Title: We Stand Alone Together
Summery: Voldemort's followers were not bound only to England. While the events of Deathly Hallows were taking place, thousands upon thousands of his Death Eaters and magical followers were beginning their world-wide conquest of the globe. Eventually, their lightening war spread to a very important province of the Middle East, where the only thing standing in their way were two hundred soldiers, determined not to give up until the last man was down.
Rated: M for language and heavy war scenes/violence.
Brought to you by: Wesker888, the author behind such works as Just One Dance, For You I Will, and Crawling Under The Surface.
Disclaimer: I own only the characters and the plot. Nothing more, nothing less.
Author's Notes: I do apologize that this was later than the two-month deadline. I ran into a bit of a rut with this chapter. I'm pretty satisfied with it now, but do let me know what you think, aye?
I think it's fitting to post a chapter for a war story on June 6th, wouldn't you say?
Personal Discoveries
The next morning, the entire camp was woken up by someone screaming Bloody Mary. The screams snapped Danny out of his slumber; he sat up with a jerk, going from completely unconscious to completely awake. Next to him, Matthews picked his head up, eyes open only a squint.
"The hell's going on?" he asked, his tired voice slowly coming to wake.
Danny stuck his head out of the tent to see Tucker frantically running and spinning around, wearing just a T-shirt and his boxers, waving his hands in the air and looking like someone just cut his foot off. Jason and Terry were poking their heads out from their tent, looking on with a mixed look of fascination and confusion as their friend danced like the Devil was chasing him.
"Get it off me! Get it off me! Jesus Christ, get it off!" he cried out.
Danny looked all over him, but could not see anything attached to him. He had probably just woken up from a dream or something, that made more sense. He needed to calm down before he gave away their position to any scouts sneaking around near-by.
Tucker flailed around for almost another whole minute before Sergeant Ryan finally tackled him to the ground. He placed both legs on either side of his chest and planted himself right on the man's body, pinning him to the ground. The platoon sergeant's face was one of red-faced annoyance.
"Get a grip, man! What's wrong with you?" he demanded.
"It's down my pants! Get it off!" sobbed Tucker, looking like he was in discomfort.
Ryan got up and pulled the Irishman's boxers out to get a look. Every other man present looked on in discomfort as the sergeant felt around before he suddenly stopped, sighed and glared at the private.
"Oh for Christ's sakes, you big baby," he spat at him. "It's only a leech."
"ONLY a leech?" Tucker's head shot up, looking incredulous. "I'm lucky my balls are still attached! Get it off!"
Ryan sighed again, reached in, and then returned with the leech in between its fingers. It was such a tiny, thin little thing...Danny could see that it could not have gotten much blood off of the scrawny lad, or that it had even been there for very long. Tucker had probably just woken up, reached in for some Fireman Time, and found the thing there. Anyone would have panicked.
That did not mean he was not going to catch some flack for it.
"Doc might want to add this to his collection," pondered the platoon sergeant. He stood up, helped the private to his feet, and placed the leech in his hand. "Take this to the medical tent, give this to Doc, and get yourself checked out."
Tucker nodded glumly, carefully taking the leech and holding it by the end between his thumb and index finger and walking towards the medical tent, doing his best to ignore the laughs and jokes that were thrown his way ("Squeezed a bit too hard, eh luv?" "What's the matter, Tuck? Not your type?" "Does she have a sister? Is she single?"). Jason and Terry gave each other looks, shook their heads, and retreated back into their tents to put proper clothes on.
Danny laughed as he pulled his pants on and then stepped out of the tent, Matthews right behind him. ,All around them, the rest of the company was up and walking around, preparing breakfast, cleaning their weapons, taking a "whore's bath" and shooting the shit. At first glance, he would have almost believed they were back at the base. Even though he knew they were not, the thought brought a smile to his lips.
The smile was broken as Ryan's voice brought him firmly grounded again.
"Alright, patrol and sentry details, gents. Morrison, you're taking a patrol to the west. You've got four men plan your route and see if you can find anything. I want a report by the end of the day, so don't get lost."
"I'll take...O'Malley, Smith, Matthews, and...throw in McIntyre too," Morrison decided on the spot; one machine-gunner, one point man, one rear guard, and one support gunner. An ideal patrol set up, one that should be able to handle any ordinary enemy.
Matthews groaned and retreated back into the tent to grab his SAW. Danny waited for the orders that were sure to come his way. In a combat zone, you never got enough time to just sit around; there was always something to do.
"Alright, Armstrong, you and Marek are on OP 3. Take one of the walkies and get out there."
