Maurice Joseph Williamson was born on September 28, 1986 in Tuscaloosa, Alabama to Eugene and Violet Williamson. He was the youngest of three. He graduated from Hillcrest High School with better than average grades and played All-State football for the Patriots. Linebacker.
Maurice Williamson’s parents wanted their son to attend the University of Alabama where Eugene worked as an officer of the Campus Police Department. The 26 year veteran of law enforcement dreamed of seeing his only son on the Bama football field wearing the Crimson Tide uniform.
Maurice Williamson fell in love with Lashandra Jackson in the tenth grade. They dated for three years. On the eve of their graduation, along the banks of the Black Warrior River, he asked his high school sweetheart to marry him. She said, “No.”
On the day following his high school graduation, Maurice J. Williamson joined the United States Army. Eugene and Violet were disappointed.
Specialist Williamson held the butt of the M4 tightly to his shoulder, aiming steadily and squeezing off 3-round bursts as he walked towards the burning wreckage of Guardian 26. His truck commander, Corporal Witkowski, Wit, was on his right side doing the same.
“Two Tangos behind that wall,” his TC shouted without taking his eyes off the target.
A continuous spray of hot steel streamed over his head as “Machine Gun” Kelly, firing from the gun turret of their armored humvee behind him, kept the enemy pinned down behind a stone wall some 50-meters in front. He felt a rush of air caused by a passing AK47 round narrowly missing his cheek. He kept walking. “Bastards.”
They were almost to the disabled vehicle when he heard Kelly Hendricks’ voice over the noise of machine gun fire yell, “INCOMING!” The explosion hit before he could react.
He wiped dirt from his face without missing a step and continued walking as if the rocket-propelled grenade had never been fired. It had exploded just 20 feet from his position. His ears rang. He kept firing.
Upon reaching Guardian 26, SPC Williamson immediately crawled inside the vehicle to extract his wounded brothers in arms. The driver, Private Billy Parrish seemed stunned, disoriented. His trousers soaked with urine. He sat the young soldier from Boston Mass outside on the dirt, against the rear tire before climbing back inside, the heavy door to the crippled humvee held open by his TC.
Sergeant Walters, Guardian 26’s truck commander was bleeding profusely from his right leg. Williamson ignored the injured soldier’s screams, dragging him from the burning wreckage and back to the relative safety of Guardian 22, before returning to continue his rescue efforts.
PVT Parrish grabbed SPC Williamson’s ankle, stopping him from entering the vehicle. He looked up with confused eyes, “What happened Mo? Who pissed on my pants?” he asked, looking down at his trousers in disbelief.
“Hurry the fuck up Mo!” Corporal Witkowski shouted, his legs trembling from holding the heavy armored door.
Maurice Williamson’s heart stopped when he took one look at the limp, lifeless body of Private First Class Horace James. Tears filled his eyes as he yelled to his friend, “WAKE UP HO! WAKE THE FUCK UP MAN!”
“WILLIAMSON!” shouted the exhausted corporal still atop the burning wreck barely holding the door open.
SPC Williamson grabbed under the gunner’s armpits and backed out of the truck, dragging James with him. Once outside, he scooped him up into his arms as a father would a child and ran to Guardian 22. He cried uncontrollably the entire way.
PVT Hendricks’ blue eyes flashed with anger in seeing her fellow gunner limp in her number two’s arms. “Mother fuckers!” Her M240B machine gun erupted in a steady stream of deadly fire.
Several minutes later, SPC Williamson was still sitting on the dusty desert floor behind his vehicle, holding PFC Horace James in his arms, unable to stop his tears. He hadn’t noticed that the shooting had stopped. He hadn’t noticed the deafening sounds of a UH60 MEDEVAC helicopter landing 20-meters away. He hadn’t noticed the blood. He hadn’t noticed the painful moans coming from SGT Walters laying just a few feet from him.
“He’s gone Mo Jo,” someone said. He stopped crying, breathed in deeply, wiped the blood from his face with his uniform sleeve, then slowly stood, picking up his rifle and helmet as he did. His friend was dead.
Sgt Hook out.
Previous Installments of The Guardians…
Fallen Guardian
Guardian Mourning
Guardian Wit
In view of a recent tendency to identify characters in fiction with real people, it seems proper to state that there are no real people in this volume: both the characters and their names are ficticious. The names or designations of any military units are ficticious. There are no living people nor existing military units presented in this book. -Ernest Hemingway
Posted by Hook @ 1247 zulu | | Permalink
This post is filed under: Guardians
The Thunder Run linked with
Web Reconnaissance for 12/13/2007
