Blood and Honor, The Journal of a 9th MID Soldier
Chapter 3: Out Like A Light
“Proph…I found your “diary” ole bro,” said Zoraster.
“It ain’t a diary feth-for-brains…It’s a journal.” I said.
“Same diff, you still poured your guts out,” he said, cracking a smile.
Funny he should put it that way. Zor was on his way out. No two-week pass like I got for my arm. I mean [i]out with a capital Oh[/i]. In that last scrap with the enemy, he’d gotten a gut-shot. Hurts like hell from what I hear. Sure, the bonecutters had sewn him back up, but the damage was done.
With no intestines, half of the pills they shove down your throat before being posted to a freezing hellhole such as the Northern Quadrant are useless. If you have no stomach, there’s nothing to absorb the meds into your stomach lining to prevent Scalitosis.
With no large intestine, there’s no helpful little microscopic critters that assist in digesting the indigenous plantlife and tree bark (which does NOT taste like chicken).
With no gall bladder, there’s no…well…actually that’s a pretty useless organ.
But the point is that Sab lost it all to a chest-level APM mine. Blew a hole right through him and it took him ten minutes to notice. Now [u]there’s[/u] some guts for ya. The poor bastard was too cold to realize his middles were missing.
“You don’t owe me anything Proph. We’re good,” Zor said with a crooked smile, eyeing my half-case of MillCoors Plat. I couldn’t help myself. I crooked two fingers around the neck of a bottle and tossed it to him.
“Here Zoraster, It’s the least I can do for a reward. I woulda had to start all over again in my JOURNAL,” says I, emphasis on the word journal. Diaries are for girls. Maybe not the one on my lap (who I’m beginning to wonder about) but definitely the quiet one with the huge erm…personalities that was giving me the eye from on top of my med chart.
Well folks, I’m feeling pretty good right now. I’ve got beer, I’ve got some “special ladies,” (Not the Last Stop kind…the clean, non-Radpoisoned, 100% pure woman kind…even the blonde with the adam’s apple sitting on my lap right now), and I’ve got a great story to tell.
First, to the beer. Thanks to DaddyofThree’s generous offer to buy my spot in active duty, I am now the proud owner of two cases of pure, unfiltered, coldbrewed Millweiser-Coors Platinum beer to keep me happy for the next week. Well…more like half-a-case after the drinking and the bartering, but hey, it’s what keeps my narrative inspiration going.
The ladies I’ve surrounded myself with are a byproduct of the beer. You see…ever since the re-prohibition in ’37, alcohol has been hard to come by. Millweiser-Coors has deep pockets and managed to get around the re-prohibition act of ’37 and so I must refer to it as a “cold beverage” since that’s all their advertising efforts have ever called their product. Since I’m drunk though, to hell with it…I’m calling it a fething beer because calling it a cold beverage is just too fething panty-waist for a stone-cold killer such as myself. Heheh…that last part was a joke. I’m more like the innocent bystander who picks up a gun and miraculously survives the first attempt at trying to act like a hero.
In any case, when it comes to “cold beverages,” it’s like bartering Levi Jeans in what used to be Poland…one beer can be traded for a week’s stay in the finest hotel. Well…out here in the field, we soldiers value such things much more highly than our creds. A beer can get you into places where no amount of creds ever could. A case of beer? Well…look around me. I’m surrounded by a dozen gorgeous women (and one ugly one with a five-o’clock shadow on my lap) who are willing to do anything I ask. All at the cost of a lousy beer.
Sad? Maybe. Not nearly as sad as the fact that I’m now without an arm and had to spend this last battle as an observer from the safety of the command bunker. Sure, we turned the tables on the filthy bastards, but that wouldn’t be much of a story if I left it at that. Allow me to elucidate you…
We were stationed at the Statue. Named for the big honkin’ statue that was named for some famous guy a while back. Schwarzenyager or somesuch. He was a bodybuilder-turned-actor-turned-politician-turned president. It looked like a huge lump of wackadoo triangles and such to me. I saw it briefly as I walked the camp between my “appointments” with the medicos.
They’d routinely stop by and jab me with a needleful of some painkiller or another (I kicked the feth out of the first guy who tried an aerosol injector on me, so they went oldskool and used needles from then on) and let me roam about the camp with an escort. Wet-behind-the-ears recruit who apparently did something wrong. That’s the only reason I can figure they’d detail someone to look out for me. I’m nothing special really…just another soldier who’s managed to survive sixteen years in this outfit. I heard later from FatKid that this kid had actually volunteered for the duty.
In hindsight, it makes sense. The kid wouldn’t shut up…asking me questions about where I’d been and how I’d survived so long. Funny he used the term “survived” instead of something like “succeeded.” Sure, the life-expectancy of a soldier can usually be measured in hours…but I figure I’m cursed with sucking up those unused minutes from the guys around me who invariably die horrible deaths like Luke McCarthy…who took it right in the keester during a skirmish in Karkand some years back. His stomach was so perforated he took in air every time he inhaled. Bleeding out is one thing…bleeding out in a flatulent series of red-misting farts is something I don’t care to think about…makes me feel guilty for chuckling at a really bad situation.
