“Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”
-Albert Einstein
The convergence of so many lights ahead of them cast an artificial glow on the night sky. Between the hum of their engine, the rattle of their kit against the seats, and the site of so many other vehicles congregating in a dirt field, Dezba had the feeling that they had done this many, many times before.
Too many times in fact.
Whitman pulled them into a tight turn and parked them in an open spot next to 2nd Platoon. The other vehicles pulled in beside him, forming the line of 1st and completing Bravo Company’s compliment of vehicles.
The engine was shut down. A new noise rose to meet them. The sound of an entire Battalion busy stripping their weapons, unloading their kit, and talking amongst themselves. The collective din of so many grunts, officers and NCOs
Whitman sighed and undid his belt. Majorca and Morris followed while Batista dismounted from the ringmount. Barely a word was spoken until Majorca opened the cab door and nearly knocked Whitman over.
“Fucking Carlos, watch what you’re fucking doing!”
“Sorry, Billy-bob. Why don’t you watch what I’m fucking doing?!”
Batista wasn’t far behind, spouting off in a mix of Portugese and English as he landed in the dirt and complained about the noise coming from the other side. Predictably, Whitman laid into him next.
“Dude! Quite spouting that fucking pidgin, man! No one understands you!”
“Man, shut up, Billy! You think anybody can understand your white trash lingo?”
Dezba grunted and pulled himself up from the seat. Already, he was nursing a headache, and the bickering was quickly making it worse. Keeping his weapon close, he closed the door behind him and turned to face the squad, which was forming a circle around each other. His heart picked up when he noticed that fists were being curled and brandished. At any moment, they might start throwing them. Or worse, attract the attention of the LT.
Would a shot in the air be too much, he wondered, looking around at all the assembled vehicles and grunts. Given the disposition of their forces right now, it almost surely would be. But he didn’t have the energy to start throwing punches his voice, and they needed something loud to shut them up.
He took a deep breath and prepared to shout them down just as a particularly stinging insult shut them all up at once. “You would fucking know this if you were half the gunner Jase was!”
It was Whitman saying this. All of a sudden, Majorca stopped and looked at him with a mix of anger and wide-eyed astonishment. Batista, the one it had been directed at, went deadly silent, but the look on his face spoke volumes.
“What did you say?” asked Morris, looking equally pissed. Whitman drew back about half a step, looking very much like the man cornered. Not a good place for him to be in right now, given just how pissed off and tired he still was.
“I said you’re bud here is no match for my man, Jase. And you…” he jabbed his finger in Morris’ chest. “You’re a sore fucking replacement for Jones.”
Oh shit, Dezba thought. He pushed forward and began inserting himself in the middle of their circle. Too late, unfortunately.
“Everybody calm the fuck down-” he said, only to be clipped off as Morris shouted and threw a punch.
“You fuck-”
The first fist thrown caught Dezba on the chin. The second one, thrown by Whitman landed just over his shoulder, catching Morris in the nose. Batista began shoving from behind, and Dezba was pushed forward into Whitman. Soon, Majorca was in the thick of it too, trying to pull people apart but just getting entangled. Within seconds, both he and Morris pulled off to nurse bruised faces while the rest of them went down and got tangled up on the ground. Between Whitman and Batista, all kinds of things were being yelled in both his ears.
“Babaca!
“Fuckface!”
“Caralho!”
“Asshole!”
Dezba reached to his belt. The sound of his Ka-Bar zinging against its casing sent everybody off of him in a hurry. He drew up and threw a few hit of his own to get the last of his off him, using his left hand to do it. The metal and plastic casing on his hand made short work of Whitman’s face and his elbow caught Batista on the jaw. By the time he was up, he had both of them quietly at his feet.
“What the fuck is the matter with you? You’re supposed to be watching each others backs, not fucking around like a bunch of dumb-ass teenagers! What are you?!”
