Up ahead the head of our column has finally hit its designated spot. Exhausted as they are by the long march from the Ornithropters, the grunts are nevertheless digging out shallow trenches, piling up rocks for a loose wall and rolling out the bundles of razor wire we've dragged with us. It's become second nature. I can't feel safe until my hole is dug either. Para-magic like Shell and Protect just doesn't compete with three feet of solid rock to dive behind.
We jump across the trench and walk over to where the Fuckwit is standing at the crest of the ridge, against the sun, as if daring a sniper to try to blow him away. As usual the Lieutenant is very easy to spot, surrounded by his three autobot toys. I feel the familiar frustration burn in me when I see him. If only he'd step away from those infernal machines…
[Person: Lieutenant Richard Merton aka 'the Fuckwit' is my direct commanding officer. At 26 he is the 'old man' of the platoon and proud of it. He's a star graduate of Galbadia Garden, third in his class, one of the last before the Sorceress stole that from us as well as our self-respect and the youth of my generation. Before he joined us in our second tour of EZ 6 he'd already spent a year attached to 42nd Commando, somewhere civilised where they phone warnings before bombings. To be honest I'd given up listening by that point.
The Fuckwit is a handsome man, medium height and build, cropped black hair and a charming open smile he flashes about liberally. He looks like he belongs on the front one of those men's health mags with a towel round his ass. Unfortunately he's here instead. The Lieutenant's old man is ex-military and one of the new Speakers down in Deling. Think General Caraway, with a serious case of religion.
The Fuckwit is completely dominated by the old-timer. He's desperate to earn his father's respect, and growing up under the old man's shadow has given him one hell of an inferiority complex. He hides these behind a show of cocksure arrogance and overconfidence in his own opinions. He can't countenance dissent, treating it as open rebellion, and punishes excessively. He's more afraid of appearing afraid then the fear that makes you kiss the ground every time the shooting starts.
The Fuckwit managed to miss the Straits War, saw no action in the scuffles ignited by President Deling the elder and finished by Sorceresses Edea and Adel, and was too young for the first Sorceress War. He was running short of wars to prove himself in. The flames of conflagration that have wracked this part of the world for decades are dying to embers at last. Galbadia has collapsed westwards over the last seven years as Dollet, Winhill and Timber have all reclaimed what is theirs. Now we're trapped in the desert between the paradise we've lost on the east coast, and one we're trying to hold together in the west. The desert and mountain hell we've sent our political prisoners to for the last hundred and ten years- District D. Officially the place has no more title then this. The peoples who live here disagree, and they where willing to start a war over it. So it's here, to the last place on the planet you'd want to be, with the last war you'd want to be in, that the Fuckwit volunteered to come, and his daddy pulled the strings for him. Officers are queuing up to grab experience here, before the new civilian government manages to extract us from this piece of imperial wreckage. War experience will be a valuable career asset in a peace time force, and the Fuckwit fully intends to stand for Speaker with the reputation of a war hero.]
We are the last to reach the Lieutenant. The sergeants of the first and second sections, Motor-mouth and 'gladly men', have already arrived. The Fuckwit smiles when he sees us and waves excitedly. The suspicion that has been growing in my mind as we walked along is confirmed at the sight of him. He is beaming to the world in general, like a little boy who has been given an unexpected treat and allowed out to play. The Lieutenant loves combat. It allows him to work out all those little frustrations he has to keep in check the rest of the time. It's confirmed as we jump down into the trench.
Unable to repress his glee, he calls out "Sergeant Troy! All of you! Great news! This company's been selected for CP [Term: Combat Patrol. Generally an aggressive large- scale patrol carried out in the hope of luring the enemy to attack it.] tomorrow. We're to sweep seven klicks out to 841 [Object: Hill 841- the Galbadian Army named its hills by their height in yards] and investigate activity registered on the sensor probes there. Better get the troops prepared. It'll be a long walk!"
And with this he jumps out of the trench and strides off to supervise the erection of his tent, leaving Motor-mouth [person: Coral Streader, aka Motor-mouth, is sergeant of the first section of our platoon. She's an ex-publisher, who as part of her old duties was paid by the minute during phone calls. Even today she can't stop her endless chatter, hence the nickname.] to bring us up to speed on marching order, ETD [Term: Estimated Time of Departure.], supplies and all the vital wealth of detail that even the smallest military expedition depends on.
