First in, Last out
The Siege of Combatbase Gloria
A/N: Whew, finally updated, expect chapter three in several days.
I smell the fear that rains inside
The thought of children who must oblige
To tainted dreams and polluted seas
The missing moon and melting trees
A mist of doom and clouds of pain
Toxic waste and acid rain
The passing of our ignorance
A lifetime spent in abstinence
Living in fear
Living in fear
I can't tell you no lies
Living in fear
Living in fear
I smell the fear that rains inside
The thought of so many lives denied
More wounded soldiers, another burning flag
And rows and rows of body bags
No time for tears as the night falls cold
The days survivors crawl back in their holes
As for the rest they're shipped back home
Home to the rows of white tomb stones
Living in fear
Living in fear
I can't tell you no lies
Living in fear
Living in fear
Major James Taggart was looking right at the Terran Command Center when the nuke attached to the side of it went nova, the only though that ran through his mind as the last of humanity died on that god forsaken station was Wow, wasn't as big as I thought it was gonna be. After ten years in the Terran Marine Corp, Taggart knew about nukes, however he was usually either designating the targets on some briefing map for his ghosts or leading a sweep through the charred wreckage. Seeing the actual white flash then shockwave was something else.
While the nuke itself completely wiped out the remnants of the KTF base, it in no way damaged the space platform. It was long ago decided that Strategic Nuclear Capability was not only unnecessary, but also downright stupid to nuke a third of planet that had valuable resources on it. However no one had objected to tactical nukes that only had an effective range of about 500 meters.
About ten seconds afterwards a massive flash erupted from the other side of the space platform from the UED side of the base. The UED had apparently chain linked more than one nuke together.
With the danger to his eyesight gone Taggart flipped up his polarized visor and automatically did a self-inventory. His instructors at New Parris Island had endlessly drilled into their recruits to always know what they did and didn't have. Besides various aches and pains from being around thirty-five standard years old he was unscathed. For armament he had half a magazine for his C-14 and two 40mm grenades. He also had one hand activated fuel-air grenade left. What he didn't have were about fifty some odd marines who were left to rot on the field of battle.
Taggart decide not to dwell on it too much or he was going to need another psyche evaluation. He had already had two, one after his best friend bled to death in his arms, the other after a massive fuck up where his entire company had been wiped out.
Making his way forward he edged around the other marines of first platoon, all eleven of them to the pilot compartment. He opened the door and entered. The pilot, copilot sat at their chairs concentrating out the cockpit. "You guys know where we're going right?" Taggart asked.
"Yeah" replied the pilot, "Troop Carrier Ship Concord, the beautiful home of the 9th Marine Division." The pilot cracked into a smile.
TCS's were generally acknowledged as the ugliest ships in service. They were shaped like long rectangles with two long cigar shaped pods running the length of the rectangle. They normally housed two marine divisions. One mechanized and one infantry, however since the 9th Marines were a combined arms unit with fifteen regiments instead of the normal ten, they got the whole ship to themselves. Each battalion had its own private hangar to conduct equipment checks and formations. Each Battalion Commander also had a regimental briefing room to conduct briefings and the quarters of a full bird Colonel.
While to other units Combined Arms Divisions were the easiest assignments, they conveniently forgot that CADs were dropped wherever a unit was cutoff or in trouble. A normal loss rate for a standard Combined Arm Battalion drop was about forty percent. The highest of any battalion sized formation. The kill ratio was about a hundred to one, also the highest of any battalion sized formation.
The dropship pulled to the right 45 ( and the massive form of the TCS Concord filled the view port. A few battle scars blackened the hull and some small fires raged inside them but otherwise she was undamaged. The same could not be said for here escort ships. Of the four battle cruisers assigned as protection only one, the BCS Hammer was the only one without serious damage and only a dozen escorting Valkriey Missile Frigates remained. "Hangar one please," said Taggart and then he headed back towards the troop compartment. As he closed the door he could hear the pilot murmuring to the bridge of the Concord.
