A/N : Retconning. I changed the name of Godfather, the battalion commander of 1st Recon Battalion, from Lt. Steve Garcia to Lt. Colonel Stephen Franzese to reflect his Italian-American origin.
1st Reconnaissance Battalion's Encampment, the Deserted Saderan Fort. (1045), 9th April 2021.
They had been dug in grittily along their respective battle positions in a defensive posture and scattered all throughout the rolling, seemingly never-ending sea of verdant green and within the stronghold in question itself, a relatively uneventful hour merely passing by for the now relaxed Marines of the 1st Reconnaissance Battalion ever since they had blasted their way on a gamble of an assault to seize this allegedly, heavily defended Saderan fort. Disappointingly yet at the same fortunately enough for their wellbeing, the whole thing turned out to be an overexaggerated fluke, the objective appearing as if its owner had abandoned it to the verdant greenery of the plateau for innumerous eons. Not a single living enemy personnel was anywhere within its vicinity, not even a shadow, nor a sign. Once again, like previously so back in Italica and Arafa, the possibility of them being actually mauled if it weren't for the defenders' cowardice was unnervingly real. It was truly a miracle that they took this patch of land with no casualties, the whole thing being nothing but another case of bad intelligence to be blamed solely on their part.
Besides dwelling gravely on their recent most lucky seizure of the objective, most of the Marines within Bravo Company that aren't on watch spent their free times lounging around casually, either eating, sleeping on the hollow fighting holes hacked away with their trusty digging E-tools and pickaxes, cleaning their gaunt, dusty weapons or the characteristic combat-zone jack-off beneath the sultry, humbly protective shade of their uncurled camouflage nets set up by the various ashen, beaten-up Humvees, looking like oversized special operations' mobile dune buggies from afar with all the cumbersome equipments and field packs the troops had heaved on top of them haphazardly. One of their fellow units inside the battalion, the one, and the only Alpha Company, had their battle positions assigned by their commanders on a slightly elevated, well-camouflaged mound of grass several hundreds meters away to the right on the lush fields adjacent to the fort. The verdant natural hedgerows and knee-high tall grasses provided perfect cover for the men and attached tanks shrouded neatly behind the bucolic cradle of the innumerable vegetations. Their compatriots in Captain Walt's unit, now dug in all along the ethereal hedgerow-filled meadow below in expectation of a possible, hastily-organized Saderan counter-attack to retake their abandoned fortress now a turned into the grunts' turf, could barely make out the faint, vaguely discernible outlines of the woodland-colored barrels of Centurion-1's Abrams protruding illusively out of the vibrant sea of green in the hilly distance, let alone any approaching hostile forces away in the horizon beyond. Through the incessant use of laser rangefinders, they figured that Ajax appears to be around 600 meters away from where they're situated now.
Charlie Company meanwhile, had been fortunate enough to have their defensive battle position to be assigned directly within protective confines of the fortress' grandiose walls, with the unit's several dozen scout snipers and machine gunners occasionally seen perched intently on its mossy green guard towers, their weapons accompanied in its watch duty by its own scopes, barely functional thermal sights, binoculars and the fatigued men itself. In numbed indifference, the innumerous gauntly faces of the grunts, deprived of much-needed sleep by the constantly-changing orders, incompetently haywired officers lighting up a petty ruckuses, incessant fuck-ups and the ceaseless maneuvers of the battalion itself, was oriented directly into the sea of green extending into the expanse of nothing, but the contrasting colorful views of verdant fields and distant surrounding snow-capped mountains magnificently painting the horizon and whatever lies beyond it in an angelic grace. Amidst all this, Bravo Company just so happens to be the least fortunate of them all. They were sandwiched darkly between the two of their sister formations and situated precisely right in the exposed, open fields of tall grasses and hedgerows that made up the hilly mountainous landscapes of the plateau stretching out, unceasingly so, all around them. The only assurance they'd get amidst the outrageously exposed and vulnerable positioning of the whole company, is that any attempt by hordes of Saderans to retook this patch of land held firmly within the Marines' tightened hand, would be spotted immediately by their better off compatriots occupying much better positions than theirs.
