Trouble on the Home Front "Line"
After the radiation incident, and the return to normal, things didn't go completely to normal. When the Legion blocked us off in the west, a lot of the raiders remained. Most of the incidents were thwarted by a patrol from Helios, but caravans without sufficient protection were hit hard. It was also in this time that a new CDL punishment was added; Supply runs.
I was actually there for the incident that set that off.
Off the line, my day job was guard duty at the western trail head section 3. Our little team was only three strong, and we knew to expect an incoming supply team from the reserve company that was sent in the night. Going to Helios at midnight, it wasn't long after morning chow that they'd come in. Waiting at our post, and dreading the moment the sun finally rose over the tall eastern mountains, they came in… or so I thought.
I was the first one to see the escort round a wall of the trail. So, I shouted my prod for the new identity phrase in my jovial way despised by the camp mopers, and frowned upon by NCOs, "Gimme a J!..."
Expecting the "J!" I heard my squad buddy mutter in a dead tone attempting joy "Gimme a U."
The distant escort didn't give me a "J" or a "U". My own fun way of asking the new security phrase spelled out "J-U-N-K" and then the phrase was met by the incoming party "Junktown Janice!"
Again, none of that happened.
Figuring the supply escort was just in a pissy mood, I still had to ask the question. So, I shouted seriously, "What is the pass phrase!?"
No reply, the trooper escort stopped, and my buds stood up perplexed. After a silence, the trooper at the head shouted back, "We're good! It's Sergeant Thompson coming in!"
My pal, PFC Green counted the supply runners to himself and asked our guard group, "How many were in last night's supply crew? I'm counting three right now…"
He paused for a minute, and then shouted at the supply escorts, "Take any hits out there, fellas!?"
The distant head of the escort responded, "Yeah! Had to turn Private Steven's body in with Helios!"
There was no use shouting with the supply boys. Orders were orders, and I prodded for the pass phrase again, "Who you wanna bang back home!?"
The distant escort shouted, "What!?... Look, Elliot is wounded…"
Everyone in camp knew the pass phrase for any kind of patrol or team that enters the camp. The answer was simply "Junktown Janice" and took two seconds to shout. I even heard about a guy who collapsed from heat stroke within sight of a guard post who managed to shout it out. Clearly something was up. My guard group was thinking the same thing, and we climbed over the sandbags with weapons drawn.
PFC Green shouted on approach, "Get on your knees right now!"
The head of the escort stayed put as we got closer and shouted, "Look, do we gotta do this right-… You know? *Profanity* it."
Like lightning, the other two "Troopers" unslung their rifles, and attempted to fire. One shot and no more. Their service rifles probably jammed (Don't ever steal a rifle from a Forlorn Hope squad, it'll be more dangerous to you than your target). Either way, the hostile troopers were almost immediately hit by our group in the second long panic.
I however, accidentally pulled both triggers on the stupid shotgun they gave me, and had no idea if I hit one or if I was always aiming at the sky. The dust clouded the short distance between us, and the thudding of footsteps was heard. Through the distorted mix of gun smoke and dust, I saw the head of the escort running at Green. Reflexively, I threw myself into the hostile man dressed in trooper fatigues, knocking both of us to the ground. On top of the cretin, and unsure exactly what was happening, I felt another person get added to the dog pile.
I heard PFC Harper shout, "Put down the weap-!" but was cut off.
Blinded by the dust, and disoriented by my pounce, I felt a splash across my face. We collected ourselves. If the troopers' refusal to give the password or their sudden hostilities didn't say they were Legion spies, the open throat of the guy I tackled did… Anyway, at least these legionaries were nice enough to bring in the supplies. And not rigged with C-4 either? How considerate.
The three disguised legionaries were revealed to be killed in the scuffle. The other two were killed by our group's guns, but the legionary pretending to be "Sergeant Thompson" had clearly killed himself. The conflict was short, only Green was wounded, and not from the faulty service weapons turned against us. During the fight and after tackling the last one, I couldn't see, but the guy was flailing a machete around trying to hit me when Green added himself to the pile. The wild machete slashed his arm good before Harper could get his bearing and I was still struggling to see the man I slammed into. After it was all over, and more troopers came to give assistance, we saw to Green's injury.
