Hello. My name is Michael Francis Ellis, but my friends call me "Elsie." I am a British soldier and a combat veteran who fought in many British Wars. I have served in the British Special Air Service (SAS), and even the Parachute Regiment. I have been trained in feats of sniping, unarmed/hand-to-hand combat, knife fighting, and basic gunfiring. But this is when I was first a recruit who, out of almost none, made into into the SAS. I remember bayoneting a young Argentine soldier through the stomach, and crying after. I was fighting in the Falklands then, just my mates and I......
I felt the wind cold on my back and my neck, a cool breeze just drifting away, blowing from across the seas. Rifle and machine-gun fire ripped through the air, causing numerous British casualties but not serious damage to the soldiers' morale or the boats we were in. My family is half-Jewish, my maternal grandparents coming from the Ukraine and Poland to the United Kingdom to escape the Russian Empire, while my father was a native Englishman of Irish, Scottish, and German descent. I kissed my necklace, the one that my girlfriend Maggie Lewis gave to me. I was the squad machine-gunner at the time, carrying my own weapons- an M1919 Browning machine-gun I bought at an auction, nine or ten German stick grenades my father captured from Waffen-SS soldiers in the Second World War, and a HK P7 pistol that I specially modified and chambered to shoot .44 Magnum, .45 ACP, and .50 BMG rounds, huge-caliber rounds that could blow a man's head off clean with one shot. I used .45 ACP, the round that goes in a Tommy Gun or Colt .45 pistol, for this mission, since it was toughest in the water, while my huge Browning shot .30-06 Springfield rounds that could mow the enemy down. I was thinking about how I would fight when an Argentine shell hit our ship and I flew out. I was smoking a cigarette at the time, and I said "Holy shit. Blast it- I've ruined me perfectly nice fag." I came from Newcastle-Upon-Tyne, a rough neighborhood in northern England with many Irish immigrants, and I said "Let's show these big-shot East London boys how it's done!". I cocked my machine-gun and let loose on the enemy. I sprayed the hilltop rounds, killing or seriously wounding many Argentine soldiers, the recoil slightly juddering against my shoulder. Damn, that was a good gun. My commander, Lt. Col. Daniel Walker, said "Ellis- spray those hills up there. That damned sniper's kissin' our men goodnight!" I ran over to the hills, pretty hard with a gun like the Browning, and let fly. The sniper got shot right in the arm, making him drop his sniper rifle off the cliff. I picked up a dead British soldier's rifle, an SA80 assault rifle, which could fire up to 800 rounds per minute, twice what my Browning could fire, just with less powerful ammunition. I fixed a bayonet, a rare occasion in 1980's British colonial wars. I then charged at the sniper, and in the mist of the gunfire, saw it was a 14-year-old boy, just about eight years younger than me. I shouldered my rifle and looked back, like "Damn." As I turned back, I saw the young sniper had his sidearm aimed, cocked, and ready at my head. I ducked hard, but rolled back down the cliff over rocks. Boy, did it hurt. I heard the sniper coming, so I hid below an earthen mound just under the cliff. I could see through a peephole, and saw that the young soldier holstered his weapon, a semi-automatic pistol. I made sure my bayonet was on tight, and I screamed "Got 'em, lads!" He drew his pistol and fired nine shots at me, but ran out of ammo. I charged and thrust my bayonet through his belly. I saw his stomach wound, and though "Shit- I can't believe I just did that." I quickly pulled my bayonet out, and the young militia soldier slumped to the ground. Artillery shells were exploding, men tangled in webbing and parachutes and caught in uncut barbed wire, charging forward directly into Argentine machine-gun fire. Through this fiery hell of pain and torture, I screamed "MEDIC!!!!!" Sergeant Dawson, the squad medic, was a professional, as only highly trained medical officers could work in the SAS. Dawson was working as hard as he could for five straight minutes on the poor soldier while I stared blankly at the soldier. He finally stopped breathing. I threw Dawson aside and looked at him. I tried CPR, but Dawson said "I tried everything." I tackled Dawson, and I said "That's all you can do?!?!!" Shepherd and Fletcher, two other of our squad's soldiers, came up with rifles pointed at said "Ellis-Dawson...that's enough of this rubbish!" I let go of Dawson, and I literally, even though I was a grown man, seriously wanted to cry. Finally, a tear streamed down my cheek, and I got down on my knees as Shepherd and Fletcher left. Dawson looked back, took off his rosary, and placed it on the chest of the dead enemy soldier. I cried and cried, and was begging the dead body for forgiveness, asking it for just one last word. But it said nothing. I saw his dog tag, and I picked it up out of the ground. It said "Private First Class Ramon Blanco Dominguez, 17th Argentine Rifle Brigade, Date of Birth: 9/24/1968." I then shed one last tear before wiping my face with a my handkerchief. I