So far and as of right now, after receiving the usually uninteresting orders to dig in and set up a temporary encampment within the vicinity of their recently captured objective, nobody knows for sure if they're going to be here at the fort for either an hour, or a whole week. High in the heavens, and shrouded, illusively so, behind the dazzling greenish hues of the lush conifer treelines painting the far-away foot of the Alps-like mountains all around their AO, the musical chatter of birds' sing-song chirps amid the pristine air of the morning resolved itself in the air into a soft, comforting rhythm of chips and flapping resounding idyllically. The buoyant melody calmly accompanies the mostly bored, lounging Marines with a bucolic orchestra of the Falmartian finest work of nature, the innumerable grasses swaying leisurely close-by a reminder of the untouched, ethereal beauty they had treaded on. The strong, overwhelmingly sweet and fresh scents of lush grasses swept by occasionally, as if the already beautiful day haven't already looked and sounded like a field in paradise. Aside from the Marines' chatter, radios hissing intermittently and bullshit grunt's banters stemming from boredom that came with manning static battle positions, all seemed tranquil and quiet on the battlefield.
The quiet backdrop of the tranquil fields blared softly with an other-worldly melody, nigh-ceaseless within their deathly interval and fiercely vigorous in its intensity, a far-away staccato of thuds continued on, singing gravely to the astounded nature – who had never seen such predator roaming the idyllic cradle of their verdant habitat, its dull, strangely methodical melody as if it were a play performed by a rather amateurish musician. The distant, thundering rumble of whistling artillery rounds and aerial bombs, cascading indignantly down below onto the embrace of their helpless prey played on and on incessantly like a broken record, the horrible demise they had cursed their enemy with and the biblical devastation it had wreaked asunder beneath unseen, to the weary men of Lt. Mistral's Second Platoon. They lounged about under the ever-expansive cover of the spring's morning light, their body beyond fatigued and faces gauntly after days spent on the road unrelentingly blasting their way through seemingly never-ending corridor of innumerable villages and towns of the 250 kilometer long plateau of the Dumas. The haggardly bagged, sleep-deprived demeanor was worryingly prominent throughout the entire platoon.
Ancient, age-old ethereal greenery swayed forlornly about, an unrelentingly chilly breeze of the Alps-esque mountains sweeping gingerly through the loosely-defined, recently-dug fighting holes and battle positions of the bucolic rolling fields Bravo Company had occupied. It assailed softly beneath the warm cradle of the camouflage nets suspended above the Platoon's Command Vehicle, and in its wake the men huddled beneath the humble abode shook feebly, the neck-gaiter covering the embrace of their coldly exposed necks, among innumerous other mountainous, cold-weather they had packed and worn doing insignificantly little, if any, to lessen the unyielding cold reign of the long passing winds. Packed like sardines inside a can beneath the cozy canvas shielding those seeking sanctuary beneath from the mellowy morning sun above, the prominent team leaders and key NCOs of Lt. Mistral's platoon gathered about, waiting with resolute, unspoken patience for their officer who had just returned from a relatively quick operations debrief with the company commanders, to finally kickstart the team leaders' meeting.
Their faces blank, devoid of any hints of emotions and bespeckled in fine, brownish muddy dusts emanated from the verdant fields and its soft soil they're currently standing on right now, the pack of huddled team leaders firmly placed their stoic attention on the exasperated Lieutenant leaning on the hood of his Humvee, the young officer evidently trying his best to put on a resolute smiling facade over the grim, resigned expression hiding beneath the mask.
"Gents, I have some good news for us all." The Lieutenant, with a warm, smiling facade warily put up, spoke optimistically, promptly starting the platoon's usual team leader meeting. "Because we are so far ahead of RCT-5, we'll be here for a solid day or two before they show up with the rest of the division's main forces, which means we'll get to somewhat recuperate in that timeframe."
The Lieutenant's previously optimistic and chippy tone suddenly became warily gaunt, his complexion evidently concerned in a blink of an eye. He promptly looked away from the group of team leaders gathered around and gestured towards the surrounding grassy fields all around them, the bucolic chirps of birds singing a cheery melody amidst the clear, sunny sky of the morning accompanying the officer's briefing.
"There are, however, a bunch of reasonable concerns from some quarters about the prospect of being overrun by whatever the Saderan's got up their sleeves, especially since we are in an alien world and don't really know what's around us," Lt. Mistral curtly broke his intentful gaze away from the silently blank NCOs and team leaders gathered below the comfortable shade of his camouflage net, and nonchalantly gestured towards the seemingly never-ending rolling fields and verdant plains extending far into the horizon, beyond their eyes. "we'd have to maintain a fifty percent watch throughout our stay here so make sure you guys pass it down to the men, it's straight from the Skipper himself."
"That's it, sir?" Dow suddenly spoke up just as the Lieutenant's gaze was returned back on him and his fellow team leaders of the platoon, his brows furrowed and his facial demeanor plastered with a gravely look. Spontaneously and not even a second after the dismayed remark, Lt. Mistral nonchalantly continued on.