A shining bar of light begins to appear in the east, as the sun creeps up over the horizon. I pull my helmet on, my breath coming out in white puffs in the freezing morning. No matter, it'll soon be hot enough. I check my gauntlets are securely fastened one last time and begin marshalling the troops into some sort of marching order.
Inside the camp's trench along side me are one hundred and twenty men and women of the 3rd battalion/1st Belurevian Regiment (the Lions). They stand about yawning, flapping their arms in the morning chill and fiddling with their armour. No one is talking. Everyone is still blinking blearily at our 6.00 hour wake-up call. It's meant only six hours sleep for us, but Captain Freeman knows her country. She wants to push on quickly in the cool of the morning and rest the troops at midday. This makes perfect sense, and I will be very grateful this afternoon that somebody in charge knew what they where about, but right now I'm forced to draw comfort from the fact that we're not alone in the morning misery. 'C' company is five hundred yards to our left [Author's note: the characters in this fic have a depressing habit of flitting between metric and imperial, depending on which sounds right. Blame the fucked-up education system in this country that teaches us both systems.], breaking out its packs for a patrol into the buffs to the east of the LZ.
Altogether there are six companies spreading out in a fan-shape, and marching out towards the horizon. Six thin columns going to re-lay our sensors and try to tempt Johnny out of his hiding places to where our planes and 'thropters can make a mess of him, and even drop the 1st and 2nd Para on him if he attacks the main camp.
Our own beloved platoon leader is now striding up and down ordering everyone out of the trench and into marching order. We're slightly luckier then most of the companies of grunts- our column is being supported not only by the Fuckwit's three aging G1M 47Ns but also by three massive Iron Giants, now towering over sections two and three.
"Looks like a good day for you lot after all," I remark more cheerfully to my closest squad, "Those 'bots coming with us over there are Iron Giants."
Vincono, the kid next to me, just gives me a blank look. I can't see the other's expressions under their helmets but I'm willing to bet a bent gil coin against a month's pay that they're identical to Vincono's. Sighing inwardly, I raise my voice and prepare to give a lecture about the combat qualities of the Iron Giant.
"Gather round now people! This is Auntie Sasha's advice to all you grunts here about those big metal mothers over there! They're called Iron Giants, and they're basically a heavy assault 'bot. They've no firepower or magic at all, so don't go looking to them for covering fire, but these beasts inspire pure, unadulterated terror in lovely Johnny. He thinks that the Giants are animated by the trapped spirits of dead Knights and spares no effort to try to 'release' the 'trapped spirit' before its vengeful presence reaches his lines with those big nasty swords you can see them all carrying. Very useful in a scrap that. Unless you happen to be standing next to one when everything breaks out of course! If it comes to a fight today, get behind them. They'll take the flak for you, and act as mobile cover when we break out. Everyone got that?"
With a chorus of 'ayes' behind me, I clamber out of the trench and the grunts scramble out after me. We line up and I sort them in three loosely bunched groups. They fall in quickly through long practice, but I still give them the same pep talk that I have always done. Smiling at myself, I begin the ritual words I always use before we set off on a patrol. Now, when I can't protect them anymore, these parting words release them to their fates with a last paternalistic blessing. Well, it's worked for the last year, and I love a lucky good luck ritual.
"Stay grouped loosely in your squads! You'll present a smaller target that way, then as a lovely long line for Johnny to rake with his machine guns. Make sure you don't all get bunched together either though. I don't want to have to right nine letters home to your mommas telling them you all trod on the same mine. My wrist'd never recover."
There are the usual jeers from the squadies. The section in front of us has begun to set off, so I quickly complete the speech.
"All right everybody, this is it. Good hunting! Remember, I'm only standing a free round for people who survive their tour, and you've all only got ten days to go. I don't want any heroes! What is heroism?"
"Nature's way of keeping the coffin industry busy!" they chorus.
I turn away now, and run to catch up with Blue and Caster who is hanging around near the v-formation of his Lurp section. As I pass him, Vincono sees who I am heading towards and scowls resentfully.
"Trust the Sarge to keep Lucky Guy all to herself," he murmurs snidely to his squad mate.
"Hey Vin, no worries man, ain't no guy lucky three times," the boy next to him says sagely.
For no reason, these last words strike me to the quick, perhaps because they ring so ominously in my mind.
I turn, and say more sharply then I meant to "Move it you two!"