Danny groaned quietly and glanced over to where Marek was standing, bare-chested, pouring water from his canteen all over him and whistling old children's tunes as he did. Great, another day on outpost with the man who talked to the sky. How did this always end up happening to him?
"Armstrong! Get moving!" Ryan's voice sounded like his former drill sergeant's- loud, demanding, and full of anger used to inflict pain onto others if they refused to answer on the spot. Danny knew better, from experience, what would happen if he did not grab his weapon and report to his station. Grumbling under his breath, he grabbed his MP-5 and backpack and hiked over to OP 3.
He heard footsteps hurrying after him, but did not turn to look back. As it turned out, it was not necessary, as Marek caught up to his side, his shirt on now, pack in one hand and M-4 in the other, with that classic Marek smile on his face.
"Together again, aye partner?" he asked.
Danny just nodded, thinking to ask God to just put him out of misery, but deciding against it when he remembered that anything he said to God would probably be sent back to the cause of his annoyance.
The two were chummy, after all.
Grimes was making sure the sergeant major's lapels were secured nicely on his collar as Price came up with his L-85 in his hands. He watched as his Irish friend fumbled with the one on the right collar, and chuckled slightly when he accidentally pricked his finger on the pin.
"Never thought I would see the day, Franky," he said, coming out of his spot and sitting down next to his friend.
"Neither did I," grumbled the newly promoted Grimes, finishing the job and turning the top half of his body to face Price. "How do I look?"
"Like the Company Sergeant Major, mate."
The words, instead of boosting his confidence, just made him feel even more nervous. Company Sergeant Major. He had been a simple sergeant barely twenty-four hours ago, and now he was THE sergeant. Everything that came from the enlisted men to the officers were voiced through him, and vice versa. The lives of the enlisted men had always weighed heavily on the noncoms, but it weighed doubly so on the sergeant major; that was the thing that scared him the most.
"I'm not cut out for this, Eddie," he admitted.
"You're more qualified that the rest of us."
"Even you?"
"I don't want it. What with the shortage we have on noncoms, we need all the buck sergeants we can hold on to. Besides, I work better with smaller groups than the bigger picture."
"Yeah, well, there's three other possibilities Captain could pick. I mean, the staff sergeants are more suited for promotion over me, right? What about Ryan?"
Price laughed. "That would bode over well with the men. Place the one who yells and barks orders every chance he gets in a rather angry voice in charge of all the enlisted men, that's a recipe for disaster right there."
"Pratt?"
"Good lad, but I'm not sure he's all there half the time. You know how he gets, he's always too mellow. Nothing wrong with it, but I just don't think anything really fazes him, and we need someone who has his head fully in the game."
The possibilities were running thin, and Grimes was not liking it too much. Because the less options there were, the more sure he was that he was stuck doing this.
"Carter, then," he finalized.
His friend shrugged. "He's the only real choice. John's got all his shit together, and he's a good, fair leader. I think, though, that Captain wants to keep him as a staff sergeant. He wants at least one platoon sergeant to have a clear head and an edge to keep him on his toes."
That was his three options, and now he knew why he had been chosen; because, in Captain Wallace's eyes, there had been no one else able or willing to take on the job. He knew there was a shortage of soldiers in their company, but he did not realize that things were so bad that he was the only decent candidate for this assignment.
"Franky, you've been a buck sergeant for ten years, you should have been promoted long before now," Price pointed out. "I don't see why this is such a big deal-"
"Because I don't feel ready for it! I mean, I have to appeal to the officers, I have to appeal to the men, and those are two very conflicting sides to have to get to like you. And then there's combat, I have to be in charge of all the enlisted, and if I screw up men die, and I'm barely able to keep composure when a guy in my squad dies, never mind the whole company-"
"Mate," Price grabbed Grimes' shoulder and squeezed firmly. "You need to just keep your head. You know these men, they know you. Nothing's changed there. You need to remember that you've worked personally with these men, you know who they are, where they come from. That will help you more than you know. As for leading them, you've proven you're a good squad leader. Your job is to be there for the men. Do that, and you'll do fine."
"You sure?" Worry still clouded Grimes' mind. He had come from a very laid back family that had never taken well to official leadership roles, and it was in his nature to question himself at every turn.
"Positive." Price stood up. "I've got to get back to the men. Keep your head up, alright?"
Grimes just nodded and watched his friend take off and wished that he had the job instead. Price had a cooler head than him, and a better command structure. Grimes was more laid back, though he still maintained efficiency. The guys thought he was cool, but command sergeant was a different story. He would have to up the anti on his performance.
