Stand to Attention
Characters: Roy, Riza and General Grumman (the little dude in the dress from chapter 63 of the manga), Hughes has a blink and you'll miss him appearance.
Notes: This is the bunny that lied to me. It was supposed to be funny but kept insisting on veering off into angst. I hope that with all the editing I did I did get a bit of humour in there so now it's more bittersweet than anything. Heavily, heavily inspired by Catch-22.
The thing they don't tell you about war is how mind numbing it is.
For every single offensive and move forward there are hours of sitting around waiting for the orders. It's more often a matter of precision not force.
When men are trained to kill they become reckless and engage in the obligatory savage animalistic behaviour that they need to take over if they are going to pull that trigger. And that's why it's the job of the higher ups to make sure they aren't reckless in the wrong places.
There's a kind of coil effect. The more they wait, the more they get wound up tight and their years of training itch just under the surface of the skin, ready to pop out in the satisfying sound of broken spinal cords, falling enemies and crumbling buildings. You can't let them do that just anywhere or anyhow.
Everything is planned and carefully staged.
Fear builds up and down. The more scarred a person is for his life the harder he'll fight, in exactly the same way a trapped animal will berserk and bite and claw until there is nothing left but blood and a pulsing stump of flesh.
The way to get them that scared is to make them sit in the camp, with a gun in their hands and nothing to shoot but shadows. And then they hear the veteran's stories and listen carefully to what they don't say because nothing speaks louder than silence. And the mind paints pictures more red, more vivid and full of the screams that reverberate from the nightmares rising in chorus throughout the freezing nights. And then they start to break. The men start to think that something needs to happen because anything is better than being left alone with your thoughts. And the second they are turned loose everything comes out because they can't keep it in anymore. And when they've bled enough they bottle it up to build for the rest of the waiting until it's time again.
And it's the job of the General to subtly keep the pressure cooker going and to time it right so the lid doesn't come off until it suits the higher ups best. General Grumman, the eccentric, is very good at this. Sometimes his actions to keep the morale steady (improve? That's not going to happen) feel like token gestures, but by the time the soldiers have been around long enough to understand that they are numb and can turn themselves on and off by themselves.
So the General sits back in his little room and looks at maps and pretends to ignore the look in the eyes of his men.
He thinks that the soldiers had settled into the little village very quickly. Clay square houses served as hospital, canteens and their flat roofs became look out points. It's easy to shield the men with the structures, it's easy to defend and it's an "up yours" symbol to the Ishbalans. Grumman wonders if they'll ever find out that the explosives are kept in their old temple. To blow it up would be to commit a crime against their God. The poor bastards.
The oasis that the outpost is built around keeps the men fresh and watered, but with an entire army sprawling through the narrow streets and spilling out of the clay coloured houses, it soon dries up. General Grumman set up a system of big heavy transport vans constantly coming back and forth bringing fresh food, water and always, always more men. More, more men to die, to protect, to serve with all they have before they too shrivel up in the sun like the rotten dates fallen from the palm trees and swarming with flies. The alert is high on the route to and fro but as soon as the camouflaged trucks reach the inside of the encampment it's safe. Too many soldiers and it's nigh impregnable. That's why they went after it first, and thanks to their guns and alchemists they won but it was close.
No one goes out back behind the walls.
That is where the graves are.
No one ever talks of it but it hangs over the air; a slight stench made of heat and baking flesh. Someone would have to do something about it before the sweat of dead men became too much and it would begin to cling to the nostrils, choke inside the throat.
There is a commotion outside his office/house but it is distant.
Screams and yells are heard. Stampeding feet and gunfire.
He stands tall.
A rush of wind and then all is quiet.
General Grumman sits down to wait.
About half an hour latter young Percival, red hair unusually tousled, runs in before grinding to a perfect salute. His face is flushed, his freckles that much more prominent in the sun giving him the impression of a rounded ripe tomato. Percival is a young man so anxious to please that he exudes an earthy nervousness just by being there. It's almost painfully embarrassing to watch. But only almost. Percival never does anything in full but always reaches just an inch under the standard for any reaction, mission or emotion. He's so very understated.
"At ease, Percy, at ease."