Sitting back down Taggart sat and tried not to think. Thinking was a dangerous thing at the wrong times. This was one. Looking around Taggart tried to match faces to the marines sitting around him. He couldn't. Since its conception 1/9 had taken over 350% percent casualties. Replacements came and went with every battle and it seemed that only Taggart remained the same.
Two dull thumps in quick succession marked the passing of the dropship through the containment field of the hangar. There was a whine as the landing gear lowered and then a clank as the dropship dropped to the metal deck. The ramp at the back of the dropship dropped open with a liquid hiss. Mentally Taggart tensed, this was always the worse part, no matter how many times he had to go through it, he never could get used to it. Taking his C-14 by its carrying handle he walked down the ramp.
The hangar bay felt like a disaster area, in part it was. Marines in camouflage utilities and CMC armor ran in every direction to the shouts of their NCOs. The smell of smoke, blood and fuel filled the air. Wounded screamed for attention as they were off loaded from the dropships. Even more wounded lay on blood-spattered stretchers. White clad medical personal moved about doing the best they could. However for some it wasn't enough.
Arclite Siege Tanks rumbled down the ramps of the dropships, which were in and out of the hangar like bees in a nest. The Arclite's, their decks loaded with the dead and wounded stopped wherever the found an empty spot so that the casualties could be unloaded. The tankers then climbed out of whatever hatches were available. They looked as bad as the infantry, splattered with blood and gore, covered from head to tow in grease, soot, explosive propellant and hydraulic fluid.
He watched in shielded horror as one of men he knew as a new replacement clutched a ragged gash in his lower stomach, which was pumping out a mixture of intestines, feces and dark red blood. Another man wondered around like a man in a haze, as he turned toward Taggart, Taggart saw that one of his arms was nothing more than a bloodied stump dribbling a stream of red along the ground. The blood from the wounded and dead formed pools that sent rivulets streaming down into the drains set on the deck.
Taggart weaved his way through the carnage letting people elbow past him without comment. His role in this was over; it was all in the Navy's hands now. Nearing the exit of the hangar was the collection point for the dead. They're where several rows of young men, all stripped out of their armor. The heavy suits leaving only frail young men.
Taggart increased his pace, walking briskly now through the rows of the dead. He didn't want to recognize too many faces. He tried to think of them as merely expendable materials when faced with a situation like this but occasionally his humanity slipped through a hole in his armor.
To someone outside the CAB's it might seem that he had an indifferent opinion to the lives he expended in battle. However Taggart knew this was just to keep panic and fear from spreading among the survivors. Taggart wanted them angry, if they where pissed at him, fine. He was long past the faze of trying to buddy up to his troopers. All of the troopers may not like him but damnit; all of them respected the old man.
Taggart also knew something else. When he was in his quarters alone, when everyone else was asleep or otherwise occupied, he would go through the helmet cameras of all of his marines. He would find out the specifics on how that man died. How he spent his final moments. He would then type a personalized letter to the next of kin, detailing how their son, brother, sister, mother, husband, wife died. Taggart despised any commander who just typed the deceased's name into the standard Marine death notification form.
And there was something else he did. No one else knew about except a former XO who had long ago joined the ranks of the deceased. Every death in the unit, by accident or enemy action, ate away at the old man's soul. Every letter offering condolences shredded and frayed a little bit more of his sanity. Taggart had been with the 1st of the 9th for five years. An average battalion commander's life expectancy was approximately two weeks.
The dreams, which at first Taggart thought was a one time thing, became a rare occurrence, then a syndrome of post-traumatic stress syndrome then they became a way of life. The dreams were terrifying and soothing at the same time. They brought back the horrors of combat, the din of battle. Even though Taggart could have easily taken some medication for them he began to think of the dreams of his conscience. His mind trying to make up for the all the men he had killed, by accident or by design.