Anyway, Squad FatKid was detailed with defense of the Schwartza-whatsit statue. The enemy was expected any minute…like dinner guests who are on their way, but stuck in traffic, you know they’ll arrive…but it’s anybody’s guess whether dinner will be cold when they get there.
FatKid kept his boys frosty though. Drakin had my baby doing laps up and around the ramps leading to the statue. Lucy Quipment was in fine shape. The Cogboys (slang-speak for the full-time engineers in the outfit) had her left leg fully functional and she was happy to be out and about. Drakin was still trying to get a grip on my lady, but with my new arm, I wasn’t in any position to be doing it myself. Matter of fact, I wasn’t even returned to active duty yet. Medicos were warning me about the side-effects of the dope I was on. Something about memory-loss or somesuch. Yeah, I’m a little hazy in places, but it can’t be more than a week since they lopped off my stick-strokin’ hand. (Editor’s note: Proph was out for months, babbling incoherently…his short-term memory is completely gone. It’s a wonder he remembers this battle in such detail after so much time)
I do remember with such clarity that even though Lucy’s leg was repaired, she still had a swagger in her stride. Like a two-cred hooker, she swished when she moved. Probably Drakin’s own sense of balance interfering with the lower seat of gravity that both women and walkers have in common. A true walker pilot learns to focus from the hips after a while. When someone says a walker pilot “runs like a girl” it’s taken as a compliment. It means he’s thinking like his lady.
I watched Drakin make a few laps, then return to the statue proper to take a break and smoke a Stann. Stann was popular in Pakistan back in the 21st century. They’d chew on it for a high similar to meth. Problem was, it turned your teeth yellow…and eventually black. Rotted ‘em out. Smoking Stann didn’t give you the same high, but it was completely side-effect free. Tobacco smokes went out of style after the taxes on ‘em skyrocketed. They’re like fish eggs…only the rich can afford the luxury (Editor’s Note: I’m assuming he’s referring to caviar here. Never seen it myself.)
I moseyed back to the field hospital at my charge’s urging. The kid must’ve been keeping time, because I was starting to feel an itchy sensation on my elbow (which I didn’t have anymore). It was time for my meds.
My earpiece crackled to life.
“Proph, Pfeil here. You ready for some action?”
“Uh, yeah boss. I’m ready. Tell Drakin to pull his sorry ass out of Lucy and I’ll get her warmed up good and proper.”
Uh oh…I forgot my sentry was right next to me. “No way man…you’re under strict orders. No combat. No operating heavy machinery.”
“You callin’ my baby ‘heavy?’” I says.
“Um…no…sir. You just shouldn’t be piloting a walker in your…erm…condition.” Says the little puke.
Well…about that time, DaddyofThree slinks up to me. Stealthy little bastard. Okay…not little in the literal sense. Daddy is one brawny sumbitch. His triceps have biceps sort of brawny. But he was a silent walker. You could have eyes in the back of your head (which most of the helmets in today’s war give you with 180-degree vision) and you still wouldn’t notice him strolling up to you. If he’s trying to be sneaky, it’s ten-times worse.
“Proph, I hear you’re being called up for active duty. The enemy is about ten minutes out and coming in fast.”
“Yeah, man. I just got the word from Pfeil to kit up…’cept this puke of a bodyguard is trying to stop me.” I say, giving the poor schlub my best stinkeye to let him know I mean it.
“Look, you’re still recuperating, and I’m just getting off a guard shift…but I’m in better condition than you to hold ‘em off. Give me your slot and I’ll….I’ll owe you some brewski.”
Now this is where I cash in on my current situation…but I wasn’t about to let him have it without a squabble. “No way man…my slot is mine. ‘Sides, where are you going to get enough brew to buy me off in this hellhole?” I say, making a big show of looking around the snow-covered hills surrounding the demolished city.
“I’ve got a case of MillCoors Plat stashed away. My daughters sent it to me a month back.”
I pondered a moment…then made up my mind. “Nope…sorry bub. This new arm of mine needs to get broken in. I’d rather do it while my meds are down and my pain is up so I can get a good sense of what it’ll feel like once the Medicos turn me loose.”
“Okay…two cases. That’s all I’ve got man. Two cases of MillCoors Plat for your spot.” Said Daddy. Well…everyone has their price. I just found mine.
“Fine, but I wish you wouldn’t. I’d hate to see you bite the big one and not be able to deliver.”
“They’re stashed in the Medico FAV…just under the gauze and stimmpatches on the left side of the rear crate. If I don’t make it, you know where they are.”
“Done deal…now don’t get yourself killed…I want to rub this in long and hard after this is all over.”