And in their current predicament, the sooner he did that, the better.
Observation post, or OP as the men simply referred to it as, was a pit on the edge of their camp where men kept on lookout for signs of enemy activity. The sergeants picked two men, gave them a pair of binoculars, and placed them on one end of the compound to stand watch. It was always two men, sometimes three, sometimes four depending on the company size, but ALWAYS two. With two, there was more than one pair of eyes watching, and open conversation to make sure that both were seeing the exact same thing. They had a walkie talkie, so that if something WAS coming, they could give the base warning. That way, if they by chance did not make it, the rest of the company would have a fighting chance.
But it could be boring, as Danny knew all too well, sitting in that pit with Marek underneath the makeshift tent they had made out of a blanket and sticks. Because more often than not, nothing ever happened, and when that was the case, it was just two guys stuck in a sweltering hot foxhole for twelve hours at a time, with limited provisions, and if the two were not very close friends then it could make for awkward situations.
It seemed like every ten or fifteen minutes, Marek would randomly look up and shout something up to the sky, then pause for a few seconds, then laugh or nod and possibly relate something back to his partner in the hole. Every time he paused after his initial shout, Danny would cock his ear to see if he could possibly hear something, and every single time, it came up with nothing. Every single time, he felt silly for even thinking it. If God wanted to talk to him, he supposed He would do it whenever He felt like talking.
There was something going on in Marek's head, he decided. He had something figured out that the rest of them did not. And quite frankly, for him at least, it was something he was not sure was worth figuring out.
"What, Father?" Marek called out, for the fourth or fifth time that hour. Again, out of habit, Danny's ear perked up to see if he could possibly hear someone talking, but he barely had time to really listen when the other man in the hole shouted, "Alright, I'll ask him."
He turned his head to his partner. "If I stick my neck out for you, will you do the same for me?"
Danny frowned. "What?"
"If I risk my life for you, would you do likewise for me? Yes or no?"
"Um...yeah, sure, mate. No problem."
He did not know how exactly he was supposed to respond to that. Obviously he would watch his back, he may not like him very much, but he would not just let something bad happen. One, it was not his nature to do that, and two, Captain Wallace would chew his ass out to tobacco juice if he ever found out one of his men had slept on the job and had gotten another one killed. Besides, Marek was a good soldier, and they needed as many of those as they had.
Marek seemed satisfied by the answer, as he settled back into his pit and brought his canteen to his lips for a drink. Already the sun was high in the sky, and its rays felt like someone was raining fire down on them, even with their overhead canopy. Danny felt like he was going to roast alive; he already had a bad sunburn on his face from yesterday, and that was going to be a real bitch when it healed.
And it was not even noon yet.
This was going to be a very long day.
Grimes walked around camp with his rifle slung over his shoulder, trying his best to bid hello to the men and ignore the strange stares he was receiving. Price had said that this would be the reaction to his promotion, but still, he was not used to this. He wondered if he ever would be. Probably. But it was still unnerving.
He approached the back of the medical truck, where Archie again had the still up and running. Terry, Jason, and Tucker were the usual buyers, and the four were sitting, laughing and drinking as the sergeant made his approach over.
Terry saw him first, and the smile slipped from his face, even as Grimes smiled back. He nudged his head for the others to see, and they too straightened up as the new company sergeant brought himself down to their level.
"Hey, lads," said Grimes cheerfully, trying to ignore the awkwardness that they were emulating. "Having a good morning?"
"Aye, Sergeant," they all mumbled, trying to avoid eye contact.
"Tuck, what did Doc say? Everything working alright down there?" he joked, nudging the Irish private's arm.
Tucker looked around at his friends, unsure of what to do. They just stared at their drinks, not looking up, not speaking, not giving him the guidance he needed.
"Um..." He pushed his glasses further up onto his nose and gave the sergeant a weak smile. "Doc says everything's working fine. The leech, um...wasn't on long enough to do any damage. I've got to take some medicine, you know, to prevent infection, but otherwise I'm okay."
"Good..." Now Grimes was starting to get annoyed. It was one thing for his men to stare because of his promotion, but these were his lads; his friends. There was no reason why they should be treating him this way. But as he was about to open his mouth to say so, Terry spoke first.
"So I suppose we're going to get busted for drinking, huh?" he asked, a hint of bitterness in his voice.
"What?" The left corner of Grimes' mouth tugged into a half-smirk. "Come on, you know Wallace doesn't care if you guys have some of Archie's brew-"
"Yeah, but Hunter does," Jason pointed out.