End note: with that tasty tidbit I leave you until chapter three: dreams
The Siege of Combatbase Gloria
A/N: Whew, finally updated, expect chapter three in several days.
I smell the fear that rains inside
The thought of children who must oblige
To tainted dreams and polluted seas
The missing moon and melting trees
A mist of doom and clouds of pain
Toxic waste and acid rain
The passing of our ignorance
A lifetime spent in abstinence
Living in fear
Living in fear
I can't tell you no lies
Living in fear
Living in fear
I smell the fear that rains inside
The thought of so many lives denied
More wounded soldiers, another burning flag
And rows and rows of body bags
No time for tears as the night falls cold
The days survivors crawl back in their holes
As for the rest they're shipped back home
Home to the rows of white tomb stones
Living in fear
Living in fear
I can't tell you no lies
Living in fear
Living in fear
Major James Taggart was looking right at the Terran Command Center when the nuke attached to the side of it went nova, the only though that ran through his mind as the last of humanity died on that god forsaken station was Wow, wasn't as big as I thought it was gonna be. After ten years in the Terran Marine Corp, Taggart knew about nukes, however he was usually either designating the targets on some briefing map for his ghosts or leading a sweep through the charred wreckage. Seeing the actual white flash then shockwave was something else.
While the nuke itself completely wiped out the remnants of the KTF base, it in no way damaged the space platform. It was long ago decided that Strategic Nuclear Capability was not only unnecessary, but also downright stupid to nuke a third of planet that had valuable resources on it. However no one had objected to tactical nukes that only had an effective range of about 500 meters.
About ten seconds afterwards a massive flash erupted from the other side of the space platform from the UED side of the base. The UED had apparently chain linked more than one nuke together.
With the danger to his eyesight gone Taggart flipped up his polarized visor and automatically did a self-inventory. His instructors at New Parris Island had endlessly drilled into their recruits to always know what they did and didn't have. Besides various aches and pains from being around thirty-five standard years old he was unscathed. For armament he had half a magazine for his C-14 and two 40mm grenades. He also had one hand activated fuel-air grenade left. What he didn't have were about fifty some odd marines who were left to rot on the field of battle.
Taggart decide not to dwell on it too much or he was going to need another psyche evaluation. He had already had two, one after his best friend bled to death in his arms, the other after a massive fuck up where his entire company had been wiped out.
Making his way forward he edged around the other marines of first platoon, all eleven of them to the pilot compartment. He opened the door and entered. The pilot, copilot sat at their chairs concentrating out the cockpit. "You guys know where we're going right?" Taggart asked.
"Yeah" replied the pilot, "Troop Carrier Ship Concord, the beautiful home of the 9th Marine Division." The pilot cracked into a smile.
TCS's were generally acknowledged as the ugliest ships in service. They were shaped like long rectangles with two long cigar shaped pods running the length of the rectangle. They normally housed two marine divisions. One mechanized and one infantry, however since the 9th Marines were a combined arms unit with fifteen regiments instead of the normal ten, they got the whole ship to themselves. Each battalion had its own private hangar to conduct equipment checks and formations. Each Battalion Commander also had a regimental briefing room to conduct briefings and the quarters of a full bird Colonel.
While to other units Combined Arms Divisions were the easiest assignments, they conveniently forgot that CADs were dropped wherever a unit was cutoff or in trouble. A normal loss rate for a standard Combined Arm Battalion drop was about forty percent. The highest of any battalion sized formation. The kill ratio was about a hundred to one, also the highest of any battalion sized formation.
The dropship pulled to the right 45 ( and the massive form of the TCS Concord filled the view port. A few battle scars blackened the hull and some small fires raged inside them but otherwise she was undamaged. The same could not be said for here escort ships. Of the four battle cruisers assigned as protection only one, the BCS Hammer was the only one without serious damage and only a dozen escorting Valkriey Missile Frigates remained. "Hangar one please," said Taggart and then he headed back towards the troop compartment. As he closed the door he could hear the pilot murmuring to the bridge of the Concord.