With the haggling out of the way, Daddy had earned a spot on the active roster…against regulations I might add. I had earned two cases of the most rare substance this side of the equator. Hell…I bet a gnat was more likely to make diamonds out of coal squashed between his ass-cheeks than I was to see another bottle of MillCoors Plat…nevermind two full cases of it. Only one thing left to do…
“Pfeil, this is Proph. Medicos say I’m restricted from duty. Over.”
“Fine…scrounge up DaddyofThree. He’s freshest off the guard rotation. Have him report in for duty immediately.”
“Sunnova…” Was all Daddy could choke out. I laughed gruffly, patted him on the back and said, “Congrats bro…you’ve just been promoted to active status…and boy was it hard to convince Pfeil to let you in.”
Of course, Daddy heard the whole thing over comms. It was kinda funny, but truth-to-tell, I couldn’t leave a brother hanging like that. I gave him a couple of bottles from his stash to ease the hurt.
The feth turned to sludge after that. I got ushered towards the field hospital as quickly as possible. We never made it there though. Arty began clobbering the place. I saw Saboteur go flying from a pillar of explosive death not two dozen yards in front of me. Shameful really…the guy had promise. He’d made it a whole four months in the outfit just to get his guts splattered across some corporate office building’s windows.
The kid started pulling me towards the command bunker. I didn’t resist much, as it seemed the Arty strike was walking fire in our direction.
We made it just in time. The door to the bunker shut closed behind us and the last plasma shell from the artillery strike hit just outside. Fused shut, the door to the bunker wasn’t going to allow me outside anytime soon. On the downside, that meant no regrouping with my unit to pilot Lucy. On the upside, that also meant no Medicos breathing down my neck shooting loonie-sauce into my veins.
In all my years of soldiering, this was the first time I’d ever stood foot inside of a command bunker. I never knew what life was like pushing around little icons in the Holotank until I got trapped inside. Pathetic really. We’re out there bleeding and killing while the “nobility” gets to sit safely inside a Stonecutter-proof bunker directing traffic. (Editor’s Note: Proph must have been a fan of literature to use a reference to atomic weapons only named “Stonecutter” in Frank Herbert’s Dune series of novels.)
I watched as Cap’n Edge picked up the holographic icon of Fatkid’s insignia and placed it on the Schwartza-who-zit statue. Immediately, a blinky-icon with a purple shield appeared over top of his soldier’s head in the O‘tank. Lorax’s squad got picked up and moved to the Comm Tower…gaining an orange sword over his head.
I was disgusted. THIS was how commanders made decisions and gave orders? Moving squad leaders’ toy-soldier holographic bodies over the field and making little symbols appear? No fething wonder the life-expectancy amongst the boys in the outfit was so short. The unshaven pissants commanding them had no idea what it was like. It was all a game to them. Like playing chess…only the individual battles amongst pieces sometimes went against the rules of the game.
Apparently, Edge saw the look on my face…he locked eyes with me and said, “Wait Sergeant…I know what you’re thinking…but don’t pass judgement yet. This is just the prelims. The real PowerBall match won’t get started until the first set of downs is finished.”
I nodded my head like I knew what he was talking about. Most soldiers watched the PowerBall leagues, but I myself never got much enjoyment out of it, so I had no idea what Cap’n Edge meant. I stuck around anyway…just so I could wring his scrawny neck when my boys started dying.
With that concerned look that people give you when they realize they’re about to receive the ass-kicking of their life, Edge’s eyes were the last thing I saw before it went dark. Pitch dark. I gotta hand it to ‘em…the enemy was sneaky enough to get around our flanks. They’d cut the power.
What happened next was a true surprise…
(To Be Continued…)
Blood and Honor, The Journal of a 9th MID Soldier
Chapter 2: Parting With The Permafrost
(Round 2 of the BFCL 9th MID vs. TAW League)
“Proph, you’re bleeding.”
Still coming down from my adrenaline rush, I glanced over at Hidus. He was pointing at my left arm and shuffling his Baur onto his shoulder in order to get to his medpack. It’s like when someone points out that you’re not wearing pants to your wedding…once you know, it hits you like a ton of bricks.
The throbbing pain pulsed with the beat of my heart. Moving my arm didn’t hurt. Having it attached to my body did. Thankfully, it was still attached. As my old squadleader used to say, “If it’s still attached, use it. If not, pick it up and throw it at ‘em.” Crux taught me a lot before he got promoted. I hear he’s been given control of his own unit now. The Third Something-or-other. Good for him. Some of us are cut out to lead, and some of us are cut out to bleed. Apparently, I am the latter.
Staunching the slow but steady flow of crimson, Hidus had me bandaged up in no time. Brandishing an aerosol injector, he started to pop some painkillers straight through my skin. AI’s hurt like hell. Sure, they’re always sterile and no needles are involved, but I’d rather have a double-ought gauge needle jabbed into my vein than have an AI dosage. I grimaced and yanked the aerosol injector out of his hands.