took the body in my arms, threw down my rifle, and shed my heavy equipment, wearing only my uniform with nothing else. I took off my shirt, since it the heat was excruciating. I wrapped my shirt around my waist like a sash. I took my entrenching shovel and carried the body up the soft, woven fields, feeling like cotton on my feet. I finally took the body all the way up the hill at twilight. I cut down a tree and built a coffin, and by the time I was done, the British had moved into the forest nine miles ahead of me. I spent all night digging, and just before the dawn, a beautiful time when the moon is already down and the sun is coming up. I finally placed the body in the coffin and rested it at the bottom of my ditch. I threw my rosary, his dog tags, and his picture of his family in with him. I finally covered it up, and took the spare wood to build a cross. I took some dirt and made paint, then taking a large twig and painting his name, roughly, on the cross. I planted the cross down and put my uniform back on. I picked up my gear, weapons, and equipment, and saluted the grave as the sun just arrived. I took the soldier's rifle and helmet. Planted the muzzle into the ground, and rested his helmet on top. I then carried on down the hill, and trekked all the way back. As I finally saw my men, Dawson shouted "Colonel Walker- that's Elsie!" Men greeted me, and Walker said "Good work, Ellis. With fighting like that we could win this war within months. We then continued on, and the enemy were now counter-attacking. We entrenched ourselves in, and Shepherd and Fletcher, as well as Dawson, Walker, and Parker were with us. Just as we finished loading up our weaponry, the enemy finally counter-attacked us. Walker, with his roaring voice and ferocious sense of courage, bravery, and leadership, said "FFIIIRRREEE!!!!! Machine-guns, heavy and light artillery, assault rifle, bolt-action sniper weapons, and grenades opened fire and mowed the enemy down in their reckless charges. Right then Walker was shot square through the forehead by an enemy sniper. Parker, Shepherd, and Fletcher, furious as ever, opened fire with heavy machine-guns and inflicted heavy devastating losses on the soldiers. Shepherd went out under heavy fire with a grenade, but was shot and it exploded in his hand, killing him. We called for Dawson, but found him shot through the chest. Finally Fletcher went out, but was shot in the upper thigh, passing through his groin. I called for Shepherd, and he and I went out with a stretcher. We carried Fletcher back while the assistant surgeon, Dr. Kleiber, operated on him. We came back and found a bullet in my arm. Finally the enemy was at close-quarters, and I saw the most fearful sight. Right then, Shepherd was gunned down and killed with a combination of flamethrower and submachine gun fire, bursting into flames. I then saw the bloodiest and most spine-tingling, unflinching fighting in my whole life. Savage close-quarters fighting with crude weapons like bayonets, axes, spiked clubs, knives, revolvers, and even hammers made me shiver. As I though, standing up against fire, a soldier came at me from behind and slashed at my belly with his knife, and hitting me with a spiked club on the legs, crippling me permanently. As he closed in for the kill, a soldier named Hemingway shot him three times in the chest with his rifle. He helped me up, but my legs were weak. He put me on a stretcher, and I blacked out into shock and a coma for a whole week. Hemingway and the other soldiers though that I was dead. But a week later I slowly woke up in a hospital bed in Germany. The nurse said "Hello. Soldier. Or should I say, hero".........
I received the Victoria Cross, Britain's highest military award and decoration, two weeks later. I was haled as a national hero, but, unknown to the rest of Britain, I visited the hill were I buried the young Argentine soldier, Ramon Dominguez, and planted both the Argentine flag and the Union Jack. I then laid down my medal there, and did a final salute. I now have Cameron Ellis, who was born in Germany several years after. I am in a wheelchair now because of my close-quarters encounter with a veteran enemy soldier. Ellis and I later immigrated back to the U.K., where I live in a small cottage in Cheddar, England, picking strawberries and smelling the cool, fresh air and wet dew every bright morning. I still remember the fellows who died alongside me, and, even decades after, I still remember the proud boy soldier Ramon Dominguez. Ellis is now a lieutenant in the 79th British Infantry Regiment, comprised of almost entirely Irish and Scots immigrants under British officers. It also known as the Queen's Own Cameron Highlanders, or, as I call it- Cammy-Scots. I later named the hill Ramon Hill, after the proud soldier who felt more like a friend than an enemy, and overlooking the graves of over 750 combined British and Argentine soldiers who were killed or mortally wounded in combat, defending their native country at Ramon Hill. It was a story- of a flying eagle who flies into blazing glory as he defends his friends, a hero and brave man- the story of a lone sentry.
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