Author's introduction
Welcome to Sigma Octanus II. It's not much to go on, but it's something. Before you ask, WDE basically stems from Terrence Malick's "The Thin Red Line" and Oliver Stone's "Platoon", then whatever there is in between. The idea of wading through uncharted territory with only a helmet, rifle, and the guy in front of you interested me, so I thought I would plug that into the Halo universe.
I'm fixing bits of this first chapter so that it ties nicely into EmF's sequel to "Alone" for this merging to work. Wish us luck.
-125
Early 2552
En route to Sigma Octanus II
Aboard UNSC Destroyer Boxer
Private Michael Dawson drummed his fingers against a thick textbook which lay on his lap with numerous sheets of paper strewn about. Dawson rested his head, mumbling to himself, trying to clear his head of sleep. The marines had all been woken up from cryo three hours earlier, and Dawson had spent that time awake and bleary-eyed.
He finally threw his pen down in frustration and snapped up his book.
"You should try to get some rest, Private." He heard an older man's voice from across the furnished ship's lounge area.
"After being frozen and shot through space," Dawson said, still scrutinizing and organizing the papers, "I think I've had enough, thanks."
The man chuckled and made his way over to the marine. "You old enough to join the service?"
"Come on, don't I look like it—" Dawson finally glanced up and saw the stern expression of the older man and suddenly rose and stood rigid, his pale face reddening. The papers on his lap scattered on the ground. "—Sir! Uh, Sergeant! My apologies, sir. I didn't realize…"
"You can lose the formalities, kid." The man took a seat across from Dawson, who dropped to a knee and quickly swept up his mess. He dumped the smattering of books and papers into the padded seat on his left.
The man stared at him for a brief moment, his steel-grey eyes staring through him. "Private… Dawson, is it? I'm—"
"Sergeant Blunt," Dawson quickly finished.
"Well done, marine," Blunt told him with a slight smile. "I'm impressed."
"I assume you're the CO of this outfit, sir."
"The Captain," Blunt said, "is the commanding officer, but I run this thing."
"It's an honour to meet with you. I read about you when I was in Basic."
The sergeant nodded and looked over to Dawson's work. "What's this?"
"Just some school work. Was half-way through my second year of university."
"I see. So what's a bright lad like you doing on the far side of this moon?"
Dawson thought for a moment, before replying. "I… don't know. Really, I think it was to answer the call."
"You went from school to go and fight a war?"
"Wouldn't you? I mean, isn't it a man's duty to fight back when his kind is being exterminated? Twenty five plus years and we're still fighting. UNSC needs everyone to push back the Covenant."
Blunt paused at this. "Promotional adverts taught you well, huh?"
"You've been fighting for all that time, haven't you, Sergeant? What brings you back?"
"The way I see it, Dawson, there are a few types of people in the armed forces. Whether you want to argue about it, you'll fall into a category regardless. There are those men and women who love the thrill of battle and live everyday for firing off their weapons. I like to call those people 'Helljumpers'—" Dawson smiled at this. "—The hopefuls, or the boys and girls who sign up who feel they want to make a difference… the majority of the Corps is made up of them unfortunately; and lastly, the old has-beens, like myself, who stick around just because anywhere else we would feel useless. Why take a dead-end white collar desk job when we were once on the front for half of our lives, I reckon."
"That's because you secretly want to go back to saving the world. Of course, that's the reason. Underneath the old grizzled veteran exterior, you're a patriotic hero who would give his right leg for the world."
Blunt smiled. "You really think I'm grizzled, Private? No, I don't expect I'll change the tide of war alone, but maybe I'll hold off the destruction of Earth just one more day. Oh yeah, and my right leg belongs to me and only me."
"You've got a real positive attitude, Sergeant. Anyone ever told you that?"
"You're enthusiastic, kid. I get that. While I admire that in a person, I hate to see it in a marine. I always see that quality die first in the men underneath my command. Maybe it won't be this tour, but it'll sneak up on you. Wear you down, tire you out."
"Call me stubborn, but I firmly believe duty is the driving force between everyone still fighting. Following blind? A duty to your country. Revenge? A duty to right wrongs… I could go on."