“No way Hidus. I’ll deal with the pain I’ve got before I deal with the extra pain that this damn thing will cause.”
“Suit yourself Proph…why don’t you take the whole kit and I’ll hold on to your shotgun for you?”
I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or condescending, but to tell you the truth, my kit was getting a bit heavy.
“Good for me bro,” I said, handing over my shotgun. Hidus went to grip it by the pump, and saw a gobbet of leftover brain matter from when I killed that young punk that took out my beloved Lucy. Using a steriwipe, he reluctantly took possession of my weapon.
After switching kits, we packed up from our hydro-break and continued our sweep of the area. The further we moved from the front line outpost into the surrounding terrain, the less easy I felt. As our squads moved in a line sweep, I got this prickly feeling in the back of my neck.
“Hey Pfeil, you’re sure we wiped out all of their beacons, right?” I asked.
“Well, we didn’t find any at all, Proph,” was his reply. The prickly feeling turned into a full-blown need to scratch a ticklish spot. I hate it when this happens. Sometimes, my hunch is correct, other times, it’s way off.
One time, my squad spent three days combing an urban district of Last Stop due to one of my hunches. I had it in my head that in this seedy area of an overall seedy planet, there were insurgents masquerading as prostitutes. Not that I’d touch a Last Stop “lady” with a long-range Pilum shot. Too much Rad-poisoning had turned most of the local populace into mutants. In those three days, we saw more twisted acts of debauchery as we burst into the red light district house-by-house, room-by-room than most of us could have imagined…and I can imagine quite a bit. By the time we called it quits, we were all swearing off a soldier’s favorite pastime forever. On the other hand, not a single soldier that was detailed for this search has ever once been diagnosed with Burn, Ghonna-herpa-siphylis, or HIV. Sure, HIV is curable, but why take the chance it’ll mutate again like it did back in ’24?
Right then, the only thing that wasn’t curable for me was that itch on the back of my neck. I was checking my HUD’s minimap every five seconds. Then every two seconds. Then I stared at it, praying for a blip, but at the same time dreading it. I didn’t want to be right. I didn’t want to believe. The minimap consumed so much of my attention that I walked right into DaddyofThree’s back.
“Sorry Daddy, I was preoccupied.”
“About your hunch, right?”
“Yeah, what will you cure us of today, Proph? Frostbite?” DrakinClaw threw in to the discussion as he walked alongside us. He smiled good-naturedly. I knew he was just joking. After all, up until the incident on Last Stop, he was the biggest party-goer of us all.
“Sorry fellas, I just can’t seem to shake it.”
“Proph, if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll detail four other guys to backtrack to the forward outpost with you so you can be sure,” said Pfeil with all the cool of the icicle that was hanging from my helmet’s visor. Pfeil wouldn’t have offered if he didn’t hold his own suspicions.
“I dunno boss, you know how I get. It could be just my imagination playing with me.”
“Tell you what, I’ll go with you.”
Pfeil put his words into action. Me, Daddy, Lucky, Drakin, and Fatkid were detailed to follow Pfeil back to the outpost. I stared at my own bootprints in the icy surface of Minsk’s outlying terrain, hoping that I was wrong. Hoping that the only thing we’d return to was a frozen-over mug of LuckyStrike’s god-awful coffee.
An explosion from up ahead brought me out of my reverie. My head shot up just in time to see our comm tower disintegrate into so many flying shards of metal. The comms in my ear immediately turned to crackling static.
“We’ve been had!” shouted Pfeil. He pointed to Drakin and rattled off a series of commands. Drakin started a sprint to catch up with the other elements of our squads that were still out sweeping, and the rest of us began trotting towards our sabotaged base.
With the four of us remaining under Pfeil’s command, we rushed towards the northern approach of trenches that we had so recently defended against the enemy. It was a haphazard squad. Having no time to prepare, our squad was somewhat mismatched. Two assault kits and three engineers. With no time to reorganize with the other elements that Drakin would be bringing up from further behind us and no way to get to our magazine at the forward base, we were stuck with what we had.
Panic seized me. Lucy! She was left at the outpost so she could finish recharging and let the newly repaired armor settle into the cold temperature. With her electronics fried from the previous battle, her Bioscanner was on the fritz.
“Pfeil, Lucy Quipment…”
“I know Proph…we’ll put her down painlessly,” interrupted Pfeil. Suddenly, having three engineers didn’t seem like a bad idea. Hopefully, she wouldn’t hold too much of a grudge if I ever saw her again in one piece.
“Aim for her left leg,” I choked out, “She’s got a patchwork job there from when they hit us the first time. She should go down pretty quick.”
Nodding their understanding, Fatkid, Lucky, and Daddy moved forwards, unlimbering their Pilums and scanning the horizon for my poor baby’s buxom figure. Pfeil and I readied our assault rockets and began weaving inbetween bits of cover as we approached our recently deserted position.
