Prompt: Write an encounter between two people who do not speak the same language. Stick to one POV. 500 words.

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Sergeant John woke up to the feeling of sun on his face, sand under him, and the sound of waves crashing on the beach around him. He smelled gasoline. He felt heat.

Sergeant John sat up and opened his eyes. The reflection of the sunlight off the white sand burned his eyes. He smelled burning. He heard metal creaking. He stood up. Pain shot up his right leg–not enough to stop him from walking, but too painful to ignore entirely. Limping, he turned around to face the waves as they tore around the wreckage. He saw the wreckage of his cargo plane partially buried in the surf. Smoke billowed from the fuselage into the air.

Sergeant walked away from the wreckage. He moved inland, into the tree line, where he sat in the shade, feeling himself over for injuries. His right leg throbbed. The bone didn’t feel broken, though Sergeant knew the role adrenaline could play in times of crisis.

The sounds of the jungle overwhelmed the noise from the beach. The sergeant heard a snap in the bushes behind him.

Soviet colors flashed in front of him. The sergeant fell backwards–he felt a large weight on his chest. Hands grabbed his neck. He instinctively grabbed and felt a man on top of him. The man shouted in Russian.

The sergeant held the attacker close to him and swung his good leg up into the man’s stomach. Any survivor would have their own injuries. Sergeant just had to find them before the Russian found his.

John felt lightheaded. He groped along the ground until he felt something heavy. The coarse surface felt like rock. John seized the object and swung it into the Russian’s ribcage.

The Russian fell off of John. He shouted again. John didn’t understand him.

“Get away from me!” John yelled. He backed away from his attacker and sat down. He held onto the rock. He didn’t want to fight unless necessary.

The Russian laid on the ground, holding his ribcage. John determined he had chanced upon one of the Russian’s weak spots from the crash.

“What,” John said, “is your goddamn problem?”

The Russian lifted his head and looked at John. The man eyed the rock. John set it down. The Russian’s head fell back against the ground. He spoke quietly, taking shallow breaths. John wondered if the man had a punctured lung.

“How bad are you injuries?” he asked. The Russian didn’t respond. He laid on the ground, mumbling, apparently to himself.

“Hey,” John said, “You attacked me. You…you started this. All of this. We wouldn’t be here if it hadn’t shot first.” John stood up. His right leg throbbed. “You started this. Not us.”

The Russian didn’t move. John limped over to him. His eyes stared off into the distance, past Sergeant John. His breathing had stopped.

John watched him for a moment, then spoke the only Russian he knew.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

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Prompt from The 3 AM epiphany, by Brian Kiteley. Available on Amazon.com