A SORDID PACT- PART 2

"Excellent!" exclaimed the General, caressing the desert on his head. Taking
a more serious tone, he went on: "Enough of this! We are going through a
delicate period and a tough day awaits us tomorrow. We must deal a severe
blow to the enemy." "Colonel, will you escort Captains Tsimi and Moussa to
their new quarters?" The old man went on.
"Shall I know which one?" the young senior officer asked the elder one. "B23
for Moussa, I think that is where his troops are being lodged. B07 will do
perfect for the other one," Konchu replied.
"As you command my General," he said performing the salute. The other two
stood from their seats and did same, after which the three men left the office.
As they were moving away from the administrative offices, it was already
dark all over the camp but yet Rambo continued to feel the air around was
pretty fiery and heavy. His difficulty in breathing resumed, and felt some
funny sensation like an ominous force warning him against some horrendous
happening. Perhaps, it was just the product of his concealed fears given the
fact it'd been quite some time, he'd been out of the battle front. A place where
he had always dreamt to be, but which he now fears given his years of
apparent inactivity at the Koutaba base. Seeing soldiers who had just
returned from their various expeditions grievously injured, getting carried
along on stretchers and moved to the camp infirmary; seeing others walking
around with crutches, some of them amputated from either of their limbs;
others on wheelchairs; others who had completely lost their sight with their
faces blindfolded; some over whom the enemy had gotten the final say
getting carried away to the mortuary (or the hall where their bodies were
stored) before their corpses were flown back to their families. The most
marking image was that of a young soldier, barely in his late teens or was he
just eighteen? In fact he wasn't yet twenty, he was absolutely certain of that.
He had lost all his limbs except for one arm, completely disfigured. His face
was a pile of flesh, it seemed as there was never an iota of skin on it. One
could even see traces of his skull exposed. It was a totally disgusting and
disheartening sight. A young man with such a great future, so many years
ahead had chosen to lose his life this way, fighting for his country. "He fell
prey of an underground mine," one of the carriers seemed to tell his aide.
The battle against MESS was a reality, it was no phantasm but the bitter truth
in its brutal entirety. Was he really ready for it? Rambo asked himself.
Twenty-one years ago, he had received the news of his deployment to
Bakassi with a lot of thrill. A young soldier who had just completed his training
in Garoua. He was sent to defend the interests of his nation against an
invader, a fierce bird of prey perching over a perishing carcass. He enjoyed
living dangerously. Sleeping on a cold mat, on foliage cut from surrounding