bently reeling back and collapsing to the floor, reaching up to grip his nose as he felt blood seeping into his mask. Bently would tense up in pain, trying to frantically crawl away from the man as he approached, closing the distance fast. The Iraqi towered over Bently and stomped down on his ankle, crushing the joint under his weight. Bently would scream in pain, feeling and hearing the crunches and cracks as his ankle snapped. Out of reflex, Bently lunged forward, forcing himself to sit up so he could bury his knife into the Iraqi male’s achilles tendon.

The man howled in pain, buckling under his own weight and collapsing onto Bently. He’d fall back, losing his grip on the knife as he was crushed under the other man; who’d dropped his machete to his side. Bently would frantically squirm and kick under the man to try and break free, reaching out his hands to try and desperately grab hold of the machete that had fallen to the side of them both. Bently rolled onto his back, reaching out for it only to feel the man above him grip his head, yanking his head back, causing great strain on his own neck as Bently’s head was pulled, trying to look down as he fumbled to grab the machete. Bently gasped for air, choking a little as the man wrapped one of his large arms around Bently’s neck and began to crush his windpipe.

Choking and gurgling, Bently kept his focus on reaching for the blade across from them. He’d feel his fingers lightly touch the handle and tried to pull it closer, choking now as his face began to turn a light purple. He couldn’t breathe, his eyes feeling heavy and his vision blurring. This was it, he was going to die here. Then, he felt his grip on the handle of the machete and immediately pulled his hand back, twisting his wrist and raising his arm, driving the tip of the machete straight up and into the man’s head, hearing the machete embed into his skull. Slowly, the grip on Bently’s neck loosened before the Iraqi’s arm limply fell and the man collapsed off of him.

Gasping for air, Bently rolled over and looked over to the dead man on the ground, seeing the machete sticking through his skull as the larger man laid on the ground, blood pooling below his head and ankle. Bently would reach for his radio with trembling fingers.
“Th- This is Private Bently-- I- I need a medic… Corporal Peters is down- I… Fourth floor…”