"When we're cornered, and gripped and held by the throat, or if we find ourselves fighting for all the lives of our people when the time comes, only then is it our 'duty' to jump in the way of a bullet. Not before."
Sergeant Blunt met Dawson's eyes and said, "If you're looking to fulfill your sense of purpose, kid, you're not going to find it here, in Sigma Octanus."
The two were silent for almost a minute, listening to the rumble of the Boxer's engines reverberating throughout the deck. The private fiddled with his hands before he looked at the older man. Changing the subject, he said, "In basic, there was an article about your military life—it started here, in 2525. It dubbed you a hero, but only touched down on that. What really happened?" He leaned forward intently once Blunt started to speak.
"They wrote up for all the survivors of that battle. I just continued to rack up the victories in the Covenant war following and others thought me to be one—and I quote—'Damned god-of-war'."
Dawson acknowledged this with a slight nod of his head, but he clearly wanted to know about what took place in the battle.
"The battle of Sigma Octanus II," Blunt carefully chose his words and hesitated for a moment, "was almost like a turning point, or even just one of the informal endings of the conflicts we've had with the Rebel forces. For years, the iron fist of the UNSC had been slack on the outer colonies and the border worlds. Naturally, this meant open ground for Rebels and pirates to claim. And with this battle, it demonstrated that the UNSC would not give in to them anywhere.
"I was just 'lucky' enough to be a part of it. I haven't thought much of it but since I'm revisiting the damn place in a few hours, it wouldn't hurt to remember it again."
2525 – Sigma Octanus II – Second Rebel War
"Fix bayonets."
The order was repeated with quiet murmurs throughout the line. While the concept of bayonets was dropped roughly in the late twentieth century, the poor visibility in the swamps had reintroduced fierce close quarter combat… not every man was armed with an M90 shotgun.
A standard issue combat knife would be securely taped to the barrel of the marine's HMG-38 rifle. But the device was flimsy and meeting with body armour would usually detach the knife from the rifle, or even snap the blade.
"Smoke grenades, ready."
The designated soldiers in the line set down their armaments and held the grenades out in front of their faces, ready to prime and lob them. The job was for men who could throw great distances. The plan was for the smoke to be scattered evenly after they exited from the jungle area so they'd be right on top of the enemy. A long-ranged battle was nearly impossible, and they didn't want their enemy to have even a glimpse of them out in the open.
Artillery on both sides had been pounding all four corners of the battlefield. Like a giant game of battleships, the guns would fire randomly into the canopy hoping to catch any entrenched men or other enemy gun emplacements, judging distance from the sound and impact. This sometimes resulted in friendly fire and set up a no-man's land between the rebels and the marines.
If the rebels saw them coming, it would simply be an explosive massacre. Today, the haze was thicker than most mornings and additional smoke would make the marines nearly invisible to the enemy… until it was too late.
The captain stepped to the front of the line and faced the survivors of his remaining company of just under one hundred. He was silent as he viewed his men, turned towards the distant, hidden enemy lines. The sunlight streamed through the trees and where there weren't patches of fog, dim sunlight bathed the men in almost a peaceful fashion. The calm before the storm.
"Wait for the smoke to build, then go when I tell you. Be silent until the last second. They'll know we're coming, but the when is how we'll take them."
Private Blunt's stomach was troubled, like he was ready to puke. But he contained the feeling, and added another layer of tape to his bayonet. He checked his fragmentation grenades, but decided to carry only one. Most of the men had left any fancy equipment back at camp as it would weigh them down when it was time to run. They had only a rifle and the shirt on their back.
"Once we're out of the smoke, we should be at the foot of the enemy positions. From there on you frag any rebel you come across. Take close-quarter weaponry and keep those blades tight. Don't hesitate to kill."
The captain finally spoke, "This can be it, people. The end of the war can be here, now. Good luck, and I'll see you on the other side."
Minutes passed in uncomfortable silence.
The NCOs in charge of their squads and smoke grenades and nodded to one another. It was time.
"Smoke grenades! Throw 'em!"
The grenades hurled through the air and landed on the murky battlefield. Each one sparked and began to shoot out thick, billowy clouds of smoke. There was no turning back now.
"All right, everybody! Let's move, let's move!"
