Chapter 7
I despised the way he sauntered amongst them like a presidential candidate in one of those campaign ads. It was like he'd gotten away with it, but he neglected to think that maybe his punishment would come later down the line. I'd been too busy organising Smyth's trip to the nearest hospital to deal with the little prick. If his mission was to piss me off, then damn, he'd sure done it like a pro.
So we were a man down for the rest of the training, and if the cocksucker was gonna spend the rest of the exercise flaunting around like he'd achieved something, it might as well have been two.
And I sure wasn't the only one. Despite Smyth's clumsiness and his awkwardness, he wasn't disliked by anybody other than Hutton. Not even the stupider of the squad was buying into his bullshit, and I was worried that it would lead to another hospital appointment. Maybe I'd be the one to send him, because for sure I so sorely wanted to.
Now I had to trust him, as well as the others, to improve on yesterday's embarrassment. We were posted beside a small street that was made to look like some back alley somewhere in the Middle East. We'd been alerted that there was terrorist activity in the area, and that they were pushing to take control. There were innocents there, wearing baseball caps and bright shirts so that they could be recognised. My guys were waiting for a signal beside a couple armored trucks.
I was with Randall again. Father had his own work to do, and I was thankful for that. I didn't want him to know what had happened, even though he'd probably already found out. Things spread quickly in these places.
Randall didn't waste time in telling me just what kinda shit I'd gotten myself into. He was empathetic, but he was always a stern fucker and I expected a few mocking and truthful words. He kept his eyed glued to the troops the entire time, like he was expecting something to happen again.
"Now I hate to sound like I'm repeatin' myself," He grunted. "But I've seen fancy little boys like that Hutton before. Prance around like they own shit. You think you can change 'em, but all you can do is wrap 'em up in a ribbon and perfume and hope they still don't look and smell like a pile-a shit, and that particular pile-a shit is gonna need a helluva ribbon and a river of perfume."
I asked him, "Have you ever had one like him?"
"You know I have," He said. "I coulda strangled that boy until his eyes went blue. Now I know you wanna do that, too."
"I don't want him in my squad, Staff Sergeant," I told him truthfully. "If somebody pummels the living shit outta one of his own men, then I don't think he should be anywhere other than a rusty cell."
There was the guttural growling of a motor vehicle emerging over the still air from behind us. We both watched as the truck rolled down the dusty road to our position, the sunlight ricocheting cruelly from the shuddering windscreen. It parked up against a shallow bank a short distance behind us, and the first door opened to a smiling, laughing Sergeant who must have just heard some funny joke.
"Get ready for an earful, Colin," Randall warned me. "The Command Sergeant Major's interested in your unit. It ain't hard to figure out why."
"What's he like?" I asked, fearing the worst.
"Hard. And fair." Randall replied. "Just don't stare at him too long. He doesn't like that."
"I was taught to stare when somebody's talkin' at you."
Randall looked down at me over a broad shoulder. "Now's the time to disregard that lesson."
The Command Sergeant Major stepped out from the truck on sturdy, worn boots. Unlike the Sergeant, and a First Sergeant that had also joined them, he wasn't laughing. He didn't look like he was in a laughing mood. His mouth was shut tightly, a flat set of lips refusing to unburden whatever emotion he may have had. He had the solid body of a journeyed veteran, not so big as Staff Sergeant Randall but just as intimidating, if not more with the cunningness that spat out from him. He glanced to us, and then back to his escorts, and then to us again as they indicated their readiness.
I firmed up my stance and got ready. As did Randall. When the CSM was close enough, I offered my best salute, and followed Randall in calling, "Good morning, Sergeant Major!"
He accepted my salute in the regulated fashion, and then adjusted the cap tighter over his eyes. "Good morning, gentlemen. Mighty fine day for your training."
"Mighty fine, Sergeant Major." I agreed.
"Sergeant Santorelli, correct?" He asked of me.
"Yes, Sergeant Major." I replied.
"Yeah," He mumbled. "I've heard about you and your boys. I've heard that they've been causing us some trouble. Heard one of them is down in Barnstow Hospital."
"Private Agnes Smyth, Sergeant Major." I confirmed with a nod.
"Unfortunate name for an unfortunate man," The CSM said gravely. "I'll be paying him a visit later this afternoon. Now, might I ask how this incident occurred?"
"Yes, Sergeant Major. The incid-"
"Enough with the titles." He huffed with a hand-wave.
I bit my lip, and then continued. "The incident happened last night as the squad finished their exercises. A fight broke out between Private Smyth and Private Hutton. Private Hutton got the better of him."
The CSM kicked at the dirt and breathed heavily. "And where is Private Hutton now?"
I swivelled to allow him sight of the squad. "Down there, waiting for the next training exercise."
"And what do you suggest we do with him?"
I paused to consider my answer. Those Privates weren't the only ones being trained. "Disciplinary action."
"What disciplinary actions?"
"Article 15 hearing," I said. "I'll make a report to my Second Lieutenant and he can decide on the punishment."