"Well, yeah, when does he ever let up? But I know you guys, you won't get out of control."
They shifted again, and this time, Grimes was fed up with it. "Well, spit it out, will you? If you have a problem with me, just say it instead of acting like a bunch of twats!"
Terry and Jason exchanged glances. Tucker finally looked up and spoke.
"It's not you, Franky, it's just...well, you're the top sergeant now, y'know?"
"What does that have to do with anything-?"
"What Tucker's trying to say," Terry piped up, "is that you're a little too close to the officer pool for our liking."
"Oh, come off it," Grimes stood up. "Guys, it's ME. Franky. Yeah, I'm higher up on the chain, but that doesn't change me. I'm still the same guy you've worked with for two years! I'm still me!"
"We know, mate," Archie tried to calm him down with. "We know you're you. But you're you with...well, authority, I suppose. And that does change things."
He just gaped at them. Was being sergeant major THAT big of a difference for them? He had known he would have to gain the respect of the men in a different way, but he had not realized he would have to start completely from scratch.
Jason saw the look he gave them and sighed.
"It's nothing against you, mate," he said. "But if Hunter comes down on top of us, whose side would you choose? His or ours?"
Those words struck him, and it was the sort of dilemma he had been arguing over in his head. It was a question he still did not have an answer to. He had an obligation to be loyal to the officers over anything, but these were his friends, and he had to be loyal to them too. It was the conflicting sides; neither side was a clear winner.
They took his silence for an answer. "I thought so," said Jason, returning to his drink. Tucker and Archie gave the sergeant feeble smiles before going back to their conversation.
It was if he did not even exist as a person now, Grimes realized bitterly as he backed away from the group. He only existed as their commanding sergeant. It was like the rest of it did not even matter.
Price had said that it would take time, but eventually, things would right themselves out and things would return to normal. But he failed to see how that could be, after that scene, that everything could be right again.
It was one, maybe two in the afternoon now. Danny and Marek did nothing but eat, read, and sit around, eyes scouring the distance for any signs of life, be it friend or foe. Nothing showed up, though, and it was welcoming to them. They had had enough surprise guests for a while.
It was around two thirty when Danny finally asked the question he had wanted to know for a while:
"When did it all start, anyway?"
"When did what start?" asked Marek, eating from his can of tuna.
"You know, the whole talking to the Almighty thing. Shouting up to the sky every few minutes and then delivering some message from high above."
It was the talk of the camp, and had been for many months. Marek pondered the question, placed down his tuna, and looked up at the sky as if asking God a question of his own. Danny once again found himself staring upwards as well, out of habit, seeing if maybe he could hear something as well. Then Marek lowered his head back down and looked over at him
"Well, you know I was doing missionary work in Africa," he began, and his partner nodded in confirmation. "At one point at the end of my first tour, I was stationed in the Congo, helping out a little town...well, more a circle of shacks and straw huts. This was about four or five years ago, I was barely even twenty. And...well, I don't think I have to tell you that the Congo is not exactly the friendliest place in Africa-"
"Aye," replied Danny grimly. How could anyone not know how bad it was there. Nazi Germany at the end of World War II did not look as bad as the Congo was looking currently.
"Alright, well...it was my third week there, and we were getting word that a guerrilla force was making its way north, and would be passing through our encampment. Now, this was a settlement that had no soldiers, no weapons, no anything other than a church and about fifty children aging anywhere between two and thirteen. We have absolutely nothing that would make them want to attack us. But they were coming our way anyway.
"It was around midnight when they showed up, and...things got nuts. There was shooting and rockets being fired...one RPG went right into the infirmary, we had elderly and sick children in there...they were all blown to pieces. Around one in the morning, soldiers from the Congo Republican military force came to fight them off and it was them on one side and guerrillas on the other and we were sandwiched right in the middle...horrible fighting. About sixty-five percent of the village was wiped out that night, and we lost more to gunshot wounds and infections in the days that followed..."
Danny had heard horrible stories of the conditions in the Congo. If you were not wounded by shrapnel or had succumbed to malaria or pneumonia, you were considered lucky. It was a miracle that Marek had survived that.
"I was stuck in this little hole with a four-year-old, and there was machine-gun fire and rockets going off anywhere, and I swear, I had never been more terrified...I was clutching that child like he was my own, he was crying and screaming and I was biting down on the inside of my cheek to keep from doing the same. The hole was so...muddy, and wet, it had rained during the day, so we were sitting in soaking wet murk. At one point, a mortar round landed right in front of our hole, a dud, and we just stared at it for five minutes, waiting for it to go off and when it didn't we were right back where we had been."
