Chapter XI
"The battle"
That night I don't think any of us went to sleep right away, even as tired as some of us were. Still, even though we were awake, no one spoke. No one even murmured to their bunk mates. Not a word would break the silence of the barracks, not even the far off hum of the generators on the roof. In the place of these regular sounds, was eerie, dead silence. Only the occasional cough or sniffle from one of the men would break the quiet.
I decide to break it myself, even though I know I should encourage the men to sleep rather than talk. " Yankee doodle came to town riding on a pony..." As I keep singing, some of the guys begin to sing with me. "He stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni.
Father and I went down to camp, Along with Captain Goodin', And there we saw the men and boys, As thick as hasty pudding.
Yankee Doodle, keep it up, Yankee Doodle dandy,
Mind the music and the step,And with the girls be handy.
And there they'd fife away like fun, And play on cornstalk fiddles, And some had ribbons red as blood, All bound around their middles.
There was Captain Washington Upon a slapping stallion, A-giving orders to his men, I guess there was a million.
We saw a little barrel, too, The heads were made of leather; They knocked upon it with little clubs, And called the folks together.
And then we saw a swamping gun, Large as a log of maple; Upon a deuced little cart, A load for father's cattle.
And every time they shoot it off, It takes a horn of powder; It makes a noise like father's gun,Only a nation louder.
It scared me so I hooked it off, Nor stopped, as I remember, Nor turned about till I got home, Locked up in mother's chamber."
The sound fades away after the last lyric, and the barracks resumes its previous silence. Honestly, I didn't think anyone actually knew the whole lyrics of the song. Even myself, but apparently these men did. It was a good morale boost, even for me. With my spirits high, I pull my covers tight against myself and utter one last sentence before drifting off into a deep sleep. "We can do this." I was entirely sure now, with no doubts about it.
The sound of the pre-set alarm wails throughout the facility, waking us all up from our beloved sleep. None of us complain though, instead we move swiftly to dress and get our gear on. I wait to do that though, and walk around to assist the sleepy soldiers in getting their gear on correctly. Zippers zip, buttons snap in place, and velcro pockets filled with ammo shut with a scratch. After all the men have their gear on, I go about getting ready myself. I change out of my night clothes into a pair of sharp black combat suit pants. They fit nicely, not to tight but not to loose. Next comes a white undershirt, tucked into my pants, then a black overshirt. Even though I had my suit pants on, I would be geared in a combat uniform.
Over my black shirt went my vest, filled with ammo and supplies. I lift it over my head and onto my shoulders, feeling the burden of pockets full of magazines. I tie the strings around me tightly, as this vest holds the only thing keeping my enemy and me apart. Next, I wrap my utility belt around my waist. Grenades clink together as I tighten the straps, squeezing my waist tightly. Finally, I throw my pack over my shoulders, and grab my rifle from the bedpost. I then bend down to tie my boots, still the old beaten and battered leather combat boots that I've had since the start of the war. The laces are coated in dirt and dried mud, and the leather is scratched from weeks of hard work.
I stand up, and walk down the center of the barracks. The men report to the end of their beds, standing at attention. The rest of the officers line up at the doorway to the barracks, awaiting my orders. "Is everybody ready?" I ask. "If you're not, you'd better get ready." A few men wriggle around or bend over to tie their boots. After all men are standing at attention once again, I speak. "Alright men, in your bags are your mission forms. You each have been assigned to a company. Within those companies are squads. Each squad has been assigned a truck, at my command you will go to your assigned truck and wait. Let's go to breakfast."
Breakfast wasn't much today, as a heavy meal would spell disaster for mobile troops. We ate meals of Spam in a can, and a small ration of eggs. I quickly finished mine, and walked toward the door. "Keep the men in here for now, I'm gonna go check on our pilots." I say to an officer at the door. "Yes sir." He says between bites.
Outside, the morning crew is hard at work rigging up the planes to the winch. First up was the cropduster, or ISA One as it was codenamed. Slowly the winch dragged it up the hill, until it reached the very top. Another man then ran up and attached the slingshot cable to the rear hook, and put chocks under the wheels. "Let's get these engines going!" One of the men yells to the pilot.
The old engine sputters to life, heavy clouds of smoke escaping from the exhaust pipes. It dissipates into the sky and the engine rumbles at a low RPM, its propeller kicking up the sand around the plane. After a few minutes of running and checking for leaks, the engine is turned off. After a bit of tuning in the carburetor, they fire the engine again.
"Come in Ground control, this is ISA One performing radio check, over." "Roger that, ISA One, Ground Control copies." "10-4 Ground Control, requesting permission to launch." The radioman looks at me for approval, to which I look at the wall clock. It ticks slowly until finally reaching 9:00 am. "Go for it." I say to him. "Roger that ISA One, you have permission to launch." "Roger that ground, beginning launching process."
The engine roars at its maximum, and pulls at the winch strap. "Ready?" The pilot yells to the ground men. "Ready on you." One of them says. "Three! Two! One! Let it go!" He yells. In an instant the cable is released and the plane vaults down the beach, propelled by gravity, its own engine, and the slingshot. It tears down the beach at an alarming speed, and hits the ramp.
The wheels leave the contact with the ground, and the plane pulls up into the sky. The radio comes alive "This is ISA One, we have takeoff." Cheers from all around fill the sky,and the next plane begins its journey to the top of the hill by winch. "ISA Two to ground control, come in ground control." "Roger that ISA Two, Ground control copies." "This is ISA Two requesting permission to launch, over." "Copy that ISA Two, you have permission to launch." "Roger that, beginning launching process." Again the engine roars, and strains the winch cable holding it to the wall. This plane has more power though, and the concrete flexes with the power being presented onto it. Heaving and moaning, the winch strap releases and sends the plane down the beach and into the air. Soon after follows the rest of the fleet, until all of the planes are flying over the facility, awaiting further orders.