"I'm not asking him. I'm asking you."
I paused again. "Extra-duties. Thirty days."
His facial explanation – or lack thereof – was unchanged. "Thirty days extra duty for sending a fellow soldier to the hospital. Might I ask why they were fighting?"
"Chocolate brownie." I answered.
He was watching me curiously. I realised that I'd been staring into his eyes for a while, and looked down to the ground, heeding Randall's words.
"Chocolate brownie…" CSM repeated disapprovingly.
"Musta been the straw that broke the camel's back," I added. "They really don't get along. They were at each other all day. Just no punches."
"So you're saying that they showed signs of this before the fists went flying?"
I looked into his eyes again. "I didn't think it would get physical, Sergeant Major."
He allowed that line of talk to end and nodded. I could feel his frustration. "Thirty days extra duties… Who's your Second Lieutenant, Sergeant Santorelli?"
"Second Lieutenant Peter Buck." I said.
"Bucky. I'll pay him a visit. See what he thinks about this Private Hutton," He stepped forwards to come alongside me, watching over the lounging squad. "I want to see them in action. Who's in charge of the exercise?"
"Private Southern," I told him. "He's got the red band on his right arm."
It was difficult to tell them all apart, what with them being in full kit. They all had matching helmets and empty Carbines, with only small features helpful in telling them apart. Ake and Olatunde were easy, being black and all, but they wouldn't have been of concern to the CSM.
"And which one is Hutton?"
"The one nearest to the village." I said.
CSM scanned over the squad, not that there was much to see. He probably saw a lot more than I did, though. "Let's see them in action."
Randall lifted a radio to his hammer-like nose and spoke quiet words into it. In a moment, there would be gunfire from the village, and the villagers would be sent into a panic.
I had my eyes on Southern. This would be his first opportunity in the NTC to show off whatever leadership skills he'd managed to lick off of an untold number of officers' boots. After all their basic training, and after Ranger School, they would be expected to perform to the greatest standard. Anything below that, and they were in for Randall's wrath.
The gunshots were fired. There were screams of women and the yelps of men. The villagers I could see were rushing into the nearest shelters. Those shelters were darkened on the inside, filled with obstacles and noises.
The squad perked up immediately, and heads turned to Southern who didn't delay in thrusting out some quick battle orders. He split them into three groups and pointed out for them entrance points. From what I could tell, he was going to sweep from one end to the other. It was simple, and it could work.
They moved out, with barely seconds having passed since the gun blast were heard. It was snappy, and it was good, but the basics wouldn't be what impressed the CSM.
They needed to impress. I needed to impress. If we'd already developed a negative reputation among the officers this early on, we needed to go above and beyond to repair it.
The squad breached the village, their close-knit clusters seeming alert enough. They checked the flanks, checked behind and above. Before they could disappear behind the building, the CSM wandered down the shallow bank towards them. He was keen to keep a close eye, and Southern would be the obvious target. Leaving his escorts behind, Randall and I followed the boss into the line of false buildings, where we could see Southern's small group advancing cautiously. They took note of us, but continued as if we were invisible.
"They're a bit slow…" CSM commented so that Randall and I could hear.
"A little insurgency action would liven them up, I think." Randall suggested.
Our casual stroll took us past one of the larger complexes of the village, which was meant to impersonate a church. There were three actresses peeking fearfully out of the door, watching Southern's group as they passed. When we reached them, the CSM stopped us and called over one of the women. She broke character and jogged to his call. Keeping his voice low, he spoke close to her ear, and she nodded frequently. When he was done, she skipped away, disappearing down a dusty alleyway, abandoning her previous post.
Randall asked the CSM when he was done, "What did you send her off to?"
He smiled lightly, almost cruelly. "She's got a bombed strapped around her waist."
Randall chuckled and looked to me. "Think they can deal with that, Santorelli?"
"They've dealt with terrorist with bombs," I said. "Not sure about civilians."
The squad was progressing through the street with nothing in their way. They remained on high alert, as they'd been trained, but I worried about how they would deal with the CSM's monkey wrench, and whether the battle orders would fly outta the window.
The actress had made her way to the opposite end of the long street. She exited a faraway building and stood directly in front of the advancing soldiers, and on her clothing she'd acquired a thick band around her waist, black and distinct against her lime-green shirt. She cried out in horror and panic, and started to run straight at the soldiers.
Ake shouted, the first to see the oncoming civilian. "Don't move! Don't move!" He pulled up his Carbine and took a readied stance. Southern and Turnbull swivelled to join him.
"Don't come any closer!" Southern yelled to her.
But a panicked civilian isn't easy to control. She slowed down in her approach, but tearfullly she cried out to them in muddled, broken English that they would struggle to understand. She continued at a walking pace, and that was prompting some panic from the soldiers.
"US Army!" Southern bellowed. "Stop your approach or we will fire!"
"She's a fucking civilian!" Turnbull thought to mention.