He shook his head clear. The memories had been a cloud hanging over him for a long time, long after he had finally gotten over it and moved on. Even now, years later, that night was still vivid in his mind. Though he and that boy had survived, neither one had emerged completely unscathed, at least, not mentally.
"So what happened?" Danny was surprised to find that the story intrigued him. Normally he tried to avoid Marek as much as possible, but now, hearing this tale, he wanted to know more.
Marek smiled.
"Right as I thought we were finished...as the bombing reached the most furious...I heard this voice call to me. It rang out louder than the artillery and the rockets and the bullets, and I couldn't tell where it could have been coming from, maybe a blow horn or something...Then I heard it again, and I could just see...there was no ray of light or angel descending from heaven...just His voice, calling down to me."
"And...what did he say?"
He turned to his comrade, smirk still dancing on his face.
"He said, 'I've got plans for you, lad, so don't you fucking die on me or I'll really be up shit creek without a paddle.'"
For some reason- maybe it was the way Marek had said it, maybe it was the tone, or maybe it was just picturing God saying something like that- Danny found this insanely hilarious, and he burst out laughing. He laughed hard, rolling against the walls of the pit, laughing so hard that he had to clutch his sides as they began to hurt. He laughed so hard that eventually tears streamed down his face. Marek chuckled at the reaction his story had received.
"Oh...oh my God...Oh..." Danny sat up, wiping his eyes and letting out one last chuckle that doubled as a sigh. "That's rich, mate. That's rich."
"And it's entirely true. You don't have to believe me."
That sobered him up. Marek was giving him a hard look now, and Danny felt the humor in the situation die almost instantly.
"The Lord has plans for me. He guided me and that boy out of that ditch and kept us safe," he continued. "They say in order to speak to an equal, an Irishman must talk to God, but it's more than that. It's...I don't know how to properly explain it...it's like when you're a kid, and you've just fallen and scraped your knee, and you're crying and you're all alone, and then suddenly your father shows up and comforts you. Like that.
"I know you lads think I'm off my rocker-"
"What? No, mate, it's not like that-"
"Danny, mate, I'm not stupid. I know everyone talks about me. And you know what? It never bothers me. I've got the Father on my side, our side, and He talks to me every day. He lets me know I'm not alone. He talks to me and I don't feel afraid anymore, because He's right there with me."
It was a eye-opening revelation that was made, Danny realized as he thought about the conversation for the rest of their lookout. Marek had always shown a considerable amount of courage during fights, and he always felt it was due to his psychosis with the God thing...but that was not entirely it, was it? The Lord did work in mysterious ways, if Finn's ramblings were to be taken seriously. Maybe someone really had spoken to him in that hole, as crazy as it sounded. Maybe someone was looking out for him, and hopefully all of them, for that matter.
Danny recalled when his uncle died, a man of the cloth, dying of a tumor at only forty-five. He remembered the funeral; almost half the town had shown up to pay their respects. He remembered the priest going on about how he was a servant of God and how he was now going to be taken care of by Him for the rest of eternity...but how could that be, Danny remembered thinking, when He had let him die at forty-fucking-five of a damn tumor? Why could He not have been watching out for him on earth? Was the purpose of life to just be ignored by Him until He decided to take them to Heaven or send them to Hell?
That had not made any sense to him at the time, but Marek's talk had brought those thoughts back. Did God watch out for them? If so, did He choose who He appeared to, or was it just those in most desperate need? Or was there something about Marek, about the plight he was in, that made Him decide how to choose His next disciple?
Maybe he had been wrong about Marek. He was nuttier than a box of frogs, but just because he spoke to the sky did not make him any less human than the next man, did it? No, he thought, it did not. Marek was still one of them, and a damn good one at that. And if some divine power was indeed on his side, then maybe getting on his good side would be beneficial to the rest of the company, and to himself.
The sun was on the sinking side of the sky, not quite down enough to cause the sky to begin its change of color but enough so that the sun was out of their faces and that was greatly appreciated. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a Twix bar. He took one piece and bit half of it off, then took the other piece and passed it to his partner, who took it gratefully.
"Alright," Grimes reported, looking at the map. "Captain say that the French have the left flank area locked tight, and the Russians have the right flank secured. Weber and Riley have a nice dugout to our rear. No defenses have reported any troubles thus far. Anything from us?"
"Morrison's patrol should be coming back soon. We'll know for sure then. Otherwise, you'd never know anyone was after us," Pratt replied.
