“Two qualities are indispensable: first, an intellect that, even in the darkest hour, retains some glimmerings of the inner light which leads to truth; and second, the courage to follow this faint light wherever it may lead.”
-Karl Von Clausewitz
The remaining squads had convened on the two vehicles that remained in operation. As second’s sat a few paces away, the engine off but still warm, the rest of them worked on third’s, cleaning up the mess before they tried to set off again. The crew would have their hands full already with what remained of their mission. No sense in forcing them to do so surrounded by the blood of their fallen comrades.
Saunders stood near the open door, the streaks of blood still apparent from where the driver and gunner had been pulled free. On the side of the road, what was left of Bolton and Ferris lay beneath a set of blankets. There no time for a proper burial, so they placed them where they could be retrieved later, alongside the chopper pilots they had managed to retrieve from the wrecks.
“We bury our dead,” had been the LT’s order. That applied as much for enemy combatants right now as it did for their own. Though it cost them precious minutes, Saunders could see the wisdom. Despite all that had happened today, they were not prepared to abandon proper protocol. The Whiskeys were burned, the dead interred. She knew the Mage would approve.
As she applied wipes and spray to the driver’s seat, Whitman and Majorca handled the seats on the opposite side. Batista was handling the rear seat on the driver’s side while Morris busied himself disposing of all their gory towels. Somehow, the FNGs had drawn the long straw on this cleanup, but Saunders couldn’t hate them so much for it. Everyone in their squad proved to be unlucky in that it was them on cleanup duty. It was like standing in a pit of shit, those who stood higher were merely a few inches less submerged.
The gunner’s death had sent gore in just about all directions, but most of it had trickled down into the back seats. The only other thing to be concerned about was the windshield, which bore the marks of Bolton’s chest being ripped open once the Apache’s explosive rounds hit him.
Damn, this looks awful from the receiving end, she thought. Perhaps the people who designed these weapons’ systems, and those who embraced them so enthusiastically, would think differently if they were in the habit of cleaning up after. “Saturation” was not such a fine word when it meant blood and guts splatted in every direction.
At the other vehicle, the LT was busy using their squawk box. Now that he had a working radio antenna at his disposal, he was undergoing to task of radioing command and letting them know of their whereabouts. Naturally, the discussion seemed to be going as smoothly as any he had had with command on this day. Strained, aggravated, and peppered with capitulation. Many times over, she saw Braun nod and shift uneasily in place, doing his best to absorb instructions he could not abide.
At one point, she saw him straighten and look surprised. His entire manner changed after that, as if everything he was being told to do was that was easier to swallow. Under different circumstances, she might have wondered what that was all about. But at the moment, it was only a footnote in her mind, taking a backseat to the gore-stained mess that was her world. If she never again caught the smell of blood, she would be a happy woman. Even the thought of a rare piece of meat put her stomach on edge right now.
“Oh, Goddamit,” she heard from the other side of the cabin. She looked over to see Whitman hunched over, aiming his head to the gutter.
“What’s the problem, Billy?” asked Majorca.
Whitman raised a finger, requesting a moment to let the nausea pass before he answered. He stood back up, his hand on his stomach, and gestured to the cabin.
“I think I just found Ferris’ colon, man.”
That sent up cries of complaint and lament all around. Majorca was the first to start hurling expletives in Whitman’s direction. For once, the Private didn’t appear in a joking mood.
“Hey, I’m sorry, man! I didn’t ask to find his fucking shitty guts on the floor, but there they are!”
“Private, you’re imaging things. Get back to work,” Saunders interjected.
“Ma’am, with all due respect, you’re not staring at the mess I am over here. I know a lower intestine when I see one.”
He lurched over again and aimed his head at the gutter, but nothing came out. He simply convulsed a few times, his stomach searching for contents that weren’t there. None of them had eaten a thing since the early morning. Another small mercy. Majorca didn’t let up on him though.
“Billy, you keep that fucking crap to yourself! We’re all hip deep in our friends remains here, we don’t need to hear about it!”
As soon as he was done lurching, Whitman fired back. “Man, fuck you! I’m the one looking at Ferris’ exploded stomach. What have you got to deal with back there!” He marched to the back and started pushing Majorca out of the way.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Change places with me. I’m sick of being this squad’s fucking whipping boy!”
“Get the fuck off me!”
Saunders felt her own stomach beginning to turn and her head spin. Her vision began to blur as her two squad mates began to go at it, pushing giving way to fists being thrown. She was vaguely aware of Private Morris yelling from behind her, asking her to do something. Batista began to jump in to, trying to break them up but getting hit himself. In seconds, all three were throwing arms and punches, hitting whomever they could.
“Fuck you! No, fuck you!” went the chorus.
“Sergeant, do something!” Morris continued to yell.
Saunders almost keeled over from the combined effect of it all. She wanted to throw up, to pass out, to lay down and pass out. To let her aching head and struggling body take control and put her under, where she wanted to be. But the sight of her fighting infantrymen was something she could not oblige.
A loud crack sounded out and everyone stopped dead. They were all looking in her direction immediately, to arm she had extended upward, and the smoking sidearm held in her hand.
She took several deep breaths, trying to force her head to stop spinning. It wouldn’t oblige her entirely, but at least she didn’t feel like passing out anymore. And she appeared to have her grunts rapt attention now. The approaching footsteps let her know that she had attracted the attention of the platoon sergeant as well.
“First Squad!” he bellowed. “What the fuck is going on over here? Why the hell haven’t you finished cleaning this Victor? Why is the Sergeant discharging her weapon? What the fuck is going on?!”
No one could answer, being still stunned into silence. Saunders took a deep breath and replied for all.
“Just a minor disagreement between soldiers, Sergeant. We were just getting back to work.”
