FIVE SECONDS by Matthew Burrell
Matthew BurrellFIVE SECONDS J.D. stood up without his grenade pin. We were heading toward the Guadalupe range after a live fire exercise in White Sands Training Grounds, otherwise known as the ‘Sand Box’, during a hot afternoon in July 1998 when the last guardpost of safety that kept us living, breathing connected tissue instead of imploded molecules of gelatinous red goop, the grenade clip, caught on J.D.’s entrenching tool, discharging into the air, and afterward, Ramirez swore he could hear the material ignition over the clanging of everything else—all the battle rattle, entrenching tools, canteens, compasses, magazines, warm brass shell casings—like the telltale vibration of a rattlesnake’s tail. The exterior walls of the Bradley, thirty millimeters of spaced laminate armor, were impenetrable to small caliber ammunition. But inside, all that armor had the inverse effect, creating an enclosure that would multiply the devastation of an explosion by tenfold to its … chop! chop! read more!