Grimes felt oddly out of place, being in a noncom meeting with Pratt, Ryan, and Carter. Weirder still to be heading the meeting, but there he was. For what it was worth, none of the staff sergeants looked at him with envious or resentful eyes at him having moved up. He had to constantly remind himself that these men were the leaders of the company, not the followers; they had jobs to do, and they could not afford to let any personal strife, however big or however small, get in the way of that.
He glanced over again at where Archie's group was situated, where they were once again ordering a round of homemade swill, probably their third. The sight of it still made him feel nauseous. After he was done with duties as a regular sergeant, he used to stop by Archie's tent and grab a drink himself, with no problems other than the occasional lecture from Evansmann. He had always considered himself one of the guys; now he felt like an outsider.
Ryan follwed his friend's gaze to the group and then looked over at Carter, who stood straight with his arms folded and was shaking his head. He bent over the makeshift table.
"Grimesy," he called, re-grasping the sergeant major's attention. "Do you know the meaning of what the senior noncoms like to call, 'The Jester Sergeant?'"
"Um...no-"
"It's a term we give to an officer or sergeant that cares more about making and keeping friends and keeping them all pleased than he does doing his job. And that's a dangerous person to have around, and you know why? Because he doesn't lead efficiently, and when men start getting killed, he takes it to heart and head, and then he makes MORE mistakes, and MORE lives are lost, wash, rinse, repeat. And you cannot let that happen to you."
"Yeah, mate, it's not a good choice for you," Carter added. "These men are going to be looking to you to LEAD them, not necessarily be their friend. You can be on their side or you can be on the officer's side, but one way or another, you've got to show them who wears the pants in this relationship."
"I know, I know...it's just the adjustment, you know? I'll be fine..."
"It'll work out, mate," Pratt walked over and patted his back. "You just do your job, make sure we all do ours, and your friends- your REAL friends- will always have your back."
Grimes smiled and nodded. These guys knew how to keep that line straight between professional and friendship. He would have to learn from them if he was going to do the same.
"And just what is going on over here?" A voice suddenly rang out, causing all four of their heads to turn.
"Oh, shit," Carter groaned, eyes closing.
Hunter had finally caught on to Archie's business. The four enlisted men immediately jumped to their feet, hiding their cups behind their backs but the shocked, guilty looks on their faces gave them away to the lieutenant, who had probably been laying in wait for this opportunity to snag them.
Grimes looked over at Ryan, who nodded, then he turned and made his way over. Knowing Hunter, he was probably going to be needed.
"Just, uh...sitting out on this wonderful day, Lieutenant," Archie said, trying to keep his smile on but losing. Hunter was the only officer he could never win with. The man had a personal vendetta against him, for reasons unknown but Archie assumed it was because of his background. His skin.
"I thought I told you before, Private Simmons, that I will not tolerate you getting soldiers under the influence with your swill. ESPECIALLY when they're on duty," said Hunter, his eyes fixated on the medical bus driver.
"Well, technically, sir, we're not on a specific job today, so we figured-"
"Zip it, Ross. I'm not interested in semantics."
Grimes had an idea of what would happen if Hunter had his way. Archie would get written up, the still would be destroyed, and they would be in a world of trouble. Morale would plummet like a hawk going for its prey. It was true that Wallace never minded if they were off-duty, but technically, even if they had not been given anything to do for the day, they were still on-duty. And Hunter had significant influence. He could inflict punishment however he saw fit, and out here who would argue against him? Granted, in a combat zone, the punishment would have to wait until they got back to safe zone, but that would hang over him for the remainder of their journey, however long that would be.
"I will not have soldiers drinking when we are in the middle of a crisis," the lieutenant stated, the volume of his voice raised more for his own benefit than theirs; he loved to hear himself talk. "What if we were attacked right now, and four men are too intoxicated to handle their rifles properly? They would endanger both themselves and the rest of the company. I will not allow that."
"If you're going to bust Archie, sir, you can bust us too," said Terry, as he and Jason took a step forward to protect their friend. "It was our idea. We deserve to get flack for it too."
Tucker took a step to join them, nodding despite his obvious terror. Soldiers drinking on duty was a serious offense, but betraying their own was, in a personal sense, even more so. Archie was their supplier, but he was also their friend, and if he had to go down for this, then they went down with them.
The problem with Hunter, though, was that it did not matter to him. The man was an enemy of the people, and had no respect from anyone. Not that he cared.
"Alright, then." He turned to Grimes. "Remove this object, dispose of it, then search their tents to make sure they don't have anything else."