His injury wasn't too bad, but still needed to be tied off. That would've been the end of it if we didn't study the weapon that gave him the wound. Legion tends to do this often, and I should have mentioned it earlier, but the machete that opened Green's arm was a rusty and bloody mess that was dipped in some kind of fecal matter (human or animal was irrelevant). After seeing the weapon, we got some guys from the reserve to man the post as me and Harper took Green to the doc. Legion definitely had a habit of making us suffer even if we ultimately won. Green got to keep his arm, thankfully, but others who'd been hit by those disgusting legionary service weapons weren't as lucky.
Anyway, that was the end of the regular supply teams, and the beginning of a new camp punishment.
Most of Forlorn Hope's supplies came to us in the past from places like McCarran or Helios, making the occasional supply mission from within the camp a unique opportunity. There hadn't been too many supply teams sent out before that one my leave group met with. So, those given the supply runner job in the past saw that as their own little vacation away from Forlorn Hope. Not anymore. With the Legion taking advantage of our crippled and exposed west, the folks at Nelson saw a new way to make our lives Heck. Still not shy of nighttime raids, they put real focus on cutting our dwindling supplies.
Even though getting supplies was dangerous, the Legion fully expected a large group to give protection to a supply train. That'd leave the no man's exposed for a rush, and thus came the punishment aspect.
Quartermaster Mayes was in charge of the HQ company's logistics boys and camp supplies. He was a pretty nice guy, so some of the fellas felt bad for him when he was ordered to create the rosters for supply runs from names on the MP Cat's Paw. Somehow the camp vets felt more bad for him than the guys put on the job. I guess attitude and fairness generates more sympathy than those getting drafted onto a dangerous job. Anyway...
On a supply run, you'd have probably a 50/50 chance of coming back. Though the supplies did come in sometimes even if they were hit, you were almost considered good as dead if you left, and all guns had to keep focusing on Nelson in case of something funny. They knew we could repel any attack from the south, but any supply runners that came back wouldn't be enough, and apparently word from McCarran said they were tied up with their own raider problems. Little Lord Caesar had us right where he wanted us… Maybe.
Why didn't troopers on supply runs escape Forlorn Hope by desertion? No idea. Maybe some of those who planned to, got killed on the way out. Maybe it was patriotism. Maybe it was a sense of duty to us at camp. Maybe they knew they'd be found by a road patrol. I couldn't tell you why, or even if supply runner desertions were reported. All I can say is that supplies did come back on occasion, and nobody talked about why, not even those who made it back. Ammo and decent food being the most lacked supplies, the order to "Send'em Out!" was called less and less as the days, weeks, months, years, or however long went by.
Operational service, battle, and sharpshooter hunting rifles were almost solely reserved or saved for the Raid squads and patrols of the western canyons by this point. Guard posts were trained in those terrible yet somehow sturdier shotguns, and a few veteran rangers from Hoover came down to teach some of their skills.
Why didn't we get supplies from Hoover, you ask? It's because they apparently didn't have the rations or ammo to spare. Despite the replenishment troopers who came from there, the armories and food stores were "Officially" empty. Word from those Hoover boys talk about overflowing armories and waterfalls of bullets, but the commanders there deemed those supplies essential. They were the prime target for the Legion, but they didn't seem to see the kind of regular action we did. I don't know what to make of the situation over there, and things were bad at Forlorn, but the addition of those rangers seemed pretty helpful.
Even though things were especially bleak at Forlorn Hope, I always prided myself on making the best of terribleness. Maybe I inherited that from my parents, or my adopted parents, but either way, I knew how to smile when I cooked rat or ant meat… I even brought out my inner chef.
Things weren't so bad that we were forced to eat ants and rats, but meat was removed from our already meager diets to be replaced by a surplus of local vegetables and 200 year old beans. The rats and ants were just something more. Lots of troopers regretted giving away their issued cooking cans in exchange for cigarettes, but I kept mine. No longer were the days of pitting mutated scorpions and ants against each other, troopers get hungry. Keeping some spare beans from chow, throw them into your cup with water, toss in some good bits of ant, maybe sprinkle a touch of vegetables and juice, heat over a fire (Or let sit in the sun), and you got a decent snack for the Observation line or your off line duty.
