7:00 PM
The tropical rain began to fall in sheets as the sun slowly set in the Palacian sky. The troops of the 1st Infantry sat in their camps, trying to entertain themselves in whatever way imaginable and take their minds off the battle that was sure to come in the morning. The rain blocked out the internet connections, preventing Jim Tate from filing his latest story and the college kids from catching re-runs of House and NCIS on USA (Characters Welcome). Some listened and danced to music on their iPods, some tried to play with their Wiis and X-Boxs, others read or ate or played cards or knife-fought (with Whalestoe besting C.D., Nirvana Naslund, and Salem with his newly-acquired Jenkins knife) or simply sat and thought or prayed. It was a remarkably somber occasion in the usually boisterous camp, for the men and women of the 1st realized that tomorrow would bring what was likely to be the climax of the campaign - and the end of many a life.
Corporal Beck was not so concerned. He knew tomorrow would bring yet another battle, but he had no way of knowing it would be one of the largest, bloodiest and most harrowing actions he had ever experienced. For him, it seemed simply yet another night before a battle, a feeling had experienced all too many times in his thirty years.
He had made many friends within the regiment and lost a few of them. Comraderie was one of the things that he enjoyed the most about the military, but it wasn't something he valued a great deal. He had friends all over the globe as a result, from Chechnya and Vietnam to Uganda and Venezuela, most of whom knew him under one of his dozens of names, none of them real. He took for granted his ability to assume new identities and make friends within whatever regiment on whatever continent he was then serving in.
Beck was lost in a reverie of thought when he saw the dark figure walking towards him again. He carefully took out his pistol and sat it down beside him on his sleeping bag.
Sergeant Adnan walked over cautiously, a stern, somewhat uncomfortable look on his leathery face. He sat down across from Beck and stared at him with cold brown eyes for almost a minute, then finally began speaking.
"You know, they say the Russkies got over 25,000 men in them heights over there," he began. "It's going be one hell of battle."
Beck nodded, saying nothing for the moment. Out of the corner of his eye, he kept a careful watch on his sidearm.
"This is the biggest battle in over a hundred years," Adnan continued. "Of course, my ancestors were from Syria - they were busy fighting Frenchmen and Israelis while my school chums had parents dying at Sword Beach and Dieppe. They always called me the Towelhead at school in Calgary - until I beat the shit out of them, that is. My fists made me a Canadian - I had to work at it."
Adnan smiled ruefully. "All that hard work, and now I'm a Sergeant in the United States Army," he said, his voice dripping with self-conscious irony. "Maybe I'll move to L.A. and start over."
Beck nodded his affirmation. Adnan's confused, uncertain identity was definitely something he could relate to. It was something they had common, but Beck did not assume that this meant their quarrel was terminated. Still, he wondered why his erstwhile enemy was bothering to tell him all this.
"When this is over, I'm still going to have to kill you," Adnan said somberly, immediately snapping Beck to attention. "But only when it's over. Until then, we're comrades-in-arms - have to be. This ain't your fight or mine, but we'll have to make it so for the sake of appearances." Then he added, almost as an after-thought, "I won't frag you."
With this, Adnan saluted and walked away briskly. Beck knew that their reckoning had not yet come - Canadians don't make idle threats, he knew. But it was something of a comfort to know that he had at least a few more hours to live. He pulled out his iPod and turned on some heavy metal music, falling asleep while Metalhead and Whitesnake punctured bloody holes in his eardrums.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Thursday, May 7, 2009
The Last Temptation of Jenkins
MAY 6TH, 2009
6:00 PM
While his division prepared to storm the gates of Golgotha, General Jenkins lay uncomfortably in his bed, thinking about all his well-laid, Machiavellian plans gone to rot. His arm was mangled, so they wouldn't let him anywhere near the front, but his desire for revenge against Colonel Dundee had not receeded one bit - tinged now with frustration over his maiming, it became a primal, irrational desire rather than a calculated act.
He had no idea of knowing whether Captain O'Brien had succeeded in his task, or even tried to carry it out. Anyone who showed a sign of conscience was of little reliability, and even less use to Jenkins.
Jenkins was determined to go to the front himself and wreak his vengeance. As he lay in his bed, he had nothing to do but plan his escape from his satiny prison. He needed to get hold of a truck, at the very least. He hadn't determined on how to dispose of his target, but that was secondary to the fact of getting there. He frequently reached for his service pistol and turned it over in his hand, examining it as his mind thought of new and exciting ways to exterminate Groggy Dundee - and perhaps his bitch Captain, as well.
I'll find a way, Jenkins thought to himself. I didn't come this far for Groggy to live...
* * *
Though neither he nor Jenkins knew it, Groggy's salvation might lie in the hands of a beautiful, dedicated and somewhat flirtatious nurse.
Jana had become aware of Jenkins' plans through her constant eavesdropping. Ever since her conversation with Captain Harriman, she'd become suspicious of the General, and had happened to overhear his conversation. She then realized that Groggy's life was in danger, and by extension those of his whole regiment. Something must be done to stop him, but the only possibility that came to Jana's mind was a decidedly unpleasant one.
Jana had always proudly called herself a tart with a heart. Flirtation, and her "fluffy bunny" act with her charges, were a key part of her personality and success as a nurse. But despite her reputation, she wasn't actually a promiscuous slut. It just pleased the maimed and mangled boys in her charge to think of her as such.
Not that Nurse Jana was without hesitation. She didn't exactly relish the idea of giving herself to a villainous pig like Jenkins, but at least one man's life was at stake, and possibly his whole regiment. God would forgive her.
* * *
"How's the General this evening?" Jana asked, putting on her kindest voice and letting down her shoulder-length auburn hair. Jenkins just grunted in reply.
Jana sighed and played with her hair, struggling to keep her cherubic smile painted on as she faced the most horrifying prospect of her life. It's okay, Jana girl, she told herself. You're doing it for a cause.
"I thought I would give you some comfort," Jana said pleasantly. Jenkins' right eye went wide like an aggravated bull.
This bitch can't be trying to seduce me, he thought. That's the most vile, sexist fantasy come true. And that only happens in Hollywood action movies.
The two made awkward small talk for the better part of half an hour, nothing worth transcribing, just nurse and patient patter. Jana found herself more hesitant, more repulsed as the conversation continued; the more she looked at and interacted with Jenkins, the less thrilled she was about the prospect of doing what she'd come to do. Well, time to get this over with, Jana thought to herself disgustedly.
As Jana began to disrobe, Jenkins suddenly realized: this bitch is working for Groggy! My God, what a cunning plan! Let me be seduced so that I can't wreak vengeance. It was too perfect.
But Jenkins couldn't remember the last time a female had looked at him without vomiting, much less tried to seduce him, so for the moment he decided to go along with Jana's game.
"I've still got one good arm," Jenkins said lecherously. He then leaned forward and pulled Jana close. The two locked lips. Jana blanched; it was like embracing a gecko, and she could almost taste the flies on Jenkins' tongue. But she forced a smile on her face as she pulled back from him.
Then they made love, quickly and sloppily and without much enjoyment for either party. And after the climax, Jana was sure that she was lying on top, preventing Jenkins from getting up or moving at all.
This damned well better worth it, Jana thought to herself as she lie atop the monstrous crocodile. A promotion, a decoration, or dinner and sex with Hugh Grant, had better be in the offing for her.
6:00 PM
While his division prepared to storm the gates of Golgotha, General Jenkins lay uncomfortably in his bed, thinking about all his well-laid, Machiavellian plans gone to rot. His arm was mangled, so they wouldn't let him anywhere near the front, but his desire for revenge against Colonel Dundee had not receeded one bit - tinged now with frustration over his maiming, it became a primal, irrational desire rather than a calculated act.
