The Edge

The gunfire erupts like a storm, a deafening roar that swallows everything else. Bullets snap past, tearing into the dirt and stone around us.

Flat on my stomach, my heart hammering when I see Rodriguez—our radio operator—slump forward, his headset dangling, blood pooling beneath him. Bastards gone, just like that, in the opening seconds of this hell.

There’s no time to think.

The radio’s still crackling, a lifeline in the chaos. I scramble over, grabbing the radio, my hands slick with sweat and dirt. Marines are already moving, shouting, returning fire—doing what they do, keeping the edge.

I fumble with the handset, pressing it to my ear. Static hisses, then a voice cuts through, calm and steady, like it’s coming from another planet. “Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, this is Overwatch. Sitrep, over.”

My throat’s dry, but I force the words out. “Overwatch, this is—” I hesitate, realizing I’m not even sure what to call myself. I’m not the radio guy. I’m just a grunt who picked up the damn thing. “This is Alpha. Rodriguez is down. We’re taking heavy fire, cut off, enemy’s everywhere. Need support, now!”

Around me, Marines are in motion.

Staff Sgt. Callahan’s barking orders, directing fire toward the tree line where the muzzle flashes light up the dusk. Pvt. Lopez is dragging a wounded man behind a shattered wall, his M16 still slung across his back.

They’re fighting like hell, holding the line, but the enemy’s closing in, shadows weaving through the smoke. Surrounded–and it’s only a matter of time before they overrun us.

“Copy, Alpha,” the voice on the radio says, cool as ice. “Can you mark your position? Need to confirm friendlies.”

“No clear lines!” I shout, ducking as a round ping off the rock beside me.

“Friendlies and enemies are mixed, all over! Perimeter’s collapsing—Charlie’s getting hammered!”

I glance toward Charlie Company’s position, maybe 200 meters off. Screams and gunfire tell me they’re in deep shit. Bravo’s holding, barely, but Alpha’s taking the brunt of it right here.

“Pop smoke!” I yell to Callahan, who’s laying down suppressive fire with a SAW.

He nods, grabs a smoke grenade, and hurls it toward the open ground. Purple haze billows up, but it’s not enough. The enemy’s too close–the smoke’s just a beacon for both sides.

“Overwatch, smoke’s out, but it’s a mess!” I say into the radio. “We need air support, now! They’re on top of us!”

My voice cracks, but I don’t care. I can hear the enemy’s shouts, their boots crunching closer. We’re running out of time.

“Roger, Alpha. Stand by for air. Confirm your position, 315 degrees, 150 meters out?” the voice asks.

I glance at my compass, hands shaking. “Yeah, 315, 150! They’re advancing north, right at us!” I yell.

The ground shakes as an explosion rips through the tree line—too close. I flinch, praying it’s not our own arty going wide.

“We’re stacking BLs from 7,000 feet,” I say.

“Hold tight.” returns the icy voice.

Then, like an out-of-body experience, I hear myself say, “Broken Arrow.”

Broken Arrow. The words hit like a punch. It’s the call you never want to make–it means we’re goners unless the sky saves us. I swallow hard, looking at the Marines around me—Callahan, Lopez, the others—fighting, moving, keeping that edge. Charlie’s screams are fainter now, and I know what’s coming if I don’t act.

“Say again, Alpha?”

“Overwatch, this is Alpha,” I say, my voice steadying. “Broken Arrow. I say again, Broken Arrow. We’re overrun. Confirm Broken Arrow!”

The radio goes quiet for a heartbeat, then, “Broken Arrow confirmed. Hold the line, Alpha.”

I drop the handset for a second, grabbing my rifle to fire a burst at a shadow darting through the smoke. Callahan’s reloading, Lopez is back in the fight, and the others are shifting positions, keeping the enemy guessing. They’re warriors, every one of them, and I’m now just the guy with the radio, and I may have just condemned them to death.

The first jets scream overhead, a sound like the heavens tearing open. The radio crackles. “707 attacking tree line, 315 degrees. Stay low, Alpha.”

“Get down!” I bellow, and we hit the dirt as the naps falls.

The world explodes—fire, smoke, and deafening blasts rip through the enemy’s advance. The shockwave slams into me, and I grip the radio like it’s all I’ve got.

“Overwatch, keep ’em coming!” I shout, my voice raw. “Charlie, Bravo, Alpha—report in!” I don’t know if they’ll answer, but I know we’re still here, still fighting.

Weeks later, back at the FOB, the brass reviewed the engagement, piecing together the chaos. They know I called Broken Arrow, know it saved Alpha, Bravo, and what remained of Charlie.

In another world, an act like that—stepping up, taking the radio, bringing the sky down on the enemy—might’ve earned a medal or a promotion. But I didn’t follow the chain of command. I was a grunt, not the radio operator, not the officer in charge. I bypassed protocol and acted on instinct, and while it worked, the Corps doesn’t reward breaking rank.

There’s no punishment or court-martial—they can’t dispute the lives saved, but there’s also no recognition, just a nod from Callahan, a quiet “Good job” from Lopez, and the chance to live and fight another day.

That’s enough and has to be.