So, when we weren't doing the usual thing between sending warning shots at Legion scouts, or improvising with rat and ant recipes, certain periods in the day had squads get called to the HQ end. Those rangers from Hoover taught hand to hand combat drills to different squads of the companies throughout the regular shifts. I thought those were fun, and wondered if command did this for legitimate purposes, or for morale.
We learned new moves for taking people down (Although that was my apparent specialty), and defenses and offenses and all that jazz. Since the Legion preferred fighting up close, and most troopers only really knew how to thrust a bayonet, this new knowledge was pretty essential. I wondered why they didn't teach us this sooner, but I figured it had something to do with the ammo shortages, and how most of us were using those awful over under shotguns. That didn't account for the Raid squads and former 100 Yard boys that had always met with the Legion regularly.
A little side bit of knowledge from the rangers was also the making of improvised explosives. This was surprising when sparring and learning the different kinds of punches or takedowns turned into making bombs or fuses with a few shell casings, a tin can, a paperclip, and brahmin excrement. I couldn't quite figure out how to make the homemade bombs, but could figure out the fire bottles pretty easily. If supply didn't have enough grenades for some big fiasco, I could at least throw a glass bottle full of generator fuel with a lighted boot lace fuse if I had to. Either way, I understood the hand to hand drills, but couldn't quite figure out the reason for the explosives. I couldn't tell you if we were preparing for some big desperate defense, offense, or if this was just another mandatory morale activity. Perhaps it was a bit of all of those.
There were always rangers at Forlorn Hope since it became the front line, but the new rangers started ticking a few troopers off. Days on the line, protecting the camp, running patrols, and fending off attacks seemed sorta upsetting compared to the new rangers and their "Being there." The issue wasn't in their demeanor since most rangers were really humble, but it was because people started to really notice how they always seemed "Not-mad" about being at Forlorn Hope. They rotated with the other rangers in the towers, or provided relief wherever they were needed, they helped out the docs, and they ran messages to the ranger outpost north of us. Even though they had their own tasks, the fact that they didn't get heat stroke as often upset some troopers. Troopers accused rangers of flaunting their "free" (Not army infantry regulated) time around. Even though non-upset troopers usually irritated the vets of the camp, the arrival of the new rangers magnified that spite on top of all the other issues. This only added to the mopers.
Mopers were of course, the troopers who mope. Usually they were new guys recently sent to Forlorn Hope as replacements for troopers we lost. That was understandable. Seeing what the Forlorn boys go through daily, eating big ants, not having enough ammo, and getting disciplined harshly for mild infractions made their old stations a sweet dream that only led to sadness in the present. That wasn't even to mention the near nightly Legion attacks, or chaotic frenzies lurking in a sandstorm. Those new guys usually show up, see what their life is going to be, and that's when those stages of tragedy happen. It's usually during the depression stage that they write their wills, and mope around. However, this period at Forlorn Hope was especially forlorn considering the supply issues. Even some of my pals and Sergeant Holms started getting depressed or angry again at little things.
I again can't say for sure why I didn't feel that way when morale everywhere was plummeting, but I wasn't the only one. I wasn't super giddy about things of course; everything around me was pretty bad in one way or another my entire time there. Like I mentioned before, some of us were just born into it. Devastating news makes my brain go "Oh well, guess this awful thing is something new we gotta deal with", or "Good, the old brand of misery was getting boring." Because of that strangely developed mindset, I hadn't even thought about death in a long time. In the end, I figured that I won't really be around to get too upset if I got killed… So, during this time, guys like me often explained things to some of the new fellas.
Though I wasn't brimming with life, I wasn't a moper who constantly brought death into the topic of telling new troopers how things run. I also wasn't one of those guys who complained about how "I should've qualed (Qualified) for 1st Recon to avoid this place" or prophesized that we were all doomed because of justice for "Bitter Springs." I was simply the guy who was able to say what needed to be done without espousing what I was really thinking; such in the case of Corporal Lopez:
Corporal Lopez was a replacement who joined our platoon after that particular vacancy causing incident happened. It isn't often that PFCs tell Corporals how the front line is run, but the guy was from the Mojave border outpost, and the corporals and sergeants of the company were all too sour on their duties.