He had no idea of knowing whether Captain O'Brien had succeeded in his task, or even tried to carry it out. Anyone who showed a sign of conscience was of little reliability, and even less use to Jenkins.
Jenkins was determined to go to the front himself and wreak his vengeance. As he lay in his bed, he had nothing to do but plan his escape from his satiny prison. He needed to get hold of a truck, at the very least. He hadn't determined on how to dispose of his target, but that was secondary to the fact of getting there. He frequently reached for his service pistol and turned it over in his hand, examining it as his mind thought of new and exciting ways to exterminate Groggy Dundee - and perhaps his bitch Captain, as well.
I'll find a way, Jenkins thought to himself. I didn't come this far for Groggy to live...
* * *
Though neither he nor Jenkins knew it, Groggy's salvation might lie in the hands of a beautiful, dedicated and somewhat flirtatious nurse.
Jana had become aware of Jenkins' plans through her constant eavesdropping. Ever since her conversation with Captain Harriman, she'd become suspicious of the General, and had happened to overhear his conversation. She then realized that Groggy's life was in danger, and by extension those of his whole regiment. Something must be done to stop him, but the only possibility that came to Jana's mind was a decidedly unpleasant one.
Jana had always proudly called herself a tart with a heart. Flirtation, and her "fluffy bunny" act with her charges, were a key part of her personality and success as a nurse. But despite her reputation, she wasn't actually a promiscuous slut. It just pleased the maimed and mangled boys in her charge to think of her as such.
Not that Nurse Jana was without hesitation. She didn't exactly relish the idea of giving herself to a villainous pig like Jenkins, but at least one man's life was at stake, and possibly his whole regiment. God would forgive her.
* * *
"How's the General this evening?" Jana asked, putting on her kindest voice and letting down her shoulder-length auburn hair. Jenkins just grunted in reply.
Jana sighed and played with her hair, struggling to keep her cherubic smile painted on as she faced the most horrifying prospect of her life. It's okay, Jana girl, she told herself. You're doing it for a cause.
"I thought I would give you some comfort," Jana said pleasantly. Jenkins' right eye went wide like an aggravated bull.
This bitch can't be trying to seduce me, he thought. That's the most vile, sexist fantasy come true. And that only happens in Hollywood action movies.
The two made awkward small talk for the better part of half an hour, nothing worth transcribing, just nurse and patient patter. Jana found herself more hesitant, more repulsed as the conversation continued; the more she looked at and interacted with Jenkins, the less thrilled she was about the prospect of doing what she'd come to do. Well, time to get this over with, Jana thought to herself disgustedly.
As Jana began to disrobe, Jenkins suddenly realized: this bitch is working for Groggy! My God, what a cunning plan! Let me be seduced so that I can't wreak vengeance. It was too perfect.
But Jenkins couldn't remember the last time a female had looked at him without vomiting, much less tried to seduce him, so for the moment he decided to go along with Jana's game.
"I've still got one good arm," Jenkins said lecherously. He then leaned forward and pulled Jana close. The two locked lips. Jana blanched; it was like embracing a gecko, and she could almost taste the flies on Jenkins' tongue. But she forced a smile on her face as she pulled back from him.
Then they made love, quickly and sloppily and without much enjoyment for either party. And after the climax, Jana was sure that she was lying on top, preventing Jenkins from getting up or moving at all.
This damned well better worth it, Jana thought to herself as she lie atop the monstrous crocodile. A promotion, a decoration, or dinner and sex with Hugh Grant, had better be in the offing for her.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Prelude to Battle
MAY 6TH, 2009
BELOW THE MOLOTOV HEIGHTS
The action of the 6th was limited to prepatory fire. American fighters and bombers strafed the forbidding Russian fortifications along the Molotov Heights, spilling their deadly cargos of missiles, rockets and cluster bombs amidst the Rusian lines. General Slurry was overseeing the movement of artillery and siege guns towards the front, and soon all of the XXII Corps was stationed within about five miles of the primary Russian defenses.
General Slurry called his divisional commanders together for a conference on the early afternoon. General Ramsey's Regular division would launch the first phase of the attack, attacking Fort Belkin on the Army's left flank, thought to be guarded by a small detachment of Russians under Lieutenant Ovechkin; the hardest part would be marching through the jungle to get there. The main assault, for whatever reason, fell upon General Ale's division; they would attack the strongest part of the line, a headlong assault against the Molotov Heights. If Ramsey's attack succeeded, Strelnikoff's flank would be turned, and Ale's attack might not even be necessary, depending on the outcome. However, General Slurry had his work cut out for him, however much superiority in men and guns he had, and it would take sheer luck, skill, bravery, and a bit of mad dash to prevent any such assault from turning into a Fredericksburg or Morhange.
At a glance, the Russians had done a superb job of fortifying their main position. Colonel Strelnikoff had emplaced all of his available heavy weapons, heavy machine guns, anti-armor weapons, and artillery - a dozen light field guns and eight monster howitzers - in an elaborate series of entrenchments, bunkers, blockhoues and redoubts. There were interior lines which would allow Strelnikoff to maneuver men and guns where needed, to plug any breakthroughs by the American forces. And the side of the hill was pockmarked with Russian and Cuban troops stationed in rifle pits, pillboxes and machine gun nests, designed to make any advance up the hill sheer hell. All told, Strelnikoff had his brigade-strength Russian force, plus two Cuban brigades, a handful of Palacian loyalist troops - as worthless as they generally were, they could at least fire a rifle or stop an enemy bullet - and his artillerymen, engineers, and machine gunners, giving him a total of nearly 25,000 men. Even the volumnious shelling and bombing did frustratingly little to disrupt the Russian lines; and as Slurry's forces had only minimal armor and no tanks, his assault seemed likely to fail, or at least occur atrocious casualties.
Not only this, but the Russian left was not nearly as weak as the Americans were expecting. For Strelnikoff had dispatched his largest Cuban brigade under Colonel Linares to reinforce Ovechkin's small detachment at Belkin, along with several crack machine gun battalions. The fog of war had prevented this key intelligence from reaching Slurry, and thus General Ramsey, slogging through the jungle to reach a heavily fortified position, was in as much danger of defeat and carnage as Ale's forces opposite Molotov.
However, Colonel Strelnikoff made one fundamental error, a boneheaded military mistake which in and of itself was ample evidence of why he was merely a Lieutenant-Colonel. His primary line of infantry and machine guns had entrenched on the very crest of the hill, rather than the "military crest", thus preventing them from being able to depress their weapons onto the oncoming forces - provided, of course, that the Americans got that far. Still, it was an extraordinary risk, a boneheaded blunder of startling stupidity, the sort of thing a shavetail lieutenant or politically appointed bungler might make. But Strelnikoff had made it, and while General Slurry could not foresee this, it would prove perhaps the decisive factor in the battle ahead.
The stage was set for the largest battle in the Western Hemisphere since Roosevelt and Wood stormed San Juan Heights. Strelnikoff had gambled everything on this defensive line, while Slurry was hoping simply for the quickest end to the campaign possible.
BELOW THE MOLOTOV HEIGHTS
The action of the 6th was limited to prepatory fire. American fighters and bombers strafed the forbidding Russian fortifications along the Molotov Heights, spilling their deadly cargos of missiles, rockets and cluster bombs amidst the Rusian lines. General Slurry was overseeing the movement of artillery and siege guns towards the front, and soon all of the XXII Corps was stationed within about five miles of the primary Russian defenses.