Grimes saw Terry, Tucker, and Jason exchange alarmed glances, then look at him with almost desperate pleading looks that told him instantly that they had something in their tent that they did not want Hunter to have. Whether it was alcohol, or it was something else, they were carrying something that they were not supposed to be carrying, and they would be in one sticky mess if it ever got discovered.
Think, Grimesy...it suddenly occurred to him that they would only get in trouble if they were legitimately intoxicated. If a soldier drank, but could still function, then it would not be a problem, right? Jason and Terry were known throughout the camp for their ability to hold their alcohol as though it were water. Tucker had had problems early on, but he was starting to get the hang of it as well. Archie rarely ever drank his own stuff, and even when he did, he was immune to its effects.
So, if he could just prove that they were still above the influence, then they should be okay.
In theory.
"Milburn, Stacker, and Ross, fall in line," he ordered, and was surprised at how calm he felt saying it; it was like he completely believed his theory, even though he really did not.
"Walk in a straight line," he told them, and they placed their hands behind their heads and walked in a straight line, one foot in front of the other. Tucker made a quick fumble, but it was so slight and was cleaned up so quickly that Grimes barely noticed, and he was certain Hunter had not seen a thing, as his face did not change expression.
"Alright, good. Now sing the British Anthem." They should know this one, even if two hailed from Ireland and Scotland.
The three sang together, off-pitch and at different volumes, but they sang like that when they were sober as well and everybody knew that. But they all, as far as he could tell, got all the words right. This one was more of a personal test of his; he had learned it from his dad, who always made his brother- Franky's uncle- recite the entire anthem as teenagers whenever the latter came home drunk.
As far as he knew, Terry was the only one who fumbled, but Grimes expected as much from him. So far, two out of three. But now it was the final test. If they passed this, they would all be in the clear.
He took Terry's G-3 and handed it to Tucker. He saw Hunter raise an eyebrow, but he tried his best to ignore it. Terry's rifle was more accurate than Tucker's shotgun, and the lad was the best choice of the three to prove the point he was trying to make. If Tucker passed, then they all passed.
He grabbed one of their cups and went and placed it about three hundred and fifty meters away on a stack of ammo boxes. The G-3A-3 was good at four hundred meters, and the iron sights by themselves were fairly accurate, good for Terry, who preferred them over a scope or a sight.
"Hit the can," he ordered.
Tucker gulped. He was an okay shot, nowhere near as bad as Doc at any rate, but being put on the spot always made him nervous. Grimes had faith in him, though, and that would have to be enough.
The Irishman took the rifle and stood with his back straight, standing so that his left side was facing the target. He slowly brought the rifle up and rested the stock comfortably against his shoulder, the sights aimed for the tin cup. He squinted his right eye and his left eye trained the sights so that they were dead on. He took a deep breath, made sure the aim was right on, and finally pulled the trigger.
The shot echoed off the sand, and everyone else in camp that had no idea what was going on immediately jumped and hit the ground, which was common for when they were under attack. When no more shots fired, a couple of the men got up and cautiously began proceeding to where they heard the shot being fired. Their anxiety quickly turned to skepticism when they saw the unscheduled target practice, looked around at each other, shrugged, and went about their regular business.
Grimes went over to the counter and picked up the knocked over can. When he examined it, he almost threw his fists in the air and did an Irish dance. The bullet had passed right through the center of the cup, in one end and out the other, leaving a neat round hole. Bad news, the cup would probably not be used for drinking anymore. Good news, this was probably the best shot Tucker had ever made.
He walked back over to them and showed them the hole. He saw the trio's faces immediately light up, and saw Hunter's brow furrowed even harder. His smile widened. He had won.
"Well, Lieutenant," he said, placing the cup in the officer's had. "It looks to me like these soldiers are still functioning fine. They have full control of motor functions and speech, movement is straight and even, their aiming is unaffected. I don't think there's any reason to punish them, other than to give them a warning and cut them off for the day before it gets any worse. That sounds reasonable, right, Private Simmons?"
"Aye," Archie nodded, his face with a look of wonder on it. Grimes had never taken charge like this before, and certainly not against an officer.
Hunter looked like he had just swallowed sour milk as he glared at the sergeant major. For some reason, Grimes did not feel like he was doing wrong. He had protected four particularly good soldiers, had proved that they were still perfectly capable of fighting. Wallace would take the cup as proof of that. The lieutenant was just angry that he had got in the way of his disciplinary action, but if it kept his people from getting into any worse trouble, then it was fine by Grimes.