The word passed down the line, and in unison, the marines climbed from the ditch and set off at a brisk, but cautious, jog. The smoke clogged Blunt's senses. Everything was consumed by the blanket of haze and the swamp water tugged at his boots. All he could hear was the rapid clumps of everyone's feet. The white curled around each man, engulfing them like a beast and its prey. Blunt's heartbeat pulsed in his head, and all he could think about was putting one foot ahead of the other and keeping his rifle at the ready.
There was a startled yell from beside the private—beside his leg. The smoke grenades had swallowed up a lone enemy hiding in a shell hole.
The man saw the marines and began to raise the alarm. He brought his rifle up to bear, but a shaky recruit behind the private snapped off a single shot, taking the rebel in the lower gut. The sudden noise startled the advancing men, and everyone dropped to the ground, careful of returning enemy machine gun fire.
None came to them.
A corporal shoved the recruit aside and motioned him to "keep quiet and get out of here". The marine hastily complied, with Blunt falling in behind him. He saw the corporal look into the fox hole with the injured rebel. The man still had breath to alert the rest of his forces.
The marine dropped in and pulled his bayonet-fitted rifle backwards while Blunt quickly looked away and started forward again. The wounded rebel began to scream, but was silenced to a low, agonizing gasp as the blade was plunged into his sternum.
After another minute or two, they finally reached the end. The enemy was just mere yards away. The wind had blown the smoke out further, even so it drifted into the rebels' camp. They hunkered down, hidden in the screen and silence, waiting for the marines to regroup. The captain blew his whistle, and as one, the men charged at full speed towards the enemy.
They surged forward, yelling at the top of their lungs. Blunt scrambled over the terrain, trying his best not to lose his balance, keeping his eyes only on the marine in front of him. Suddenly, there was a rapid crackle of gunfire, and the man he was following gurgled and slumped forward, falling into the smoke.
Rebel soldiers had set up a machine gun and now began to unload on the dark figures in materializing through the smoke, filling the entire space with bullets. A couple marines successfully avoided their fire and leapt over the sandbags, throwing themselves upon the two men behind. One rebel was shot twice, once in the face. The second took a round in the gut, while both marines thrust their bayonets through his shirt and into his torso. He cried out and sank to his knees. One marine raised his rifle and put a round through his forehead, while the other pulled the bayonet-fitted weapon from the body.
They had reached the forward line of the enemy trench and scattered foxholes. Marines started jumping down to kill the rebels in a close-quarter melee. Blunt ignored them and followed the captain straight through the enemy camp at a heavy sprint with the bulk of the men.
A marine beside the private took a round through his chest and dropped to the ground with a groan. Blunt, still running, raised his rifle and in return fired off four rounds in a short burst, two finding his target. They had reached the heart of the base and their rapid surprise charge had slowed to a steady push.
The men in the command centre were not so unprepared and had already set up a second machine gun. When they opened up, Blunt managed to dive off behind one of the many hastily-erected instacrete buildings as three men who were in front of him took the smattering of rounds and toppled to the ground. The marines had already found some form of cover and were attempting to return fire. Blunt saw that he was in front of a building which he could use to gain elevation. The private clenched his jaw and fed a fresh magazine into his weapon.
On the count of three he eased open the door… no point in alerting guys if they didn't need to know. Blunt entered the room and saw a man claw at his handgun as the two suddenly locked eyes. There was no time for thinking as the private brought up his rifle and squeezed the trigger. The rounds caught the rebel in the side and the arm. He dropped the gun and slumped back against the wall, staring at Blunt with a pained expression, challenging him to finish the job. The private snatched the pistol away but didn't meet the wounded man's eyes. As he finally looked around, he saw about ten men lying on the ground, all injured. This was an aid station.
He thought about taking their lives, for all the hell they raised, for all the good men lying dead around the jungle…
But he couldn't.
He was a soldier, not a murderer. That's where the line was drawn, where his duty ended. He walked past the man he'd shot, leaving him for the next batch of POWs out of here. In more ways, aside from being shot, he was luckier than Blunt might be.