General Slurry called his divisional commanders together for a conference on the early afternoon. General Ramsey's Regular division would launch the first phase of the attack, attacking Fort Belkin on the Army's left flank, thought to be guarded by a small detachment of Russians under Lieutenant Ovechkin; the hardest part would be marching through the jungle to get there. The main assault, for whatever reason, fell upon General Ale's division; they would attack the strongest part of the line, a headlong assault against the Molotov Heights. If Ramsey's attack succeeded, Strelnikoff's flank would be turned, and Ale's attack might not even be necessary, depending on the outcome. However, General Slurry had his work cut out for him, however much superiority in men and guns he had, and it would take sheer luck, skill, bravery, and a bit of mad dash to prevent any such assault from turning into a Fredericksburg or Morhange.
At a glance, the Russians had done a superb job of fortifying their main position. Colonel Strelnikoff had emplaced all of his available heavy weapons, heavy machine guns, anti-armor weapons, and artillery - a dozen light field guns and eight monster howitzers - in an elaborate series of entrenchments, bunkers, blockhoues and redoubts. There were interior lines which would allow Strelnikoff to maneuver men and guns where needed, to plug any breakthroughs by the American forces. And the side of the hill was pockmarked with Russian and Cuban troops stationed in rifle pits, pillboxes and machine gun nests, designed to make any advance up the hill sheer hell. All told, Strelnikoff had his brigade-strength Russian force, plus two Cuban brigades, a handful of Palacian loyalist troops - as worthless as they generally were, they could at least fire a rifle or stop an enemy bullet - and his artillerymen, engineers, and machine gunners, giving him a total of nearly 25,000 men. Even the volumnious shelling and bombing did frustratingly little to disrupt the Russian lines; and as Slurry's forces had only minimal armor and no tanks, his assault seemed likely to fail, or at least occur atrocious casualties.
Not only this, but the Russian left was not nearly as weak as the Americans were expecting. For Strelnikoff had dispatched his largest Cuban brigade under Colonel Linares to reinforce Ovechkin's small detachment at Belkin, along with several crack machine gun battalions. The fog of war had prevented this key intelligence from reaching Slurry, and thus General Ramsey, slogging through the jungle to reach a heavily fortified position, was in as much danger of defeat and carnage as Ale's forces opposite Molotov.
However, Colonel Strelnikoff made one fundamental error, a boneheaded military mistake which in and of itself was ample evidence of why he was merely a Lieutenant-Colonel. His primary line of infantry and machine guns had entrenched on the very crest of the hill, rather than the "military crest", thus preventing them from being able to depress their weapons onto the oncoming forces - provided, of course, that the Americans got that far. Still, it was an extraordinary risk, a boneheaded blunder of startling stupidity, the sort of thing a shavetail lieutenant or politically appointed bungler might make. But Strelnikoff had made it, and while General Slurry could not foresee this, it would prove perhaps the decisive factor in the battle ahead.
The stage was set for the largest battle in the Western Hemisphere since Roosevelt and Wood stormed San Juan Heights. Strelnikoff had gambled everything on this defensive line, while Slurry was hoping simply for the quickest end to the campaign possible.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Advance
MAY 5TH, 2009
10:00 AM
The 1st Infantry set out to march the long read towards Molotov Heights. They lacked sufficient motorized transport, so they were forced to live up to their name, slogging it through the steaming, sweltering jungle and the poorly marked, muddy roads on foot, leading to blisters, fungus and fatigue. The most unromantic portion of the war was not the fighting, the killing or even the climate; it was the marching.
Groggy marched at the head of his column, refusing to borrow a jeep from the brigade commander while his men lacked motorized transport. With him was the ever-present Captain Harriman, while Lieutenant-Colonel Starbuck came directly behind with his battalion. They marched in perfect column formation on what roads they could, following the guidance of Lieutenant Emma and her detachment of Palacian partisans.
At 11:00 AM, after an early morning let up, the heavy tropical rain resume. With no shelter aside from their helmets and light tropical coats, the troops suffered miserably in the pelting rain and sweltering heat. The only consolation they had was that there were; but there were other dangers along the road to contend with.
A young Private Owen became a casualty early in the march. A member of B Company, he was marching along the road when a large Fer-de-lance appeared, clamping its jaws down on his right foot. Lieutenant Ackt, his face now scarred from his phosphorescent encounter, quickly slew the serpent, cutting off its head and bagging it for future use as a meal. Private Owen was taken to the rear, but an hour later the command learned he had died from his injury - a most inglorious and painful end, and one that none of the command hoped for.
By 1:00 PM, the regiment reached a small clearing outside of the main jungle. Groggy ordered the regiment to break for an hour's rest. Ordinarily this would have been unmilitary sloth, but after three hours of marching through the green hell of the Palacian jungle, his command sorely needed it.
As they rested, rubbing their feet, trying to stomach Ackatsis' Fer-de-lance gumbo, and seeking shelter from the constant rain showers, they saw the 71st New York marching through. Colonel Ackatsis drove by first in a jeep, and Groggy caught sight of him just long enough for his old nemesis to shoot him an evil glare. Groggy archly saluted as the Colonel drove past.
The men of the 71st smirked contemptuously as they marched by Groggy's exhausted troopers. Though hampered by the same lack of transport as the 1st, they had found a much easier road through the jungle and lacked the exhaustion that plagued their colleagues. "Look at the volunteers, boys!" a burly Corporal shouted. "All tuckered out! Maybe we should give them some sleeping bags and marshmallows for their campfire!"
Nirvana Naslund, the eternal troublemaker, rushed forward wielding his knife. "Tough talk coming from a bunch of pussy weekend warriors!" he shouted.
The Corporal suddenly stepped out of line. "What did you say, punk?" he grunted.
"You heard me, prick," Naslund hissed. "What's your slogan, one weekend a month, or some bullshit? You're really tough, ain't you, blogging and taking out the garbage between light exercise."
"You're only in the Army for the fighting, you sorry sack of shit!" the Corporal roared, his dander clearly up. "You're too busy robbing conveniece stores to serve your country."
"At least I work for a living, you sorry blue-blood sack of shit," Naslund continued, hitting the Corporal in - the aristocratic history of the 71st as a regiment for the rich, famous and well-thought-of.
Sufficiently egged on, the Corporal rushed forward, fists balled. "Put your money where your mouth is, gutter trash!" he roared. Naslund simply smiled and flashed his knife.
Before any pucnhes could be thrown or blood shed, two of the Corporal's colleagues rushed forward to restrain him. Similarly, Bunsher and Gordon Sumner happened to be nearby, and grabbed Naslund's arms.
After a moment, the Corporal ceased struggling. "You peckerwoods aren't worth it," he sneered. Then he marched back to rejoin his company.
"Tell your Colonel that Groggy Dundee fucked his daughter!" Naslund shouted after the Corporal, laughing as the 71st continued its march into the jungle. The men of the 1st burst out in raucous laughter, and some flipping of birds and mooning did occur before the 71st finally disappeared into the mountain mists.
The officers, too, overheard Naslund's ballsy remark. Captain Harriman smiled when she heard it, but Groggy's face went wide with horror. He really hoped the Corporal didn't.
4:00 PM
Finally, after another two hours of marching, the regiment reached the Nasos Heights. They had suffered even more along the way - another soldier had fallen victim to snakebite, a Private in D Company had somehow fallen into a bottomless bog, and mosquitos and flies incessantly bit and tore at the soldiers' flesh. There was an ever-present fear of malaria, yellow fever, and even worse diseases throughout the command.
Groggy assembled Captain Harriman and his three battalion commanders. "There they are, gentlemen - and lady," he said, pointing airly at a smudge of heights becoming visible behind a receding fog bank.
"The Molotov Heights," he said. "The cream of the Russian Army is there waiting for us, behind mortars and machine guns and artillery and God knows what else. That is where victory and glory lie."
The ever-present Jim Tate rushed forward, struggling to frame the far-off heights with his eye phones. "Beautiful," he uttered, looking at the image on his screen. He then turned to Colonel Dundee, assuming his faux-officious reporter's air.