"Percival, Sir."
"Of course my boy."
The silence stretches between them like the sands outside, separated only by rasping breaths.
"I assume there is something that you wish to tell me, Percy. Though I would love to think that it's my charming personality that has you coming here."
"Oh, Yes Sir. And it's Percival, Sir."
"I'm sorry?"
"Nothing Sir."
"Well then do get on with it, Percy."
"Yes Sir. There was a disturbance in the Northern Sector, Sir."
"A disturbance? Oh dear, dear."
"Yes Sir. It seems some Ishbalan Insurgent managed to break in Sir."
"Well!"
"Yes Sir."
"Any casualties?"
Percival shifts on his left leg, tugging slightly at the dark blue fabric of his uniform trousers with a calloused hand.
"Percy?"
"Three dead, Sir. One Private Greenfield, one Sergeant Blodger and one Private Dendst."
"Mmm…"
General Grumman turns to face the map tacked onto the wall behind him. The Ishbalans were strong and resourceful. Yes, they had technology on their side and couldn't lose of course but the general had no doubt that the troops could and would take damage. Three isn't very much in terms of casualties but it's just the right number. When a huge number dies the mind shuts down, he thought to himself. Three is just enough to remember the names, to have the soldiers talk about the habits of the dead, their girlfriends back home who will be waiting for them to come home. Human interest- a small number spreads and is harder to cover up than an entire city.
He heard Percy shift his feet behind him. The boy seems more nervous than usual.
"He was heading for the supply van full of water. We have reason to think he wanted to contaminate the supply."
The water supply! If the men knew that was a target – which they probably did by now – morale was going to take a serious beating. To die of poisoning or dorught is a terrible nightmarish choice- how can someone cope with the thought of dying of dehydration? It had already happened to a couple of men and they'd been in complete agony trying to cover that one up before the word spread.
"The van is a long way in, Percy. To get that far and only kill three men… He was intercepted, was he not? How was he stopped?"
"State alchemist, Sir. One of the new recruits. Blew him up, Sir – some kind of fire based alchemy."
"Well, I say!" Grumman ran his hand through his hair noting absentmindedly that it felt rather grimy. "Well at least they've come in useful."
"Yes Sir."
"A new recruit, you say?"
"Yes Sir. He came with the convoy last Wednesday. He's still green. Name is Mustang, Sir."
"Mustang, mmm…"
An untried man, committing his first actual kill to save the entire force from a horrible death... There didn't seem anything else to do…
"Let's give him a medal, Percy!"
"I'm sorry Sir?"
"You heard me! A sort of congratulations seems in order. Might encourage some of the new ones to get stuck in, don't you think?"
Percy shifted his weight and sucked in his breath through his teeth.
"Yes Sir."
One day, Grumman thought, he'd be able to talk to people who had a spine and expressed opinions of their own. Maybe one day. Goodness knows he'd probably be retired when that happened.
But right now he opens a drawer and takes out a small medal, slides it into his pocket before beaming wildly at Percy.
"We're giving him the medal now Sir? Shouldn't we do a proper ceremony and plan it?"
"Too dangerous my boy! Right target for snipers we'd be all lining up outside! Not that there officially are any snipers looking at us but you can never be too careful, can you m'boy? No time like the present! Chop Chop!"
Yes, yes, this is a good idea. It would make the men hold on a little longer until the next attack, which wasn't scheduled for another month yet. It could turn this disaster into a win for him. It would say look! We have an Alchemist who hasn't even been here a week and is already a hero! We can't loose! Not with men like that! Grumman paced, clutching his hands behind his back. The shipment from last Wednesday was fresh, very fresh. The new recruits were coming in drips and drabs. A previous shipment had been received three weeks ago and they'd tasted fire on the third day in. Purely accidental - an enemy initiative though lately they had been fighting more and more on their own terms; choosing the ground, the day, the way to fight. Yes, the war was going as well as any war would, but say that to those fighting… It does not matter how well the big plan is when your buddy gets shot and dies. And back home, if your child comes home in a bag… well…No amount of tactical victory can make up for that.