"Very well, Sergeant," he said. "You made your point. Carry on." And that was it. Hunter knew he had lost, and so he was leaving before he did anything else.
Grimes turned to the men, all of whom looked at him with shock, awe, and gratitude. He smiled at them, nodded, and turned to leave when Terry called out to him.
"Oye, Sarge," he called. "When you off duty?"
"Probably not going to be," replied Grimes, turning back to them. "I'm top sergeant now, remember?"
"Well, we'll sneak you over a cup later," Jason stated. "Take it as a thank you."
The sergeant smiled. Everything was right in the world again. His confidence improved greatly as he finally began to believe that he could do this job just fine. He could find the balance between men and officer and still be close to the guys. Hunter may not be on his side, but when was he ever? As long as the men were on his side, he could find a way.
He had to remember that Price was a lot smarter than he was. The man had been right, after all.
From their position around the mapping crate, the three platoon sergeants watched the exchange commence. As Grimes walked off, Carter turned to Ryan.
"Think he's good?" he asked.
Ryan nodded, cracking a toothy grin. "I think he'll do just fine."
"He's a natural, aye?" Pratt replied, looking between the two.
"Wouldn't go that far, but he's getting his shit together."
"Right." Ryan turned back to the map. "Let's get back to our work."
The sergeants commanded the respect of the men, probably more so than the officers. Those who had been in the job longest were considered gods. But there was always a risk when someone stepped into that gap between enlisted and officer, and so everyone tiptoed lightly around it, to see how it would play out. Sometimes, it went poorly. But with the proper coaxing and guidance, the individual could go on to be just the sort of leader the men needed.
Danny sat down on his crate by the fire and watched as Morrison's patrol returned to camp. Moments later, Matthews came over and sat down next to him, his SAW placed down gently and his pack dropped like a sack of rocks. He lay back against it and let out a groan, closing his eyes.
"Did you find anything?" asked Danny, as he placed a marshmallow on a stick and held it over the fire.
"Nothing," came the reply. "Just sand, sand, and a little poppy seed patch. Someone was growing opium, though shits if I know what happened to the owner. Maybe he split during the fighting. Otherwise, boring just about describes it."
"Well, that's the best kind of patrol, the boring ones."
"I suppose. But it still sucked the big one." Matthews cracked an eye open. "How was OP with Marek? Did he drive you insane?"
Danny looked over to where Marek was sitting by himself, eating silently. The thoughts that were stirred during their conversation were still very much fresh in his mind. It was not so much the talking to God that he respected now, it was just the faith that he put into that relationship. His mother had told him once when he was little- maybe around the time his uncle had died?- that it took real courage to have faith in dark times. Marek had faith all the time; Danny had to wonder how much courage that took.
"Not really," he said. "We talked. I asked about the God thing, when it started for him and all that. It opened my eyes a bit; made me realize what he really was."
"...Psychotic?"
He laughed. "Human."
"Well, shit, man." Matthews sat up. "Don't tell me YOU'RE going to start yelling at the clouds now."
"No, but I'll do something else." Danny looked back over. "Oye, Marek! Come sit with us!"
"What?" Matthews looked from Danny to Marek, the latter of whom was grabbing his stuff and making his way over. "Danny, mate, I have enough of a headache today, I can't put up with the divine comedy right now-"
"Hush up and be nice." For once Danny threw a glare at his friend. "He's one of us. It's time we started treating him as such."
Marek flopped down on the sand next to them, his gear resting beside him, with a large smile on his face.
"Top of the evening, Kevin," he greeted the machine-gunner. "Patrol go well?"
"Um..." Matthews threw a look at his friend before turning back to the Irishman. "Well enough. Found an opium field, couldn't bring any back...shame, probably could've made some money off it back home...oh, shit, I probably shouldn't say that around you, should I? What with you having tea with the Lord and all..."
His ramblings were cut off as Danny and Marek began laughing. He looked from one to the other and then looked to the sky, wondering if this was his punishment for not receiving Marek sooner. Danny just handed him a marshmallow, then handed one to Marek, and popped his roasted treat into his mouth.
And from that point onward, Patrick Marek became their friend and companion. There were many situations in the world that you could not walk away from without befriending the people who went through it with you, and being stranded in a desert, cut off and surrounded by the enemy, was one of them.
I know this ending is reminiscent of that from Sorcerer's Stone, but I found it a fitting one, given the circumstances.
Not the best chapter in the story, but I'm satisfied with how it turned out. Do let me know your thoughts, and if I messed anything up.
As always, review, favorite, whatever meets your fancy, and I'll see you next time.