"Are your men ready for the final throw-down with the Russian Army?" he asked.
Groggy looked at the young reporter with a mixture of contempt and exhaustion. "We'll be ready when we get through this damned jungle," he uttered tersely. Hanging on the Colonel's every inconsequential word, Tate struggled to enter this into his phone, but at this inopportune time, his battery died. Swearing, he skulked off to the rear.
"Half-hour rest for supper," Groggy ordered. "We need to be in the valley and link up with the rest of the brigade by nightfall." He then dismissed his officers with a salute, looking airily at the foreboding heights in the distance. There, before him, lie the path to true glory, redemption, and victory.
10:00 AM
The 1st Infantry set out to march the long read towards Molotov Heights. They lacked sufficient motorized transport, so they were forced to live up to their name, slogging it through the steaming, sweltering jungle and the poorly marked, muddy roads on foot, leading to blisters, fungus and fatigue. The most unromantic portion of the war was not the fighting, the killing or even the climate; it was the marching.
Groggy marched at the head of his column, refusing to borrow a jeep from the brigade commander while his men lacked motorized transport. With him was the ever-present Captain Harriman, while Lieutenant-Colonel Starbuck came directly behind with his battalion. They marched in perfect column formation on what roads they could, following the guidance of Lieutenant Emma and her detachment of Palacian partisans.
At 11:00 AM, after an early morning let up, the heavy tropical rain resume. With no shelter aside from their helmets and light tropical coats, the troops suffered miserably in the pelting rain and sweltering heat. The only consolation they had was that there were; but there were other dangers along the road to contend with.
A young Private Owen became a casualty early in the march. A member of B Company, he was marching along the road when a large Fer-de-lance appeared, clamping its jaws down on his right foot. Lieutenant Ackt, his face now scarred from his phosphorescent encounter, quickly slew the serpent, cutting off its head and bagging it for future use as a meal. Private Owen was taken to the rear, but an hour later the command learned he had died from his injury - a most inglorious and painful end, and one that none of the command hoped for.
By 1:00 PM, the regiment reached a small clearing outside of the main jungle. Groggy ordered the regiment to break for an hour's rest. Ordinarily this would have been unmilitary sloth, but after three hours of marching through the green hell of the Palacian jungle, his command sorely needed it.
As they rested, rubbing their feet, trying to stomach Ackatsis' Fer-de-lance gumbo, and seeking shelter from the constant rain showers, they saw the 71st New York marching through. Colonel Ackatsis drove by first in a jeep, and Groggy caught sight of him just long enough for his old nemesis to shoot him an evil glare. Groggy archly saluted as the Colonel drove past.
The men of the 71st smirked contemptuously as they marched by Groggy's exhausted troopers. Though hampered by the same lack of transport as the 1st, they had found a much easier road through the jungle and lacked the exhaustion that plagued their colleagues. "Look at the volunteers, boys!" a burly Corporal shouted. "All tuckered out! Maybe we should give them some sleeping bags and marshmallows for their campfire!"
Nirvana Naslund, the eternal troublemaker, rushed forward wielding his knife. "Tough talk coming from a bunch of pussy weekend warriors!" he shouted.
The Corporal suddenly stepped out of line. "What did you say, punk?" he grunted.
"You heard me, prick," Naslund hissed. "What's your slogan, one weekend a month, or some bullshit? You're really tough, ain't you, blogging and taking out the garbage between light exercise."
"You're only in the Army for the fighting, you sorry sack of shit!" the Corporal roared, his dander clearly up. "You're too busy robbing conveniece stores to serve your country."
"At least I work for a living, you sorry blue-blood sack of shit," Naslund continued, hitting the Corporal in - the aristocratic history of the 71st as a regiment for the rich, famous and well-thought-of.
Sufficiently egged on, the Corporal rushed forward, fists balled. "Put your money where your mouth is, gutter trash!" he roared. Naslund simply smiled and flashed his knife.
Before any pucnhes could be thrown or blood shed, two of the Corporal's colleagues rushed forward to restrain him. Similarly, Bunsher and Gordon Sumner happened to be nearby, and grabbed Naslund's arms.
After a moment, the Corporal ceased struggling. "You peckerwoods aren't worth it," he sneered. Then he marched back to rejoin his company.
"Tell your Colonel that Groggy Dundee fucked his daughter!" Naslund shouted after the Corporal, laughing as the 71st continued its march into the jungle. The men of the 1st burst out in raucous laughter, and some flipping of birds and mooning did occur before the 71st finally disappeared into the mountain mists.
The officers, too, overheard Naslund's ballsy remark. Captain Harriman smiled when she heard it, but Groggy's face went wide with horror. He really hoped the Corporal didn't.
4:00 PM
Finally, after another two hours of marching, the regiment reached the Nasos Heights. They had suffered even more along the way - another soldier had fallen victim to snakebite, a Private in D Company had somehow fallen into a bottomless bog, and mosquitos and flies incessantly bit and tore at the soldiers' flesh. There was an ever-present fear of malaria, yellow fever, and even worse diseases throughout the command.
Groggy assembled Captain Harriman and his three battalion commanders. "There they are, gentlemen - and lady," he said, pointing airly at a smudge of heights becoming visible behind a receding fog bank.
"The Molotov Heights," he said. "The cream of the Russian Army is there waiting for us, behind mortars and machine guns and artillery and God knows what else. That is where victory and glory lie."
The ever-present Jim Tate rushed forward, struggling to frame the far-off heights with his eye phones. "Beautiful," he uttered, looking at the image on his screen. He then turned to Colonel Dundee, assuming his faux-officious reporter's air.
"Are your men ready for the final throw-down with the Russian Army?" he asked.
Groggy looked at the young reporter with a mixture of contempt and exhaustion. "We'll be ready when we get through this damned jungle," he uttered tersely. Hanging on the Colonel's every inconsequential word, Tate struggled to enter this into his phone, but at this inopportune time, his battery died. Swearing, he skulked off to the rear.
"Half-hour rest for supper," Groggy ordered. "We need to be in the valley and link up with the rest of the brigade by nightfall." He then dismissed his officers with a salute, looking airily at the foreboding heights in the distance. There, before him, lie the path to true glory, redemption, and victory.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Interlude
MAY 4TH, 2009
NEAR SEGAL, PALACIOS
10:00 AM
Jim Tate hurried through the army camp just as a torrential rain storm began to pour down on them. He was garnering a fresh set of interviews with the fighting men of Groggy's regiment, hoping to file his next story before the next action occurred.
"I wanted to be the first kid on my block to get a confirmed kill," Miles Truelove said sarcastically, rolling his eyes as Tate hurriedly entered it into his iPhone.
"I just hope this is all over soon," Sergeant Terry Falk said wearily. "I covet victory, but I don't really relish the fighting."
Susie, still in utter shock over her boyfriend's death, was utterly catatonic, refusing to say anything. She simply sat, staring wide-eyed, until Tate finally got some decency and scurried away.
Elizabeth had a similar reaction. "Well, my boyfriend is lying in hospital with a broken shoulder and I've twice almost been killed. What's your question?"
Whalestoe happily recounted his exploits for the eager young reporter. "So I was there, on the lip of El Graperdurer," he said haughtily, a newfound eloquence finding itself in his manly deeds. "Me and Sven here fought like lions. I bagged myself a brace of Russkies, shooting with one hand, pop pop pop, brains exploding everywhere, slicing and slashing with the other, blood gushing from their throats 'n' mouths like spray from a whale's backside. 'Twas a cinch to kill 'em all, and the only problem is knowing when to stop. We have to take prisoners, ya know." Sven Celeton, a man of few words, could only nod his assent.