Grayson grumbled, his face turning the color of stewed beets. He leaned in close to her, though his voice did not drop a single octave.
“We are in a combat zone and narrowly survived contact with the enemy! We don’t need no Dirty Harry shit drawing attention to ourselves! Do I make myself clear?”
She nodded. “As a bell, sir.”
“Get back to work you dirty sonsofbitches!”
He turned on his heal and walked off, joining the LT over at First’s vehicle. Saunders looked in their direction and noted that Braun was eying them as well, though he still seemed raptly focused on the squawk box still. Whatever substance the conversation he was having with Command held, it was enough to distract him from her little display of force. That couldn’t be good. But again, all of that was on the back burner, barely registering against the weight of everything else she had to deal with right now.
Speaking of which, she felt another wave of dizziness coming over her and needed to sit down. Morris was quick to catch her and the others began to move too, rounding the side of the Humvee to come to her side.
“Sergeant, are you alright?” he asked. She looked up to see several concerned eyes, all dancing around in front of her like a wavy haze.
“I’m okay,” she replied. “Just a little disoriented.”
“No surprise there,” said Majorca. “You’ve been hit pretty hard today. A couple of times. We should really have the medic take a look at you.”
“No need,” she said, planting her boots against the asphalt and straightening her legs. “This grunt has already spent months in bed. I’m not taking to a stretcher again til this mission is over.”
“Sarge…” Whitman began to insist. She silenced him with a raised hand.
“Do I need to brandish my sidearm again?” she asked with a smile. “Get back to work. I’ll walk this off.”
They all nodded their agreements and went back to the vehicle. Morris even took her place, finishing up with the driver’s seat and windshield. Whitman managed to get back into the passenger’s side without further complaint, though she could tell it was hellish for him.
Turning to the storefront they had been huddling in earlier, she began to pace, hoping a few balanced steps might straighter her head out. She managed to get them in a straight enough line and came about. That’s when she saw Grayson approaching again.
“Sergeant,” he said, calmly but firmly. “Lieutenant has asked for all NCOs to report to him.”
“Right away, sir,” she said, following him to 2nd Humvee, her eyes on the yellow line in the middle of the road. For the duration of the walk, another twenty or so paces, she used it as her reference grid, keeping her steps even and aligned with it. Her head felt marginally better when they came to Braun’s side with the others.
“Sergeant, you alright?” the LT asked when she came upon him. “Looks like you’re having a problem with your squad there.”
“No problem, sir,” she replied curtly, offering no other explanation. Braun simply nodded and got right down to it, every other NCO looking at him with haggard, expectant eyes.
“I’ve been on the horn with HQ for the past five minutes and managed to get some news… and some bad.” He paused for a second before broaching the bad news first. “One the one hand, we can expect no relief between now and the time we reach our objective. Which, I have just learned, is the Veteran’s Hospital on the West Bank. Command has ordered us to rendezvous there with a military element and defend it until relief arrives.”
He paused again, prompting Rickson to ask. “Sir, what’s the good news?”
“Good news is, once we’ve secured that location, we can expect relief en force.”
That got their attention. Just about everyone perked up and began muttering positively.
“Are we talking about a counter-attack, sir?” Tate asked.
“Command could not specify over wireless for fear that the enemy might hear it,” he said, then raised a finger to add an exception. “However, Rattlesnake Actual did come on the line and conveyed in no uncertain terms that they have a game changer in the works. I stressed to them that my people have been busting their asses trying to buy them time, and that we could not continue unless we had some idea of what of our objective was. Again, nothing specific could be conveyed, but it was made abundantly clear, that Hospital needs to be protected at all costs. Once were dug in, all we need to do is wait for relief.”
That too seemed to agree with everyone. The knowledge that there was relief and some easier times coming. Or at least, the promise thereof. Saunders even felt her disorientation lifting a little, her body responding well to the knowledge that she would be in the company of several medics very soon. Though she wouldn’t admit it to her boys, she was beginning to fear she had picked up a concussion somewhere along the line there. When there was time, she would get a second opinion, and possibly some meds and bed rest.
“One last thing,” Braun said with a raised hand. “We took it in the pants from those enemy choppers, but their side can’t have failed to notice that we took them down and are still here. They’re likely to send reinforcements soon, which means we need to be wheels up as yesterday. Sergeant,” he said in Saunders direction. “Is Third Squad’s Victor serviceable?”
“Yes, sir,” she said with a nod. “Driver’s section wasn’t hit, and the engine is still in working order.”
“Good,” he replied, looking to the others. “Which means we need to get every able body into the two remaining Victors, clear this bridge and converge on that hospital. And… there’s likely to be some opposition when we get there.”
A few murmured affirmatives came in reply. Braun’s voice dropped and his next words sounded somber, remorseful even.
“I know it’s been a hard day. We’ve all lost more than we can account for. But it’s almost over. Give me one more push, people, and we can sit back and let the rest of the Rattlesnakes handle things from here.”
Louder affirmatives sounded out. Braun smiled brightly at them, then looked to Saunders and smiled at her especially bright. Or so she thought. It might have been the concussion.
Then, as with everyone else, her attention became fixed on the loud, whizzing noise coming towards them. Grayson barely had time enough to yell out before it landed and exploded nearby.
“Take cover!”
Every head ducked as the first explosion went on in the empty lot. Another whizzing noise announced itself to their left and exploded in the street. Everyone crouched low and looked all about, suddenly aware that they were sighted and being targeted by mortar fire. The enemy reinforcements appeared to be calling it in before they showed their faces.
Jumping to his feet and raising his gun, Braun joined Grayson in bellowing out new orders.
“Get to your Victors! We’re Oscar Mike!”