“Movement, eleven-o-clock, second floor” murmured Fatkid. With no comms, we had to stick close to each other just to be heard.
Gazing in that direction, I saw him. He was crouched down in the eyrie of the multi-story bunker with an LMG sweeping back and forth, looking for targets. So far, we had managed to catch ‘em with their pants down. He was the only enemy in sight.
We advanced up through the system of trenches on the north, still littered with spent ammo casings, bloodstains, and worse from just that morning. The stench wasn’t too bad yet. Probably wouldn’t be bad at all. The freezing temperatures didn’t really give corpses a chance to rot here. They were frozen solid, locked in a rictus of their last moments.
Like some bad zombie movie, a corpse shifted in front of Daddy’s position not ten paces away from where I was standing. Knife in hand, the corpse approached Daddy from behind, stalking closer for the kill.
One breath later, the reports from LuckyStrike’s SMG echoed off of the pass’ walls and the living “corpse” became one for sure this time. Well…we had officially announced our presence.
“It’s a trap!” yelled Pfeil.
Hell. That’s what this place is. That’s what it became in the next few moments. Hidden enemies popped out from the trenchworks, spraying our position with automatic fire. The LMG in the eyrie opened up on us. Worst of all, the lumbering form of my hijacked walker came into view from around the rear of the bunker.
“Luc…erm…walker at ten-o-clock” I reported half-heartedly. Like that old Terran movie about the dog Ole Yeller, I felt like I was about to kill my best friend. Three Pilum shots raced from the engineers in my squad and connected with Lucy’s left leg, shearing it off completely.
I watched Lucy Quipment fall out of sight behind the bunker, whispering to myself and to her, “It’ll be okay, gal. It’ll be okay.”
Numb from the neck up, my brain fogged over. Whether this was due to the wound in my arm taking its toll, or the sad remorse of watching my faithful walker fall I don’t know.
What I do know is that the enemy had the drop on us. They must’ve hidden a beacon somewhere, because we couldn’t raise any of the three defense lines we had within the Minsk control area. Cut off from supplies and reinforcements, we had about a hundred guys out on patrol. Most of them had begun to trickle back from the sweep in twos and threes. Across the way on the southern side, I could make out Drakin’s squad as they battled their way forwards against heavy opposition.
We died. We died in droves. Like the waves of the ocean, we broke against the solid wall of a towering cliff. I watched so many of my brothers die in those minutes, but what else could we do? The nearest point to fall back to was Belgrade, and that was a three-day march across inhospitable ground. Without supplies, we’d never make it across the frozen tundra. Supplies were in any of the three defense points we’d created inside of Minsk. We had to capture one of them just to ensure our survival during the retreat.
I used my defibs every chance I could, hitting a stunned comrade with a jolt, and helping him to his feet. I’d thrust his weapon against his chest and move on to the next body to check for vital signs as soon as the dazed soldier reflexively grasped the weapon I’d pushed into his hands.
There were some I could save. There were many others I could not. Gods, how I wish I’d kept my shotgun and left Hidus in charge of being the medico. I had a job to do though, and whether I was filling enemies full of Backblasting Buckshot, or my downed comrades with joules of life-starting electricity, I knew I was contributing to our chances of survival.
Drakin’s squad managed to grab one of our parked rabbits and press forwards to the western depot…our second line of defense in case we were overrun. I guess we were officially overrun, so they thought this was a natural progression.
As Drakin and his under-manned squad fought tooth-and-nail with the defenders of the secondary outpost, Pfeil led us through the trees, hightailing it towards Drakin’s beleaguered force.
We arrived in a blaze of small arms fire. Pushing the defenders back proved to be of no difficulty. Keeping them back was another story. We held out while a couple of troopers hurriedly threw supplies into the rabbit, filling the FAV so full that the shocks could no longer guarantee a smooth ride. That was fine with us though…our boys needed these supplies, and it was my fault for not following my instinct early enough.
Knowing that we were ensuring that the rest of the 9th would make it out alive, we put up one hell of a fight. It gave us strength. We repelled more waves of the enemy with fewer numbers than we had during the entirety of the morning attack. We were buying time at a high price though. First Daddy went down to a grazing hit across the thigh. Then Hidus took one to the shoulder so hard it spun him around twice before he hit the permafrost.
Squad Pfeil and Squad Drakin were the last ones out. We’d hung on long enough to gather the needed supplies into the rabbit, but now it was time to bug out. In good order, we melted into the trees, picking off the few pursuers that attempted to follow us. With the battle over, I turned my back on the bloody ground and started to file into my squad’s formation.
The heat hit me first. I watched blood and fragments of bone explode from my wounded arm. The report from the Zeller rifle happened two agonizingly long heartbeats later. I stumbled three steps forward before my body went into shock. My padded knees impacted with the frozen dirt. My face impacted next.