"Have you ever heard the sound a bullet makes when it shatters a Russkie's skull?" Corporal Beck asked Tate. "A bullet that hits the skull sounds like a stone splashing into a pond. Until last Monday, I hadn't heard that sound in years," he mused wistfully.
Having collected a few dozen such quotes, Tate walked away from the gatherings of weary and ragged soldiers. He saw Eric Glenn, sitting by a tree at the edge of the camp with his ubiquitous laptop, flash, cigar and buxom brown senorita.
"Do you actually do any reporting?" Tate asked his colleague, more than a bit annoyed by his blase, slothful demeanor.
"I blog," Glenn said quietly.
"This should be the greatest adventure of your life, Eric," Tate said with the enthusiasm of a hyperactive child. "Why can't you enjoy it? Enjoy the fact that you're documenting history and perhaps even playing some small part in it?"
"Why should I follow your firing line, for a matter that's no concern of mine?" Glenn quoted quietly. He had a cigar between his teeth as he kept poking away at his laptop.
"If it is a sin to covet honor, than I am the worst offender," Tate shot back.
"Quote or misquote all you like," Glenn said. "It won't do you any good when the bullets start flying." He then threw his cigar to the ground, spitting, and took a swig of gin from his ever-present flask. Tate rolled his eyes disgustedly and marched off, eager to Tweet.
2:00 PM
"If I have to answer one more question from that goddamned reporter," Miles Truelove spit, "I'm going to vomit."
"Some people have no respect whatsoever," Beck said quietly, cutting the end off a cigar with his knife.
"How are we supposed to answer "How do you feel that your friends just got killed?" Truelove continued. "What an asshole."
Angel sat quietly, rocking back and forth, her face pale and her eyes wide with a sense of shock and guilt.
"Angel, you haven't said much of anything this past week," Elizabeth said, putting her hand on her friend's shoulder.
"I've killed at least two men," Angel said. "How can I live with myself?"
"You get used to it," Beck said. "It's just the way the world is. Some men are better off dead."
Angel shot him a disgusted look. "Yeah, that helps so much," she said.
"I wonder what adventure the Old Man is planning for tomorrow," Truelove said.
"We'd be at war with the entire world if he were President," Beck agreed quietly.
"I don't care about that so much," Elizabeth said. "Every military officer's a bit crazy. It's just that, we hardly ever get to see the bastard."
"Hell, he won't even condescend to spend any time with us," Dan muttered, pouring himself a glass of coffee. "It's the least he could do after we all got our heads shot off for his sake."
"Those Colonel's epaulettes must have gone to his head," Elizabeth said, shaking her head sadly. "I knew him before he joined the Army. He was a great guy, and now..."
"Hell, he's an officer," Truelove said bitterly. "They're all the same. Rare is the officer who gives a damn about anything but himself and the book."
"Groggy has little respect for the book, I think you'll find," Dan replied. There was a collective snicker, and a moment of quiet friendship and comfort.
"If nothing else," Truelove commented, punctuating the pregnant silence, "He who sheds his blood with me shall be my brother."
"Indeed, sir," Dan replied. "Those abed in England shall think themselves accursed they were not here, whilst any lives who fought with us upon this day!"
"Except they'll be alive," Angel muttered quietly, her eyes cast down at the ground as a streak of lightning shot through the sky.
NEAR SEGAL, PALACIOS
10:00 AM
Jim Tate hurried through the army camp just as a torrential rain storm began to pour down on them. He was garnering a fresh set of interviews with the fighting men of Groggy's regiment, hoping to file his next story before the next action occurred.
"I wanted to be the first kid on my block to get a confirmed kill," Miles Truelove said sarcastically, rolling his eyes as Tate hurriedly entered it into his iPhone.
"I just hope this is all over soon," Sergeant Terry Falk said wearily. "I covet victory, but I don't really relish the fighting."
Susie, still in utter shock over her boyfriend's death, was utterly catatonic, refusing to say anything. She simply sat, staring wide-eyed, until Tate finally got some decency and scurried away.
Elizabeth had a similar reaction. "Well, my boyfriend is lying in hospital with a broken shoulder and I've twice almost been killed. What's your question?"
Whalestoe happily recounted his exploits for the eager young reporter. "So I was there, on the lip of El Graperdurer," he said haughtily, a newfound eloquence finding itself in his manly deeds. "Me and Sven here fought like lions. I bagged myself a brace of Russkies, shooting with one hand, pop pop pop, brains exploding everywhere, slicing and slashing with the other, blood gushing from their throats 'n' mouths like spray from a whale's backside. 'Twas a cinch to kill 'em all, and the only problem is knowing when to stop. We have to take prisoners, ya know." Sven Celeton, a man of few words, could only nod his assent.
"Have you ever heard the sound a bullet makes when it shatters a Russkie's skull?" Corporal Beck asked Tate. "A bullet that hits the skull sounds like a stone splashing into a pond. Until last Monday, I hadn't heard that sound in years," he mused wistfully.
Having collected a few dozen such quotes, Tate walked away from the gatherings of weary and ragged soldiers. He saw Eric Glenn, sitting by a tree at the edge of the camp with his ubiquitous laptop, flash, cigar and buxom brown senorita.
"Do you actually do any reporting?" Tate asked his colleague, more than a bit annoyed by his blase, slothful demeanor.
"I blog," Glenn said quietly.
"This should be the greatest adventure of your life, Eric," Tate said with the enthusiasm of a hyperactive child. "Why can't you enjoy it? Enjoy the fact that you're documenting history and perhaps even playing some small part in it?"
"Why should I follow your firing line, for a matter that's no concern of mine?" Glenn quoted quietly. He had a cigar between his teeth as he kept poking away at his laptop.
"If it is a sin to covet honor, than I am the worst offender," Tate shot back.
"Quote or misquote all you like," Glenn said. "It won't do you any good when the bullets start flying." He then threw his cigar to the ground, spitting, and took a swig of gin from his ever-present flask. Tate rolled his eyes disgustedly and marched off, eager to Tweet.
2:00 PM
"If I have to answer one more question from that goddamned reporter," Miles Truelove spit, "I'm going to vomit."
"Some people have no respect whatsoever," Beck said quietly, cutting the end off a cigar with his knife.
"How are we supposed to answer "How do you feel that your friends just got killed?" Truelove continued. "What an asshole."
Angel sat quietly, rocking back and forth, her face pale and her eyes wide with a sense of shock and guilt.
"Angel, you haven't said much of anything this past week," Elizabeth said, putting her hand on her friend's shoulder.
"I've killed at least two men," Angel said. "How can I live with myself?"
"You get used to it," Beck said. "It's just the way the world is. Some men are better off dead."
Angel shot him a disgusted look. "Yeah, that helps so much," she said.
"I wonder what adventure the Old Man is planning for tomorrow," Truelove said.
"We'd be at war with the entire world if he were President," Beck agreed quietly.
"I don't care about that so much," Elizabeth said. "Every military officer's a bit crazy. It's just that, we hardly ever get to see the bastard."
"Hell, he won't even condescend to spend any time with us," Dan muttered, pouring himself a glass of coffee. "It's the least he could do after we all got our heads shot off for his sake."
"Those Colonel's epaulettes must have gone to his head," Elizabeth said, shaking her head sadly. "I knew him before he joined the Army. He was a great guy, and now..."
"Hell, he's an officer," Truelove said bitterly. "They're all the same. Rare is the officer who gives a damn about anything but himself and the book."
"Groggy has little respect for the book, I think you'll find," Dan replied. There was a collective snicker, and a moment of quiet friendship and comfort.
"If nothing else," Truelove commented, punctuating the pregnant silence, "He who sheds his blood with me shall be my brother."