Southern was conflicted, and he looked to the other two as if for guidance. He was hesitant. He lifted his radio twitchily to his mouth. "All units on Route Bravo. Repeat: all units on Route Bravo."
The actress was doing a good job as the distressed villager. She was still approaching, barely meters from them. They started to edge backwards, unsure at first of how to deal with the situation. Her hands were clutching at either side of the band around her waist that posed as the bomb, and Southern finally caught on.
"IED! IED!" He screeched in the breaking voice of a man barely past puberty's finish line. The call moved them all backwards a few paces, and lifted the barrels of their rifles a couple inches higher. "Don't move!"
The actress finally stopped. Her voice was merely a sorry whimper as she pleaded them for help in a language they couldn't wrap their tiny brains around. Another civilian – a guy in a torn blue vest – came from the church just behind us, waving his arms frantically in the air. He called out, louder than the soldiers were yelling at the IED-strapped woman. Loud enough that all three of them turned simultaneously, rifles poised to unload.
"Save her!" The actor demanded in a convincing Hajji accent. "Why are you not saving her?!"
Turnbull lowered his weapon enough to not appear threatening to the man. "Stay back! US Army!" The actor raised his hands defensively and froze in place.
They were keeping it under control, even if it seemed frantic and indecisive. Moves would have to be made very quickly if it wasn't to erupt further. It couldn't have been long before an insurgent reared their ugly block.
From behind a small dwelling, the second of the small groups appeared, charging into the street with urgency. Hutton, Olatunde and Holder, rifles poised for an attack. They had no idea what they were stepping into. Southern hadn't informed them.
"Get down on the ground!" Hutton blasted to the IED-strapped woman. "Get down now!"
The woman panicked, now flanked by the new, aggressive group. She whined loudly and threw herself down obediently. She hit the ground with a thump!
I heard Randall chuckle abruptly. "Stupid little prick…" Then, he called out for them all to hear. "On the dust, Hutton! You've been caught in the blast!"
There was confusion amongst them, and they looked to each other for some reassurance. Hutton held a frustrated grimace across his face, like somebody had pissed on his boots. Even he, though, wouldn't answer back to club-hand Randall. He sighed angrily and roughly dropped down onto the sand.
The actor who'd demanded the rescue of the woman was in hysterics. He shouted and screamed, no longer standing back at Turnbull's order. He pushed Turnbull roughly in the chest, who in turn stood his ground and raised his rifle again. "I said stay back! Stay back you piece-a shit!"
Seeing his task quickly taking a downturn, Southern made his thoughts clear. "Hutton you fuckin' idiot! Why the fuck did you do that?!"
Olatunder and Holder were tending to Hutton while he was on the ground. Hutton wasn't going to let Southern's words go unanswered, though. "You didn't tell me what the fuck was goin' on, jackass!"
Southern stormed forward, prompting Hutton to jumped up defensively. "You'll be lucky if I don't knock your block off, cunt!"
It was rapidly going out of hand. Olatunde was trying to sandwich himself between the pair, but the red mist was descending faster than it could be blown off. Randall saw it, too, and he was already running over to intercept.
I was about ready to make myself known, but words from the CSM held me in place. "Stay here, Sergeant."
Randall's enormous frame barged between the pair, and he unleashed a rage that almost sent them physically flying apart. Hutton was told to get back to the ground, but in a fit of anger he tore off his helmet and launched it against the closest wall. He was ordered to pick it up and carry on, and though he did, all motivation was sapped. The team morale –what there was of it – was gone. Randall stood amongst them as they continued, a warning statue to maintain order.
When I finally glanced back to the CSM, I noticed that his watchful eyes had looked away. His interest was gone, as had our chance to impress. I tried to find the right words, but there was nothing that could be said.
"This isn't what I expect from a trained unit." He said bluntly.
"No, Sergeant Major." I agreed.
"How long have you been in command of this pack of mindless apes, Sergeant?"
"Seven months." I answered.
He nodded and folded his arms over his chest. "You understand how much this disgraces the NTC, right? If it disgraces the NTC, it disgraces the nation. If it disgraces the nation, it disgraces me. I don't like to be disgraced, Sergeant."
"Understood, Sergeant Major."
"I'll give you a month," He said. "Thirty days, same amount of time your man Hutton is on extra duties. I will assess your men again, and by then I want to see improvement. Is that clear, Sergeant?"
"Clear, Sergeant Major!"
"I want these oxygen thieves to shine brighter than a pin-up's ass."
"Oh, they'll shine bright, Sergeant Major."
He finally looked back to me. "It's clear to me that your men get along like rabid raccoons in a leather sack. There's an outpost just north of the base, like some camp with a shack. There's a darts board, snooker table. Even a couple drinks locked up in storage. We use that place for unit welfare, just to give the troops some downtime. You'll take your men up there tonight and tomorrow. These cogs need a little grease."
"Agreed."
"I'll get Sergeant Colson to hand you the keys and co-ords," He said. "And you'll straighten them out, Sergeant. You're on our radar now, and that's somewhere you don't want to be."