That’s about all I remember up until now. Acreo tells me I was in and out of consciousness…babbling on about whether Lucy would be okay and how evil the enemy was for deliberately aiming at my arm instead of my head.
I can’t help but think though, if I’d have paid attention to my gut feeling…or even told Pfeil about it earlier, this could have all been prevented. Not my injury…I could care less about losing an arm. I care about the scores of brothers that died to see the rest of us make it through. I honor their sacrifice and would gladly do the same for them, but I am one of the unfortunate ones that lived. I carry the burden of remembering what they did for me and my fellows. I have the burden of living up to their deeds.
As it stands, I now lie in a field hospital bed in Belgrade. I write this journal not in the hopes that someone will label me “hero,” but to remind myself of the sacrifices that my brothers made. What remains of my arm is to be amputated from the bicep-down. It didn’t survive the three-day trek to Belgrade. The freezing temperatures turned the lower part of my arm to ice, freezing the once-flowing blood in my veins. As I lie here looking at it, it appears so black that it looks like it was burnt in a fire, not frozen in ice. The docs say they can replace it with an artificial one. That’s okay with me. I’ve seen what the medicos can do.
Eroak took a hollowpoint to the sternum a couple years back. Blew out three discs of his spine all the way through his backpack. Somehow, he survived long enough to receive surgery thanks to Hidus and the field medics like him. They replaced most of his spinal column with a plexisteel replacement and grafted new conductive fibres to the shattered nerve endings.
There are gunship pilots that have quick reflexes. There are those that are so steady on the stick that they can keep a feather floating perfectly still in their engine’s updrafts. Eroak can do both…a rare sight. I guess that’s why they allow him to fly the multi-billion dollar pieces of machinery. Footsloggers like myself only get the expendable boats that the MID call “Air-deployed drop pods.” We grunts just call them deathcans.
Word has it that the enemy is following our retreat to Belgrade. They’ll probably be here tomorrow morning. Pfeil has already made arrangements for me to be evacuated by transport by then. I’m to be flown into orbit to the medical frigate. Seems they don’t have enough tech down here on the planet to graft a bionic to my soon-to-be stub of an arm. I fought with him about it, but a soldier follows orders. I hope all of them follow my only order: survive until I get back.
Looks like the docs are coming back with the aerosol injectors. Must be time for them to saw off my arm. If anyone reads this, tell Drakin that I did indeed cure us of frostbite…the only downside is the cure involves cutting off an arm.
I think I’ll ask ‘em to inject the anesthesia in the arm I won’t have when I wake up. Less pain that way. I’ve already had enough of pain for today.
Blood and Honor, The Journal of a 9th MID Soldier
Chapter 1: Cold Morning in Minsk
(Round 1 of the 9th MID vs. TAW BFCL League)
It was a cold morning…just like all the others I’ve experienced in this desolate hellhole. LuckyStrike’s skills might be superb with his weaponry, but he manages to screw up even the instant coffee from an MRE. I drank it anyway, savoring the flow of warmth as it coursed down my throat and doing my best to ignore the feeling that I was swallowing metal shavings at the same time. What does he put in this stuff?
With Lorax and Heavy both out on a three-day pass, I was happy to get a decent night’s sleep for once. Rooming with those two guys in the abandoned business district here in Minsk is no picnic. Lorax snores like an FAV with a cherrybomb muffler. And Heavy? Well…let’s just say that the enchilada MRE might be his favorite, but it doesn’t do the rest of us any favors.
I sat at my post in the front line bunker, sipping my metal shaving mocha with a blissful smile on my frostbitten lips. I was daydreaming about how great the sleep period was going to be for the next two days when the klaxon started bugging out.
I almost jumped out of my skin as the screeching sound obliterated the otherwise quiet morning air. Pfeil likes to keep us on our toes with practice drills and it always happens on my watch. Shaking the spilt coffee from my cold-weather gloves, I turned around to give him a piece of my mind.
Pfeil’s eyes were hard. So hard, you’d think they were frozen. That only happens when he means business. I strangled my words and closed my jaw. This wasn’t a drill. With most of my coffee decorating the concrete floor of the bunker, I shot the last dregs down my gullet and tossed the cup as I raced to the weapons rack to grab my shotgun. Nabbing a Sentry Gun on my way to the bottom floor, I saw Drakin’s boys through my HUD as they grabbed kit and caboodle.
Lucy Quipment was parked right where I left her. Tall, sexy, with long legs and an upper body to die for, she’s the sweetest looking gal I’ve ever seen. My Bio readings were scanned as I climbed up the ladder into her cockpit and her fusion engine was purring like a kitten by the time I strapped in. My frozen fingers shot through with a throbbing pain as I yanked my gloves off and greeted the warm heat that comes with being inside a box that sits right on top of a miniature sun. I guess it’s a perk of being a walker pilot, but I try not to think too hard about what would happen if that titanium casing were ever breached.