The two grunts rolled on the ground and kept their eyes downcast. He looked to Whistman and Batista separately, taking stock of their wounds. They had a few conspicuous bruises which they had given each other, plus the ripping his prosthetic had given them. In Whitman’s case, this constituted a cut above the nose; for Batista, a red mark below his let temple. They breathed heavily and said nothing, looking very much like a pack of wild dogs that had just been put in their place by the alpha.
He looked at Morris next. “And you, Private… throwed the first punch, I saw. Do you know what the new rule says against instigating violence with your fellow soldiers?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied, his eyes also downcast. “Court-martialable offense, sir. Ten days in the stockade and no food.”
“Good job, Private,” Dezba replied, and turned to look at Majorca. “And you, Corporal… saw a situation and let it fucking happen. I’d say you’re the worst of this lot right now.”
Majorca sighed angrily, but didn’t reply. Having not had a chance to wail on anyone with any real vigor, he still had plenty of pent up hostility. Lucky for him he knew enough to stow it away and keep his mouth shut.
Turning around, Dezba finally threw his hands up in disgust. “I got an entire squad of kids who’d rather brawl that get the job done. What am I going to do?” He let the perfectly rhetorical question hang in the air. Eventually, Whitman and Batista got to their feet and begun muttering apologies. Morris and Majorca followed.
“Shut the fuck up,” he ordered. “No ones getting reported tonight. We got enough problems without this squad being broken up. So help me God, if any of you start bickering and bringing up fallen comrades like that again…” He drew his bionic hand up and tightened it into a crushing fist. “Everybody’s lost someone. Doesn’t mean we turn on the only people we got left. Now get our Victor and our kit stowed away. I gotta talk to the CO.”
He turned to leave, knowing that his work was finished. Despite the friction they had experienced trying to integrate the replacements in the last few weeks, he knew that bringing up the memory of the departed could be counted on to quash whatever bullshit rivalries and disagreements that occasionally emerged. At least for the time being.
But as he made his way past the other squads to the LT’s vehicle, he knew that it was more than just old fashioned nerves and dick-measuring that was making the men grumpy. It was on everyone’s lips, in everyone’s eyes. Hell, he could see it pasted on the face of every person he crossed paths with as he made his way down the line.
He caught Saunders’ eye when he finally came to Fourth Squad’s motorcade and received a nod. She was in the midst of talking to Grayson, Squad NCO, and quickly finished and sent him on his way.
“Sergeant, I was just about to come look for you.”
“Best I come to you, ma’am. Boys were misbehaving a bit, had to kick some asses!”
“Really?” she said, a look of genuine concern. “Anything I should know about?”
“No, ma’am. Just the same old crap. Boys are tired and hungry, and a little strung out.”
“Know exactly what you mean,” she said, turning to look at her own squad. They too were conducting their post-mission inventory, taking stock of weapons and ammo and making sure their vehicle was squared away. She looked back at him and nodded in the opposite direction. “Let’s take a walk.”
They set off on the long pathway that ran between the motorcade. Alpha Company was lined up to their left while the vehicles of Bravo were arrayed on their right. By the time they were beyond the LAVs which were parked at the outer edge of the dirt lot, they began talking.
“That last mission, ma’am. We accounted for one body and no civies.”
“I know, Sergeant. I was there,” said Saunders, her voice low and worn.
“The op before that, we accounted for less than half a dozen. Before that, not even that many.”
Saunders hummed an affirmative, more to indicate that she was listening than as a sign of agreement.
“And yet, command is still dispatching us with the intent of leveling every hamlet in the area. We’re making runs that are costing us gas and munitions and we’re getting very little to show for it.”
Saunders nodded. “All true, Sergeant. But given the size of the last incursion into the valley, command can be forgiven for being a little overzealous.”
Dezba chuckled involuntarily. Not the kind that indicated good humor, mind you. At the moment, he was in anything but a good mood. “And yet, us lowly grunts are being told to constantly conserve and cut back, ma’am. And I don’t need to remind you that we’ve been pulling double-duty ever we were attacked, and the Whiskeys decided to take advantage of that fact.”