Sitting back down Taggart sat and tried not to think. Thinking was a dangerous thing at the wrong times. This was one. Looking around Taggart tried to match faces to the marines sitting around him. He couldn't. Since its conception 1/9 had taken over 350% percent casualties. Replacements came and went with every battle and it seemed that only Taggart remained the same.
Two dull thumps in quick succession marked the passing of the dropship through the containment field of the hangar. There was a whine as the landing gear lowered and then a clank as the dropship dropped to the metal deck. The ramp at the back of the dropship dropped open with a liquid hiss. Mentally Taggart tensed, this was always the worse part, no matter how many times he had to go through it, he never could get used to it. Taking his C-14 by its carrying handle he walked down the ramp.
The hangar bay felt like a disaster area, in part it was. Marines in camouflage utilities and CMC armor ran in every direction to the shouts of their NCOs. The smell of smoke, blood and fuel filled the air. Wounded screamed for attention as they were off loaded from the dropships. Even more wounded lay on blood-spattered stretchers. White clad medical personal moved about doing the best they could. However for some it wasn't enough.
Arclite Siege Tanks rumbled down the ramps of the dropships, which were in and out of the hangar like bees in a nest. The Arclite's, their decks loaded with the dead and wounded stopped wherever the found an empty spot so that the casualties could be unloaded. The tankers then climbed out of whatever hatches were available. They looked as bad as the infantry, splattered with blood and gore, covered from head to tow in grease, soot, explosive propellant and hydraulic fluid.
He watched in shielded horror as one of men he knew as a new replacement clutched a ragged gash in his lower stomach, which was pumping out a mixture of intestines, feces and dark red blood. Another man wondered around like a man in a haze, as he turned toward Taggart, Taggart saw that one of his arms was nothing more than a bloodied stump dribbling a stream of red along the ground. The blood from the wounded and dead formed pools that sent rivulets streaming down into the drains set on the deck.
Taggart weaved his way through the carnage letting people elbow past him without comment. His role in this was over; it was all in the Navy's hands now. Nearing the exit of the hangar was the collection point for the dead. They're where several rows of young men, all stripped out of their armor. The heavy suits leaving only frail young men.
Taggart increased his pace, walking briskly now through the rows of the dead. He didn't want to recognize too many faces. He tried to think of them as merely expendable materials when faced with a situation like this but occasionally his humanity slipped through a hole in his armor.
To someone outside the CAB's it might seem that he had an indifferent opinion to the lives he expended in battle. However Taggart knew this was just to keep panic and fear from spreading among the survivors. Taggart wanted them angry, if they where pissed at him, fine. He was long past the faze of trying to buddy up to his troopers. All of the troopers may not like him but damnit; all of them respected the old man.
Taggart also knew something else. When he was in his quarters alone, when everyone else was asleep or otherwise occupied, he would go through the helmet cameras of all of his marines. He would find out the specifics on how that man died. How he spent his final moments. He would then type a personalized letter to the next of kin, detailing how their son, brother, sister, mother, husband, wife died. Taggart despised any commander who just typed the deceased's name into the standard Marine death notification form.
And there was something else he did. No one else knew about except a former XO who had long ago joined the ranks of the deceased. Every death in the unit, by accident or enemy action, ate away at the old man's soul. Every letter offering condolences shredded and frayed a little bit more of his sanity. Taggart had been with the 1st of the 9th for five years. An average battalion commander's life expectancy was approximately two weeks.
The dreams, which at first Taggart thought was a one time thing, became a rare occurrence, then a syndrome of post-traumatic stress syndrome then they became a way of life. The dreams were terrifying and soothing at the same time. They brought back the horrors of combat, the din of battle. Even though Taggart could have easily taken some medication for them he began to think of the dreams of his conscience. His mind trying to make up for the all the men he had killed, by accident or by design.
End note: with that tasty tidbit I leave you until chapter three: dreams