"Indeed, sir," Dan replied. "Those abed in England shall think themselves accursed they were not here, whilst any lives who fought with us upon this day!"
"Except they'll be alive," Angel muttered quietly, her eyes cast down at the ground as a streak of lightning shot through the sky.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Segal
MAY 2ND, 2009
1:00 PM
After a day of endless marching through sweltering jungle and steaming swamps, fighting mosquitos and skirmishing with Russian outposts, the vanguard of Groggy's regiment - Captain Grenouille and F Company - finally arrived outside the Russian fortifications at Segal in the early afternoon of May 2nd.
Segal looked like an easy enough target on paper. It was a star fort, surrounded by five sides of entrenchments manned by riflemen, mortars and machine guns. However, like the Russian positions at El Grapadura, it had only minimal artillery - a fatal handicap. The Americans had brought up several batteries of mortars and field guns, giving them an immediate advantage.
General Ramsey, who had lost two dozen men in the fighting at El Morro, urged a cautious siege to reduce the fort. But Groggy and caution were like water and oil, and so he began drawing up plans to reduce Segal without his superiors' consent. However, Brevet General Alstott caught wind of the plans, and Groggy was kept on a leash for the time being.
* * *
2:00 PM
BANG! BOOM! A flock of birds scattered, shrieking crazily, as the first shots of the battle were fired. Two batteries of American field artillery thundered, bombarding the Russian fort into rubble. The Russians, with their minimal artillery, could only hope to conserve their own ammunition for the main assault.
Groggy and his men waited anxiously on the sidelines, watching the bombardment from a thin line of trees. They had briefly seen action on the way to Segal, a ten-minute skirmish with a Russian outpost, suffering the wounding of a Private Alabaster in G Company. They had quickly overrun the Russians, taking twenty prisoners. But the horror of El Grapadura behind them, most of the men - and women - were eager to spill their foeman's blood once more.
The guns belched their deadly fire onto the Russians for over two hours. Soon the Russian entrenchments were invisible behind the drifting clouds of smoke and debris. A few hapless Russians, their bodies shattered and scattered to the four winds, could be seen bleeding in the grass and dirt around the fort.
Groggy summoned Captain Harriman, her hand still bandaged. Together they surveyed the bombardment with a learned stoicism.
"This shouldn't be too bad," Groggy said off-handedly. "One hundred fifty Russians in trenches with AKs - piece of cake."
"Well, hopefully when this smoke clears we'll be able to see them, sir," Harriman replied.
Lieutenant Colonel Starbuck arrived, saluting. "Sir, companies are formed and ready for action."
"Thank you, Colonel," Groggy replied. "Now all we have to do is wait for the damned generals to give the go ahead."
4:20 PM
Ramsey's regulars, spearheaded by the 8th Infantry Regiment, were given the task of the main assault. They would attack the fort from the stronger North and East sides. General Alstott's brigade would attack the two weaker sides, with Groggy's troops attacking the South, cutting off the Russian escape route. With the help of a group of Palacian partisans, they were able to slip past the Russian skirmishers and outposts and position themselves along the Green City road, the only line of retreat.
Ramsay's men initialized the assault. Although they suffered several casualties, they quickly overwhelmed the first line of entrenchments, sweeping the Russian troops back into their reserve redoubt. The fort might well have fallen in this first rush, but a close-range barrage of artillery and machine guns prevented the 8th from completing the job. Two other regiments, the 5th and 11th Infantry, stormed forward, and the North side redoubts were quickly overwhelmed. The East entrenchments barely put up a fight, scattering when the Americans got within a few yards of their lines.
Alstott's brigade, however, met with heavier resistance. A machine gun company was stationed on the West side, inflicting serious casualties on the 71st New York, which fell back under a heavy artillery screen. The 7th Florida advanced, attempting to carry the advance, but they, too, were repulsed. Alstott re-organized the men into a combined, en masse assault, and they carried the first line of entrenchments, but were too exhausted to press any further.
After this repulse, Alstott sent word to Groggy to initialize his assault on the South of the fort to relieve pressure on the rest of the brigade. Groggy had been led to believe his job was merely blocking the Russian escape route, but he was predictably chomping at the bit to go into action.
"Major Martinez!" Groggy bellowed.
"Sir?"
"Take your battalion and initialize an assault against the South trenches. I'll bring up the rest of the regiment in due course."
Martinez saluted and organized his troops - E, F, and G Companies - and began the advance. A pair of Russian mortar shells exploed in his front ranks, killing a Private and maiming several others, but the Major's men quickly recovered and prepared for their assault.
4:55 PM
After a brief mortar and machine gun barrage, Major Martinez led his men forward. They charged down the Green City road at double-time. Despite orders to charge directly into the trenches, Martinez's troops couldn't help but stop to return fire as they advanced. This left them susceptible to Russian gunfire, and the combined weight of machine gun, mortar and rifle fire began to take its toll.
But they quickly reached the trenches, spear-headed by Grenouille's F Company. Distinguishing himself in the fight was the former troublemaker Nirvana Naslund, who would win a Corporalcy for his actions. He took out his repressed anger and delinquency on his foes, and it was put to good use that day.
On their right, G Company went into action, with Sven Celeton decimating his blood enemies with his rifle and fists, while Whalestoe gutted many a Russian on his clamming knife. Susie, who seemed to have something of a deathwish after the death of her beloved Kyle and friends Charlie and Steve, shot down Russian after Russian without pity or mercy; her anguish seemed unstoppable.
Within ten minutes, the South side entrenchments were overrun. Groggy started to bring up the rest of the regiment to press the issue, but by then a white flag was flying over the fort.
It was a sharp, bloody little fight; the American forces lost a combined fifty-three killed and over 200 wounded, many more than at El Grapadura. But they had killed 80 Russians and taken 75 more prisoner, and had overwhelmed the last major outpost to the Molotov Heights. Now the road was open to the Molotov Heights and Green City, and the climactic phase of the campaign.
1:00 PM
After a day of endless marching through sweltering jungle and steaming swamps, fighting mosquitos and skirmishing with Russian outposts, the vanguard of Groggy's regiment - Captain Grenouille and F Company - finally arrived outside the Russian fortifications at Segal in the early afternoon of May 2nd.
Segal looked like an easy enough target on paper. It was a star fort, surrounded by five sides of entrenchments manned by riflemen, mortars and machine guns. However, like the Russian positions at El Grapadura, it had only minimal artillery - a fatal handicap. The Americans had brought up several batteries of mortars and field guns, giving them an immediate advantage.
General Ramsey, who had lost two dozen men in the fighting at El Morro, urged a cautious siege to reduce the fort. But Groggy and caution were like water and oil, and so he began drawing up plans to reduce Segal without his superiors' consent. However, Brevet General Alstott caught wind of the plans, and Groggy was kept on a leash for the time being.
* * *
2:00 PM
BANG! BOOM! A flock of birds scattered, shrieking crazily, as the first shots of the battle were fired. Two batteries of American field artillery thundered, bombarding the Russian fort into rubble. The Russians, with their minimal artillery, could only hope to conserve their own ammunition for the main assault.
Groggy and his men waited anxiously on the sidelines, watching the bombardment from a thin line of trees. They had briefly seen action on the way to Segal, a ten-minute skirmish with a Russian outpost, suffering the wounding of a Private Alabaster in G Company. They had quickly overrun the Russians, taking twenty prisoners. But the horror of El Grapadura behind them, most of the men - and women - were eager to spill their foeman's blood once more.
The guns belched their deadly fire onto the Russians for over two hours. Soon the Russian entrenchments were invisible behind the drifting clouds of smoke and debris. A few hapless Russians, their bodies shattered and scattered to the four winds, could be seen bleeding in the grass and dirt around the fort.