Lucy Quipment and I moved out as the final cablings were interfaced with my helmet. She became an extension of myself. My sense of balance tied to her gyroscope, I had the feeling of ambling along at a brisk walk even though I was sitting still.
Lucy’s enhanced radar picked up a rabbit moving towards the bunker’s main chokepoint. I love these things. Rabbits are chewy little things with the only defense being speed. Little did they know we already laid traps for them.
EMP Mines detonated when the rabbit got close and Lucy opened up on the hapless driver with her twin gatlings. Like most women, when Lucy gets mad at you, her words are death.
Off to my left, the diamonds of two enemies floated along the northern side of the bunker complex. Lucy spoke harsh words again, but the men were obviously married. They avoided and ignored me and my baby and hugged some cover.
The next few moments were a blur. With the power of a walker, I had a lot of responsibility by providing covering fire. I saw the incoming mortar rounds from an enemy APC floating towards my position like the arcing flight of a PowerBall in the NPBL’s UltraBowl. The rounds exploded around me, doing little damage to Lucy, but wreaking havoc among my comrades. Nameless faces lay sprawled on the permafrost, broken and bleeding.
My rage was up and I flared off a set of rockets at the murdering APC. Mid-flight, my rockets were joined by the shot of a Pilum. Smoking wreckage was all that was left.
Minutes passed and all the while, the harsh words of Lucy kept the enemy from overrunning our position. Pfeil directed me where I was needed most, and I moved to support. It was a constant battle to throw the enemy back, keeping their heads down so my comrades could do the dirty work.
“TANK!”
Oh feth. The boys in the trenches saw the tank approaching up the main road and spotted it on my minimap. The hovering bastard was out of my range. The first shot was already on the way and Lucy took a shuddering hit. The feedback caused me to nearly pass out. Electrostatic discharges swarmed around the controls of my cockpit like a teeming swarm of neon-blue hornets. I frantically hit the shields just in time to stop a second round from the tank. Just in time, but just for a moment.
The shields on these walkers were too much of a drain on the reactors to last for more than a brief moment or two. I felt sluggish and drunk as the pull on the core took a nose dive from the demands of the shields.
It only lasts a moment, but that’s all the tank needed. I frantically backpedaled Lucy towards the west, trying to put the hardened walls of the bunker between me and that hovering armor-killer.
When things get bad, they usually get worse. This was definitely the case on this damn-cold morning. A distress signal lit up on my HUD. They’d broken through! Our main vehicle depot was under attack.
Confusion reigned on comms. Shouts of “Holy feth, where’d they come from” and “They’re taking the rear base” fought for supremacy as Pfeil tried to quiet everyone down. His voice was as frosty as Lucy’s armorplas windshield.
“Drakin and his boys are going to retake our base, you guys stop freaking and get back to doing your jobs. I’m counting on you.”
That’s when I noticed that the FAV that usually sits next to Lucy was gone. The bastards had hacked our rabbit’s Bioscanner and had used it to break through. Must’ve been a Shade that did it. Those damn cloaking devices are noisy as hell, but if nobody’s around to hear it, you can usually remain unseen and undetected. The enemy had proven that.
All these thoughts happened in the span of a heartbeat. My heart skipped as the glowing streak of a Pilum shot erupted from the northern section of trenches and whizzed past my front viewing pane. It was so close that the shimmering heat of the discharge instantly evaporated the frost from the armorplas. My hand was slamming down on the shield button in rapid succession. Nothing. They hadn’t recharged yet. Looking at my fusion meter, I knew they wouldn’t finish recharging by the time the next Pilum round came in.
With little chance of the enemy missing a second time, I kicked Lucy into high gear. Her sexy legs tore up the ground underneath as I ground forwards, tracer rounds from the gatlings lighting up the enemy engineer’s position. If he stuck his head out for another shot, I’d make him pay for it in blood.
The calm sound of Lucy’s husky, bedroom voice purred in my ear, “shields on standby.”
Just in time too. Another round from that damn tank was streaking in. I hit the popper and the energy field sprung into life. Not one, but two impacts fizzled against the impenetrable shield. The engineer in the trenches was dead-on target, but too late. My shields snapped up the Pilum shot and spit it out.
I screamed in victory from the confines of my cockpit. He wouldn’t get a third shot. Lucy stalked up to the edge of the trenches and let loose on the dumb bastard. Gatling rounds ricocheted around inside the metal walled trench like a hyper-pinball table. The enemy engineer fell apart, literally shredded alive by the volume of fire.
A vindictive grin crossed my face briefly, but was wiped away by a gasp of panic. Out of my peripheral vision, another Pilum round was streaking in from further up the trenches. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t duck it. All I had time to do was hit the ejection mechanism.
