A Conversation

We were recently working on dialogue in my Intro to Fiction Writing class and were commissioned to write a short bit of dialogue with few or no "tags." I waited to see how the other members of the class interpreted the assignment before taking to the keyboard. This is what flowed out:

“So, do you want to hear something Simmons told me yesterday?” Weathers was grinning again.

Bill looked over his shoulder and gaped. “Are you fucking serious?” He found himself shouting to full capacity to counter the din.

Chuck frowned. “What else do we have to do we have to do?” A slight rain of dirt came down on them.

“I don't know , not die?” countered his companion as he turned back, squeezing off a few rounds from his weapon.

“Come on, you know they're not in range!” Biff-Crack-Twang sang the bullet as it caught the top of the berm and skipped off of his helmet as the final words rang out.

Corporal Bill Wilson's laughter couldn't be contained. He sat back against the edge of the foxhole behind him and let out a hearty chuckle.

Specialist Chuck Weathers hid his eyes under the edge of his helmet. “Yeah, yeah, screw you and fuck irony.” He eased up to the berm, his rifle shouldered; Whoever had scored the lucky shot was going to pay. Pift-pift-pift. The ground shot up in front of him as more rounds impacted the berm, sending him lurching back into hiding. The rifleman looked to his hole-mate, “Hey, Bill, think you can get the scope-jockeys on that guy? I don't feel like eating a lead sammich'.”

With a grunt of recognition, Wilson pulled out a headset and pressed it firmly to his ear. “Foxtrot one to Mike three. I repeat, Foxtrot one to Mike three.”

The worn out speaker buzzed back, “This is Mike three, go ahead Foxtrot.”

“Yeah, Weathers and I are having a helluva time with an unknown at thirty meters, eleven o'clock. He's not too shy on the trigger and we're right in his sights. Think you can lighten our load?”

“Foxtrot, we have no visual on unknown.”

“Yeah, hang on.” The corporal pressed the headset to his chest and motioned at Chuck. “Make him shoot, man!”

“Aw, hell,” was the response as Weathers took off his helmet and placed it on the muzzle of his weapon. He slowly lifted it above the edge of the berm. The bullets hit the helmet before the reports sounded, sending it skittering across the street. “Shit!” He quickly thrust his arm out and grabbed the pack of cigarettes that he was keeping in there, narrowly missing another volley.

Wilson pressed the headset but to his ear.

“Foxtrot one, we have visual on your shooter. We don't have good enough line of sight from this position, but Mike four is sliding on down to see if he can get a better angle.”

Bill sighed. “ETA on shot, Mike?”

“Uhhh, looks like about five minutes.”

He cursed under his breath before responding, “Roger that, Mike, we'll stay put.”

“Wilco Foxtrot one. Mike three, over and out.”

Wilson stashed the headset back in its place and let out a sigh. “They've got to reposition to- hey, give me one of those.” He waved at the cigarette that his comrade was putting in his mouth and quickly snatched one from the offered pack, “Anyways, they've got to reposition to take this prick out, so we're stuck here for a bit.” He inhaled deeply as Chuck lit it.

“So, do you want to hear what Simmons told me yesterday?” Weathers was grinning yet again.

Wilson sighed again, “Are you fucking serious?”

I was hoping to capture a mood of humor and comfort in a particularly tense situation and, according to some cursory reads from some classmates, I seemed to have achieved that. If I were to write it again, I would most likely shorten the conversation between the marksmen and Wilson, as it seems to dominate the piece. Overall, however, I am quite proud of what I came up with in an hour or so and think I may expand upon it farther.