Groggy summoned Captain Harriman, her hand still bandaged. Together they surveyed the bombardment with a learned stoicism.
"This shouldn't be too bad," Groggy said off-handedly. "One hundred fifty Russians in trenches with AKs - piece of cake."
"Well, hopefully when this smoke clears we'll be able to see them, sir," Harriman replied.
Lieutenant Colonel Starbuck arrived, saluting. "Sir, companies are formed and ready for action."
"Thank you, Colonel," Groggy replied. "Now all we have to do is wait for the damned generals to give the go ahead."
4:20 PM
Ramsey's regulars, spearheaded by the 8th Infantry Regiment, were given the task of the main assault. They would attack the fort from the stronger North and East sides. General Alstott's brigade would attack the two weaker sides, with Groggy's troops attacking the South, cutting off the Russian escape route. With the help of a group of Palacian partisans, they were able to slip past the Russian skirmishers and outposts and position themselves along the Green City road, the only line of retreat.
Ramsay's men initialized the assault. Although they suffered several casualties, they quickly overwhelmed the first line of entrenchments, sweeping the Russian troops back into their reserve redoubt. The fort might well have fallen in this first rush, but a close-range barrage of artillery and machine guns prevented the 8th from completing the job. Two other regiments, the 5th and 11th Infantry, stormed forward, and the North side redoubts were quickly overwhelmed. The East entrenchments barely put up a fight, scattering when the Americans got within a few yards of their lines.
Alstott's brigade, however, met with heavier resistance. A machine gun company was stationed on the West side, inflicting serious casualties on the 71st New York, which fell back under a heavy artillery screen. The 7th Florida advanced, attempting to carry the advance, but they, too, were repulsed. Alstott re-organized the men into a combined, en masse assault, and they carried the first line of entrenchments, but were too exhausted to press any further.
After this repulse, Alstott sent word to Groggy to initialize his assault on the South of the fort to relieve pressure on the rest of the brigade. Groggy had been led to believe his job was merely blocking the Russian escape route, but he was predictably chomping at the bit to go into action.
"Major Martinez!" Groggy bellowed.
"Sir?"
"Take your battalion and initialize an assault against the South trenches. I'll bring up the rest of the regiment in due course."
Martinez saluted and organized his troops - E, F, and G Companies - and began the advance. A pair of Russian mortar shells exploed in his front ranks, killing a Private and maiming several others, but the Major's men quickly recovered and prepared for their assault.
4:55 PM
After a brief mortar and machine gun barrage, Major Martinez led his men forward. They charged down the Green City road at double-time. Despite orders to charge directly into the trenches, Martinez's troops couldn't help but stop to return fire as they advanced. This left them susceptible to Russian gunfire, and the combined weight of machine gun, mortar and rifle fire began to take its toll.
But they quickly reached the trenches, spear-headed by Grenouille's F Company. Distinguishing himself in the fight was the former troublemaker Nirvana Naslund, who would win a Corporalcy for his actions. He took out his repressed anger and delinquency on his foes, and it was put to good use that day.
On their right, G Company went into action, with Sven Celeton decimating his blood enemies with his rifle and fists, while Whalestoe gutted many a Russian on his clamming knife. Susie, who seemed to have something of a deathwish after the death of her beloved Kyle and friends Charlie and Steve, shot down Russian after Russian without pity or mercy; her anguish seemed unstoppable.
Within ten minutes, the South side entrenchments were overrun. Groggy started to bring up the rest of the regiment to press the issue, but by then a white flag was flying over the fort.
It was a sharp, bloody little fight; the American forces lost a combined fifty-three killed and over 200 wounded, many more than at El Grapadura. But they had killed 80 Russians and taken 75 more prisoner, and had overwhelmed the last major outpost to the Molotov Heights. Now the road was open to the Molotov Heights and Green City, and the climactic phase of the campaign.
Friday, May 1, 2009
The Captain's Allegiance
MAY 1ST, 2009
EL GRAPADURA, PALACIOS
12:00 PM
General Slurry wanted to punish Groggy for insolence and insubordination, by keeping his regiment in the rear for the remainder of the campaign. But General Ale, new commander of the 1st Division, argued strenuously against this - after all, hadn't the Colonel's busting open El Grapadura validated his actions? After a long and heated argument, General Slurry agreed - reluctantly - that Ale's brigade, now under Colonel Alstott, was to advance along with the Regular Division and seize the Russian outpost at Segal, in the interior of the island. Other than small outposts and reconassiance points, it was the last major concentration of Russian troops on the island short of the Molotov Heights. The outpost was already in a state of semi-siege by partisans and American special forces, but with Ramsey's regulars having been battered by their capture of El Morro, Alstott's troops were given what was expected to be an easy task.
Captain O'Brien arrived in the regiment's camp just before noon. All of the soldiers were in the midst of an MRE feast, goofing off as usual; the shock of their first major battle had mostly faded. He reported to Major Martinez, who showed him to Colonel Dundee's tent. Colonel Dundee was reading over reports, munching on a mountain of David Sunflower Seeds.
"What brings you here, Captain?" Groggy mumbled as he cracked a seed between his jaws.
"I've been instructed to take over one of your companies," O'Brien reported nervously.
Groggy looked at him with an expression of disbelief. "Pardon me?"
"General Jenkins' orders."
"General Jenkins is laid up in a hospital tent with a shattered arm," Groggy. "I report to General Ale and Colonel Alstott, not that cranky old son of a bitch."
"Consider it a favor, then - to a fallen colleague," O'Brien managed to choke out.
The statement took awhile to sink into Groggy's skull. He knew he thought he'd recognized the gentleman earlier, but it had never occurred to him.
"Captain Tim Tyreen O'Brien?" Groggy sputtered.
The present Captain O'Brien nodded. "He was my cousin," he said haltingly. "We weren't very close, but..."
Groggy thought about this for a long moment. "Wait a minute - General Jenkins..." The wheels started to turn inside his head. "He couldn't be..."
O'Brien's eyes went wide with shock and nervousness; he'd said too much. "Couldn't be what, sir?" he bluffed.
Groggy thought. "I had a man named Jenkins in my last command," he said slowly, deliberately. "Traitorous son of a bitch, he tried to kill me on multiple occasions. Had to put the bastard out of his misery."
O'Brien shrugged. "News to me, sir." But hearing Groggy's side of the story made him reconsider his loyalty, if only momentarily.
Groggy began thinking long and hard. "Well, I suppose I could lend you a company. Company C's in need of a Captain. I somehow that Lieutenant Aclea will appreciate it, though..."
At this moment, Captain Harriman entered, saluting with her good hand.
"Ah, Captain! Nice to see you back."
"All the bullets in the Russian Army couldn't keep me from my duty," Harriman said, smiling. Her smile faded, however, when she saw the Colonel's guest.
"Our Captain is a relative of the late Captain Tim Tyreen O'Brien," Groggy said.
"Really, sir?" She had suspected as much, and figured his presence here, even in Jenkins' absence, wasn't a good omen.
"Sir, my loyalty is to the Army, not to General Jenkins," O'Brien protested. "I've been given an assignment and I hope you'll take me on."
Groggy and Harriman looked at each other. "What do you think, Captain?"
Harriman's eyes were locked on the Captain.
"You know, I've made far dumber decisions in my lifetime," Groggy said. "Enlisting in the Army, for a start. Trusting people with the name of Jenkins, for another." He stood and faced Captain O'Brien.
"Your cousin, for all his arrogance and self-importance, was a good man and a great soldier," Groggy said. "I just hope it runs in the family."
Groggy saluted him and then sat back down.
"Do I have the command, sir?" O'Brien asked, uncertain.
"Yes, dummy," Groggy said, returning to his mountain of seeds. O'Brien saluted and exited the tent.