Ejecting from a Walker is not like an aircraft. No bolts blow the cockpit enclosure. No rockets propel your seat out of the vehicle. Ejecting from a Walker is more like getting flushed down a toilet. Your command couch rotates on a hinge located where the seat meets the back rest. You are unceremoniously dumped through the underside of the walker onto the ground.
MilSpecs say you will land on your feet. They obviously never tried this in a combat environment. With Lucy still in mid-stride, the combination of being dumped out and being pushed forward means that the only way to survive is to hit the ground in a combat roll and get clear of the crushing step of the walker. Lucy hates being abandoned for death, so I don’t blame her for trying to stomp on my skull as I bailed.
I had my shotgun clutched tightly in my hands, cradling it as I came up out of my roll and murderously glared at the trenches, searching for the enemy. Lucy fell over in her death throes behind me as I rushed to the trench. LuckyStrike was trading shots with some enemies and I moved up next to him, laying down a pattern of scattering buckshot in the general vicinity of where he was firing. The HUD blinked once as it detected that one of my shots grazed an enemy’s shoulder. It wasn’t the one though. My eyes scanned the terrain and saw the engineer that killed Lucy lurking behind some supply crates to the north of my position. Without thinking, I was up and running.
“Wait,” cried LuckyStrike, but I was oblivious. Racking my shotgun, I nimbly hopped the wall of the trench and was dashing across the open area to flank the crates from the engineer’s blind side.
The crunch of my boots on the permafrost sounded like the grinding noise of chewing on GrapeNut cereal. No wonder he heard me coming. His puny SMG shook in his hands as I rounded the corner. It was a kid. He must have been a raw recruit so fresh out of the womb that he wasn’t even issued a shaving kit. No remorse. His brains formed steaming piles of gobbets on the frozen ground as I blew them through the back of his helmet. Lucy was avenged.
I’m not sure how long the battle went on. I was incoherent with rage. They had the gall to attack before I’d even finished my first cup of coffee, made me spill half of it, murdered my comrades, and put a serious hurting on my poor walker Lucy Quipment. Suffice to say, the only thing I heard was Pfeil’s cool voice directing my rage to where it would do the most good.
I saw the contrails of drop pods rocketing from the sky onto a piece of cover on the south side. Shotgun at the ready, I waded in. Arms, legs, and torsos exploded from the point-blank blasts of explosive buckshot. I found the beacon and turned it to scrap…then continued to march up the line of the southern trench, hunting for more enemies.
At the edge of the trench, I saw a lone enemy standing motionless halfway up the hillside. He didn’t see me yet. Apparently, my casual walk without firing at him must have confused him. It wasn’t until I opened up with a blast from the shotgun from medium range that he figured out I wasn’t there to give him a pedicure. My first shot merely grazed him. He panicked. Jumping around like some idiot hopping barefoot on hot coals, he tried to bring his weapon to bear. The clack of another shell being racked into the chamber, and I sent the second blast straight at his torso.
Body Armor is meant to protect you from weapons. Too many soldiers gain comfort from this and believe that they are invincible. I proved this particular soldier’s theory to be wrong. A solid round of buckshot could probably be deflected. That was back in the days before backblasting buckshot was invented.
In today’s world, buckshot isn’t just a round sphere of metal. It burned with an outer coating of white-hot magnesium. By the time it hits the target, that magnesium has super-heated the round. Melting the initial layer of body armor, the round can pass the outer shell of defense. The heat generated from the Magnesium also causes the interior of the buckshot’s spherical shell to expand. The expansion breaks a small seal that lets the outside air rush in. Sulfur and oxygen don’t mix. When one meets the other, the chemical change caused by the unstable structure of the sulfur’s molecules mixing with the Oxygen causes an explosion. Not much of one though. But mixing this small explosion with a highly explosive bit of modified RDX compound? Well…that makes for some brilliant fireworks.
The rounds pierced the body armor of my opponent, searing through the outer shell and nestling into the chest cavity. Then the explosions did the rest. His body torn to pieces, I breathlessly panted, scanning the surrounding area for more enemies.
“Proph. Proph..PROPH!”
“Sorry Pfeil, I must’ve blanked out for a second there. What’s our status?”
“You got the last one buddy. It’s over. Come on back to the bunker and we’ll start a final sweep.”
Shotgun hanging limply from one hand, I trudged back towards the command bunker. If I was lucky, I’d still have time to grab another cup of LuckyStrike’s horrible coffee before we started burial detail. With all the comrades we lost, swallowing the bitter stuff would taste much sweeter than the post-battle depression that comes with seeing your brothers buried in the cold, hardened ground of this frozen wasteland.
I guess when you’re stationed in an outpost like this hellhole, you start to take on the mindset that matches the environmental conditions. I hope my mind will eventually be able to thaw out.
** The end of Round 1. Round 2 of the Minsk battle to come in another installment of “Blood and Honor, The Journal of a 9th MID Soldier”.
Nailed to the Tree 