Blunt found his way to the roof which overlooked the rebels' position. He peered down the sights of his HMG-38 and determined that they were just in his range. With a continuous stream of fire, he hosed down the team manning the machine gun. Seeing this, the rest of the marines used the advantage to advance and storm the command centre.
In the concrete building, the marines with automatic heavy-assault rifles went in first to flush out the remaining rebels with grenades and hundreds of bullets, while Blunt met up with the others to secure the perimeter.
"The raid took all of ten minutes before the rest surrendered. It wasn't the final stand the rebels had hoped for. Many were already injured and exhausted, more so than we were. The fighting in the jungles had killed off most of them beforehand, and what was left was the ill-prepared and untrained." The sergeant stopped there and glanced at the private. Dawson was motionless throughout the entire story, but something told Blunt that the marine wasn't satisfied yet.
"I have read the texts and AAR which followed and I assume you have, too. And you're probably thinking 'that's all?' right? Well, that was all, Private."
"You were said to be a hero in that battle, and in every article I read you name pops up. What was so heroic about that battle?"
"There was nothing heroic, Dawson. All I did was survive." Blunt chuckled and said, "Some of the men I fought alongside over the years began to tell stories before and after battles about things in my career—some greatly exaggerated, but entertaining nonetheless— while others wrote up songs and poems. I do remember a bunch of recent sketches of me… portrayed as a tough, cigar-sucking hard-ass, killing Covies left and right. I don't know what I did to deserve all that, but I was like legend... a morale boost. That, kid, is how heroism works.
"Now, you really should get some sleep. We'll be landing in a few hours. I'll see you on the boats."
As Dawson saluted and left the lounge with his books, Blunt eased back in his seat and closed his eyes for a moment.
Two marines approach a surrendering group of rebels. They ordered them to put down their weapons, a request which they hastily complied to. But mercy was replaced by anger, and with a sudden burst of fire, the prisoners were all quickly executed before they could run. Blunt sat down on some sandbags and rested his legs for a moment. As his eyes wandered over to the aid station, he saw muzzle flash and heard a pistol go off multiple times. His eyes widened and he began to run over the station.
More shots.
He reached the door when the saw the captain put the last round of the weapon into the head of the rebel slumped against the wall—the one that Blunt had wounded earlier.
"Son of bitch," the private whispered as he watched the captain coolly eject the empty magazine and load a new one. The officer brushed past Blunt on his way out the door without making eye contact.
Blunt walked through the camp wearily, too exhausted to even care what happened next.
Another marine stepped over to a man on the ground. "Git up!" the marine spat, "You ain't hurt. I said 'on your feet!'" He grabbed the man by his collar and roughly pulled him up. The marine brought his shotgun up and shoved the barrel into the rebel's gut. "I'll teach you to play dead!"
Before Blunt could say anything, the marine squeezed the trigger. At point blank, the rebel's body dropped to the ground with a large, gaping hole in his chest. The soldier turned to the next rebel, who trembled in fear. He clubbed the man in the side of the head with the butt of his shotgun.
The marine whirled around to face Blunt, his weapon poised. He had a crazed look on his face, like a wild primal creature. What was left of the marine was insanity and the need to kill. Seeing only a bewildered Blunt, he turned back the man who lay on the ground, with a gash on his temple. He pumped a shell into the chamber and pointed it at the back of the rebel's head.
"Queen!" a voice barked and both Blunt and the marine froze. Looking over, a non-com stood a few feet away, an assault rifle trained on Queen. "You kill that man and I will take you down with him. Do you hear me?"
Queen shook uncontrollably in rage and slowly shook his head. "Screw you, Sarge. These boys are gonna pay for those two weeks of hell." When the sergeant didn't ease up, Queen raised his chin defiantly and growled, "So that's how it is, huh? Then do it. You don't have the balls to—"
With that, the non-com lowered his rifle only slightly and fired off a round. Queen swore and yelped in pain as he clutched his thigh and fell to the ground.
"Blunt, go get his weapon." The sergeant lowered his rifle and ignored Queen's curses and whimpers. "Damn fine job today. I don't know if we're done for good, but you know what the best part is?"
Blunt held the shotgun gingerly. "What's that?"
The non-com looked out into the noon-sky and almost smiled. "We'll never have to see this god-awful place again."