"Do you think that wise, sir?" Harriman asked.
"It's as smart as anything else I've done in my lifetime, Captain," Groggy replied. He spit a sunflower shell across the tent, landing on the ground. Then he returned to his paperwork.
* * *
1:00 PM
As Groggy predicted, Lieutenant Aclea wasn't at all crazy about relinquishing his newfound company command. Aclea raged and screamed at the Captain, waving his pistol in the air like a madman, but Lieutenant-Colonel Starbuck interceded. Presenting his credentials, O'Brien talked his way into command. Aclea told him to go to hell and spit at his feet, storming back to his tent.
The command was to move to El Morro as soon as practical, to meet up with Ramsey's division, and from there march on Segal. It wasn't practical, but Captain Harriman was instructed to sound assembly.
Groggy ordered his brother, Captain Grenouille, to report to his tent.
"I'm sorry about El Grapadura," Grenouille began.
"Hell, the roads are only marked by snake droppings on this island," Groggy interrupted. "Think you can redeem yourself?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Your company is at the head of the advance. Get them ready." Grenouille smiled and saluted, rushing off to assemble his men.
Captain O'Brien drew Jenkins' knife and pondered it. It was long and heavy, the blade rusty from time and the blood of many victims.
Could he do it? He could carry out Jenkins' - and supposedly his - ephemeral revenge on a man neither of them knew very well? Was murder something he could pull off? And for what?
After a long, thoughtful moment, O'Brien threw the knife into the underbrush, with disgust. He was no longer under Jenkins' command - he was at Groggy's service. And his treachery to Jenkins didn't weigh on his conscience at all.
O'Brien didn't notice as one of his men, a Private Salem, scurried into the brush and picked up the knife. He admired it, and stuffed it into his waistbelt before the Captain could see.
Within twenty minutes, the command was on the road, advancing through the pass in a column. They reached El Morro by 3:00, reported to General Ramsey, and made preparations for their next action.
EL GRAPADURA, PALACIOS
12:00 PM
General Slurry wanted to punish Groggy for insolence and insubordination, by keeping his regiment in the rear for the remainder of the campaign. But General Ale, new commander of the 1st Division, argued strenuously against this - after all, hadn't the Colonel's busting open El Grapadura validated his actions? After a long and heated argument, General Slurry agreed - reluctantly - that Ale's brigade, now under Colonel Alstott, was to advance along with the Regular Division and seize the Russian outpost at Segal, in the interior of the island. Other than small outposts and reconassiance points, it was the last major concentration of Russian troops on the island short of the Molotov Heights. The outpost was already in a state of semi-siege by partisans and American special forces, but with Ramsey's regulars having been battered by their capture of El Morro, Alstott's troops were given what was expected to be an easy task.
Captain O'Brien arrived in the regiment's camp just before noon. All of the soldiers were in the midst of an MRE feast, goofing off as usual; the shock of their first major battle had mostly faded. He reported to Major Martinez, who showed him to Colonel Dundee's tent. Colonel Dundee was reading over reports, munching on a mountain of David Sunflower Seeds.
"What brings you here, Captain?" Groggy mumbled as he cracked a seed between his jaws.
"I've been instructed to take over one of your companies," O'Brien reported nervously.
Groggy looked at him with an expression of disbelief. "Pardon me?"
"General Jenkins' orders."
"General Jenkins is laid up in a hospital tent with a shattered arm," Groggy. "I report to General Ale and Colonel Alstott, not that cranky old son of a bitch."
"Consider it a favor, then - to a fallen colleague," O'Brien managed to choke out.
The statement took awhile to sink into Groggy's skull. He knew he thought he'd recognized the gentleman earlier, but it had never occurred to him.
"Captain Tim Tyreen O'Brien?" Groggy sputtered.
The present Captain O'Brien nodded. "He was my cousin," he said haltingly. "We weren't very close, but..."
Groggy thought about this for a long moment. "Wait a minute - General Jenkins..." The wheels started to turn inside his head. "He couldn't be..."
O'Brien's eyes went wide with shock and nervousness; he'd said too much. "Couldn't be what, sir?" he bluffed.
Groggy thought. "I had a man named Jenkins in my last command," he said slowly, deliberately. "Traitorous son of a bitch, he tried to kill me on multiple occasions. Had to put the bastard out of his misery."
O'Brien shrugged. "News to me, sir." But hearing Groggy's side of the story made him reconsider his loyalty, if only momentarily.
Groggy began thinking long and hard. "Well, I suppose I could lend you a company. Company C's in need of a Captain. I somehow that Lieutenant Aclea will appreciate it, though..."
At this moment, Captain Harriman entered, saluting with her good hand.
"Ah, Captain! Nice to see you back."
"All the bullets in the Russian Army couldn't keep me from my duty," Harriman said, smiling. Her smile faded, however, when she saw the Colonel's guest.
"Our Captain is a relative of the late Captain Tim Tyreen O'Brien," Groggy said.
"Really, sir?" She had suspected as much, and figured his presence here, even in Jenkins' absence, wasn't a good omen.
"Sir, my loyalty is to the Army, not to General Jenkins," O'Brien protested. "I've been given an assignment and I hope you'll take me on."
Groggy and Harriman looked at each other. "What do you think, Captain?"
Harriman's eyes were locked on the Captain.
"You know, I've made far dumber decisions in my lifetime," Groggy said. "Enlisting in the Army, for a start. Trusting people with the name of Jenkins, for another." He stood and faced Captain O'Brien.
"Your cousin, for all his arrogance and self-importance, was a good man and a great soldier," Groggy said. "I just hope it runs in the family."
Groggy saluted him and then sat back down.
"Do I have the command, sir?" O'Brien asked, uncertain.
"Yes, dummy," Groggy said, returning to his mountain of seeds. O'Brien saluted and exited the tent.
"Do you think that wise, sir?" Harriman asked.
"It's as smart as anything else I've done in my lifetime, Captain," Groggy replied. He spit a sunflower shell across the tent, landing on the ground. Then he returned to his paperwork.
* * *
1:00 PM
As Groggy predicted, Lieutenant Aclea wasn't at all crazy about relinquishing his newfound company command. Aclea raged and screamed at the Captain, waving his pistol in the air like a madman, but Lieutenant-Colonel Starbuck interceded. Presenting his credentials, O'Brien talked his way into command. Aclea told him to go to hell and spit at his feet, storming back to his tent.
The command was to move to El Morro as soon as practical, to meet up with Ramsey's division, and from there march on Segal. It wasn't practical, but Captain Harriman was instructed to sound assembly.
Groggy ordered his brother, Captain Grenouille, to report to his tent.
"I'm sorry about El Grapadura," Grenouille began.
"Hell, the roads are only marked by snake droppings on this island," Groggy interrupted. "Think you can redeem yourself?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Your company is at the head of the advance. Get them ready." Grenouille smiled and saluted, rushing off to assemble his men.
Captain O'Brien drew Jenkins' knife and pondered it. It was long and heavy, the blade rusty from time and the blood of many victims.
Could he do it? He could carry out Jenkins' - and supposedly his - ephemeral revenge on a man neither of them knew very well? Was murder something he could pull off? And for what?
After a long, thoughtful moment, O'Brien threw the knife into the underbrush, with disgust. He was no longer under Jenkins' command - he was at Groggy's service. And his treachery to Jenkins didn't weigh on his conscience at all.
O'Brien didn't notice as one of his men, a Private Salem, scurried into the brush and picked up the knife. He admired it, and stuffed it into his waistbelt before the Captain could see.
Within twenty minutes, the command was on the road, advancing through the pass in a column. They reached El Morro by 3:00, reported to General Ramsey, and made preparations for their next action.
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