And that's the problem facing Grumman. He sighs. Rubs where his moustache was before he shaved it off. He likes it freshly cut. Thinks he'll keep it that way despite it being an extra blade at his throat in the morning, but at the very least he's the one holding this one.
The soldiers stand outside doorways, hiding in the cut out shade. They smoke, inhaling ever so slowly, the tips flaring red and crumbling, releasing little clouds that he thinks might be more dust than smoke. The coffee tastes like mud but it's good to have something to hold other than a weapon (though he wouldn't be surprised if it poisoned someone considering the lethal-tasting liquor that the soldiers liked spiking it with) and it's a routine so small clusters hold onto cups with both raw hands. The tracks of feet, the ruts of heavy vehicles wind on like a lazy snake. Men salute along the side of the road. A group plays a game of dice.
A young woman approaches him with a purposeful stride. Her hair is short and blonde, looking slightly bleached form the sun. The military has only just allowed women into combat situations and they are slowly trickling in. But it's still not uncommon to have only a couple of women in each team. Grumman thinks that perhaps it is hardest for them as they are excluded from some of the boy's only club atmosphere that is inevitably there. And for a woman to stand out she can't be as good as a man. She's got to be better than all of them. It must be a lot of pressure, Grumman would muse sometimes. Thank goodness things are moving forwards, if slightly slowly at times.
"Yes, what is it dear?" He says to her.
"Sir, I've got some papers…"
"Can they wait a little bit? I'm just off to give a young man a medal- in fact why don't you come with us and I'll deal with you straight away afterwards, Miss..."
"Hawkeye, Sir."
She falls in line behind him with Percival. He ignores a couple of the heads that turn at him out and about. Let them talk. They'll do his job for him. The house is in front of him now. It's an off-white colour but General Grumman can see little wine splashes of red on the wall. There's a section not too far off with much more frenzied activity than usual. The ground is scorched, black. Percival asks the man sitting outside with his hat askew and a photo album on his knee if Roy Mustang is in there.
"Uh, yes, Sir but I'm not sure that…"
"Perfect!" Grumman throws open the door, ready to surprise and decorate Mustang like he deserves.
And promptly comes to a stop.
He blinks a couple of times.
Listens to Percival and the young blonde behind him gasp.
Percy, trembling around the knees, took a few steps towards the black haired man in the centre of the room, past General Grumman.
He ogles him like he'd never seen a man before.
The man in question, presumably Mustang, had been obviously sitting down with a bottle of beer and had jumped up to attention in a crisp salute, dropping his bottle to the floor. It is a perfect salute.
Except for one detail.
He isn't wearing his uniform.
In fact he isn't wearing a single stitch of clothing.
"Percy? Can you please ask this man why he's naked?"
"Yes sir. Hmm. Why exactly are you naked?"
Roy Mustang stares straight ahead, a little bit above Percy's head in a show of remarkable discipline. He doesn't move an inch but it is obvious he is tense. General Grumman thanks his lucky stars that not all of Roy Mustang is standing to attention.
"Clothes are dirty, Sir."
""His clothes are dirty Sir."
"His clothes are dirty? Everybody's clothes are dirty! Tell him that."
"Everybody's clothes are dirty!" barks Percival.
"Greenfield stained all over them, Sir. The blood wouldn't come off, Sir." Says Mustang.
"They were stained with Private Greenfield's blood Sir. It won't come out Sir."
"Ask him why he's not got a spare somewhere." Says Grumman not unkindly.
"Why haven't you got a spare somewhere?" says Percival slightly unkindly.
"I asked. There aren't any spares Sir. Not anywhere. Except for on the corpses."
Percy opens his mouth but can't quite repeat it. So that's it, thinks Grumman. This is our war. A man standing in the middle of an empty house that isn't his, completely naked because only the dead can cover themselves, and is receiving a medal for still standing up when everyone else has fallen down.
But more importantly, Grumman thinks, what is he supposed to attach the medal to?
There's a cough behind him.
"Sir? My papers?" says Hawkeye completely unfazed.
Omake:
Some years later…
"Sir?"
"What is it Hawkeye?"
"I believe that you may want to leave Edward alone about his height. After all, you are in no position to make size jokes."
"…"
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