They stopped, Saunders turning to face him. The motorcade was now several meters in the distance, where no one was able to hear them. Now seemed like a good place to be honest for a chance, and stow all the command-covering bullshit a CO was expected to say.
“Yes, Sergeant. I know, it’s bullshit. We’re all tired and hurting and we want some answers.”
“You said it, ma’am. Jesus Christ, I can’t tell you how pissed people are getting with the way things are being handled. You’d think they’d let us know by now, either way.”
Saunders sighed, nodded again somberly. “Its hard for them to be clear when clarity might be the very thing they are trying to avoid.”
“What do you mean?”
Saunders looked up into Dezba’s eyes. The expression of quiet desperation she saw made her wonder if perhaps she was being a little too liberal with her theories. And that’s really what they were, speculation based on a total lack of forthrightness. She quickly cleared her throat and tried to cover her tracks.
“Trust me when I tell you that I haven’t heard anything. I just suspect that they’re doing all they can and can’t be certain either way. Any other way, they would tell us.”
Dezba rolled that one over in his mind and seemed to derive some comfort from it. Hearing that the situation was still unresolved somehow seemed better than the worst possible scenario, the one she knew they were all secretly suspecting…
“You think?” he asked finally.
Saunders shrugged. “It’s what I would do. If I were Haynes, I would hesitate for a second to announce that my authority was now a permanent thing. The only reason for them to hold back is because they’re counting on him coming back sometime soon.”
Dezba considered that as well. It too seemed to agree with him. He brought his artificial hand to his face and scratched at his cheek, a small scuff indicating that perhaps he had been caught up in a little “misbehaving” himself.
“Still, a little RandR would be nice. Do the men good to remember that there is a life outside of riding around and shooting dead motherfuckers.”
Saunders smiled and gave his arm a gentle punch. “I’ll mention that to the Captain. Lord knows I’ve intimated it enough times by now.”
“Wha- intimated?” Dezba replied. “You’re counting on subtlety with that jarhead? He’s as tick as Haynes! You want something done, you gotta come out and say it.”
Saunders looked to their right, noted the approach of Grayson. She cleared her throat again, the universal indication that he needed to stop bashing their superiors. Dezba straightened up and shut the hell up while the sergeant made his way into shouting distance with them.
“Lieutenant. Sorry to interrupt, ma’am. Blackadder’s asked all platoon leaders to report to his victor for debrief, asap!”
Saunders gave him a mini salute and turned to Dezba. It was bad enough being in charge of men she had once considered her equals. Now she had to go face the man who had helped deprive her predecessor of his position, thus forcing her into it. And she knew with relative certainty exactly how little he thought about her taking on the role. She tried not to let her disappoint show.
“Will you excuse me, Sergeant? Duty calls.”
“Of course, ma’am. Thanks for the chat.”
They exchanged some quick salutes, and she took her leave of him. Alone, Dezba sighed again and turned all over in his mind one more time. It was hard thinking about, but at times, there really was no choice in the matter. To lose two respected commanders, people who were near and dear to so many hearts. It was unthinkable. What was worse was not knowing what had become of them.
He knew with almost complete certainty that Braun was still alive, but his sudden absence was doing the platoon little service. But to think for a moment that the Mage might not have come through the attack. It was just so -
No, he thought. That wasn’t a thought he was willing to entertain. The man had come through too much and performed too many services for all them to simply wink out and disappear now. It hardly seemed fair that he might persevere when others were so easily torn from them, but that was how it had to be. As the old man himself used to say, line had to be drawn. A point past which despair and loss simply could not reach. Even if it wasn’t quite true…
Gathering his wits about him, he began the long walk back to his squad’s vehicle. Things would be tense when he returned, he knew. Aside from the recent outburst of violence between them, he knew none of them would be too happy to see the man who had just kicked their asses flitting about them again.
Good thing he had a surprise waiting for them. Perhaps tonight would be a good time. A way of buoying their spirits and letting them know he still liked them, even if he did have to occasionally whoop them into shape!