I tell you; this guy was shaking the whole time. It was like the young man (Older than me) was having a seizure the entire time I showed him the rundown of off the line duties.
I showed him around the camp just as a couple CDL-2s were getting escorted to the jail, while the reserve company geared up for a patrol backup, and a couple squads took their "Shower" in the radioactive pool. Shots came from the canyon trail the corporal came from, and an alert trooper ran from the post with his new standard issue blunderbuss to gather a reserve squad. I showed him the patrol route map on the duty roster (Right by the filled up MP Cat's Paw), and then walked him over to the Observation line.
He seemingly looked through the ragged dirt covered troopers sitting on the line, looking puzzled at the guys who occasionally glanced over the top. Not me, or any of the soldiers he saw on the line had a regulation haircut, recognizable trooper uniform, inspection worthy weapon, and some were even sitting on little cushions made entirely of spent brass. He shook more and more as he looked out at the barbed wire and shell dotted landscape, but that was when the standard issue cherry on top the Forlorn Hope sundae arrived. Of course, a recovery team was hauling up the bodies of abducted troopers they found.
No joking, merely another dry, "Who you find out there, Sarn't?" from the trailhead sentries.
Welcome to Forlorn Hope… It's exactly what the rumors said, and then some.
Despite the corporal's shaking, that site of the recovery team didn't crack anything in him. Not long after that, the sun was almost set, and the formation was called for the end of the off line company's workday. The corporal met his squad and the grimy sour faced sergeant he was now subordinate to. I caught glimpse of his guys smile and graciously meet the new corporal, only to turn right back to their sour selves when he went down the line. Formation was over, chow was called, and I stormed the mess hall. Of course, there hadn't been any real meat for weeks, just trays full of corn, and old beans. I was sitting on the end of my group of fellas when the corporal popped a squat next to me.
Though I was a tad surprised he didn't sit with his sergeant or the other corporals (I wasn't even in his squad), I asked the still shaking man, "Ya hungry, corporal?"
Lifting a spoon full of vegetables and setting it down, he said the 8th sentence I heard him say the whole afternoon, "No, not real-. I'm not hungry."
I watched the raid squad gearing up to go down, and saw the convulsing man. I shrugged and said sincerely, "Nerves'll do that to ya… But hey, I got a stash of my special seasoned ant meat in my duffle bag; swing by my tent later if you get hungry…"
I think that was the moment he clicked in line with the rhythm of panic the new guys get. The man was ready to burst since arriving, but mentioning my seasoned ant meat was apparently what did it (I took a lot of pride in that recipe, so I tried not to take offense). He frantically dropped his plate, whipped a notebook out of his pack, and started scribbling on the page (Probably his will).
I gave him a nudge while considering how my secret pocket ant would complement this salty corn and said, "You're alright, fella."
Reaching into my pocket for my specially reserved pocket sand speckled main course, I noticed his frantic writing was ruined by the sounds of gunshots from the Observation line behind us. He broke the pencil at another short but louder crackle of gunfire, and he dropped his notebook on the dirt while the raid squad sped up their readying.
Corporal Lopez sat there stunned, unable to move or pick up his notebook off the ground, and I patted his helmet. Patting his helmet and then shoulder, I said very sincerely and awkwardly, "There, there?" having never comforted someone above my pay grade.
Still stunned and mute, the gunfire died and one of my pals shuffled over, "New corporal, eh?"
The PFC saw the distraught corporal and took a place on the opposite side. As the PFC indulged in some of the less sand ruined pieces of the corporal's dropped meal, he said, "Yer gonna be fine, Trooper Tom. Write a letter home if it'll settle ya. And don't worry, you'll get used to here."
Me and my pal were silent again while the corporal collected himself steadily…
I really liked what my pal said in that moment. He was one of the worse mopers in our platoon, and though I won't say his name, I really took to heart what he said and did despite his own misery. Yeah, he was one of the guys extra upset given the conditions around camp, but he threw all that aside at least momentarily for the sake of the corporal too shocked by the new world around him…
That reminds me of a story I heard. A story I lived, one I saw lived, and one I saw in every face that's ever been on the line at Camp Forlorn Hope.