"Along with that, we have pre-targeted, on-call artillery on the fields around us." The officer, with a nonchalant smile written across his lips in an optimistic manner, gestured yet again at the surrounding grassy fields all around as he leisurely remarked to the grimly numb crowd of NCOs nearby. He curtly extended his hands out of the cozy shade of the camouflage nets and towards the warm embrace of the sunlight outside, the gloved fingers firmly pointing upon the bucolic rolling plains of the Dumas stretching far out of their sight, and into the horizon beyond. "If we see some sword-wielding motherfuckers trying to charge us in a horde-sized attack, a quick SOS call to the division is gonna send several dozen arty rounds splashing down these fields."
However, the blank, numbed expression prevalent on most of the team leaders' face didn't seem to disappear, not even after the Lieutenant's optimistically reassuring brief on their current situation. Immediately then, a certain bespectacled Sergeant exclaimed tersely, his somewhat hoarse tone inquisitive and his eyes full of ill-concealed disbelief.
"Sir," The bespectacled Sutherby remarked gravely with a seemingly concerned complexion, quite a rare feature for the usually calm and experienced soft-spoken Recon team leader. "has any thoughts at least been given by our commanding officers up in the battalion staff about the prospect of repairing, instead of abandoning two, fucking two of H&S's supply trucks loaded with weapons and ordnance lying in the back?"
The Lieutenant merely traded glances with his executive, Gunny Mays, as a response to the glumly asked question. He promptly returned his attention to the evidently concerned NCOs of his a short second later.
"Actually that did come up as one of the options last night, but it seemed that in the middle of the last-minute rush to this very fort, Godfather had made up his mind and thus, decided to fucking leave the immobilized trucks and the supplies in the back to the wilderness of Dumas because of the tight timetable given for us to mount our assault." Lt. Mistral, his voice laced with a grimly sardonic tone of numb indifference, simply responded back to the bespectacled Sergeant's evidently concerned inquisitive remark.
"And now, it seems like the battalion supply of C4s and MREs, among other important supplies that the trucks carried, are pretty much unaccounted for. The battalion supply truck that we left last night? It's now nothing but mere smoldering pieces of metal and failed hopes of the trustworthiness of these Roman-like fantastical people we're straining our best to liberate."
"But what does that mean, sir?" Still not getting the sarcastic undertones of the Lieutenant's remark that had just tersely flown right over their heads, Dow inquired with an uneasy tone, a sentiment shared by his fellow compatriots as seen by the prevailing, silently grave expression on each one of them. Lt. Mistral heaved out an exasperated sigh as his simple terse reaction, replying shortly later with a numbed tone of indifference.
"It means we're short on ammunition and are down to basically one meal a day." Lt. Mistral was quick to heave out a curt reply to the gravely asked question, his face as blank as his tone and as numb as his eyes. The team leaders were swift to react to the blunt statement with a series of dismayed glance and exasperated groans, their grave complexion unyielding. "That's it for now gents, thank you."
The dismayed stares and exasperated grunts from his subordinates did very little to lighten the mood of the numbed Lieutenant, his gloved hands clutching the rifle on the hood of his Humvee along with other equipments he had previously placed there, before promptly leaving the evidently distraught Marines in silence. Lt. Mistral, for the last time before continuing on with his journey back to the relative cover of his fighting hole dug under the shades of his vehicle's camouflage net, traded one final glance with a certain brunette NCO, his true emotions laying hidden behind the usual stoic facade as he, along with his fellow compatriots, steadily dispersed, making their way back to their respective teams currently lounging nearby.
As he settled within the relative safety of his dug-in fighting hole and beneath the chilly gray shadow of the camouflage net, the officer knows for sure, that behind the aloof mask of Simon, the brunette is certainly distraught and sulking with the appalling news befalling him and his fellow team leaders moments ago.
"This is some goddamn horseshit." To his immediate right and leisurely lounging on the Command Humvee's driver seat, a radio handset held loosely within his gloved grip, Gunny Mays faintly grumbled under his breath, his weary eyes merely staring ahead into the innumerous greenery blankly in disbelief. "Can you believe this fucking thing? Short on fucking ammos and only one chow a day? Shit, the men won't like this a bit."
Similarly like the young officer and the team leaders of the platoon, the Platoon Sergeant too is evidently dismayed by the ridiculousness of their present situation and the grave prospect of having to cut down on MRE rations and the ensuing ammunition shortage in the wake of the battalion's supply trucks' abrupt abandonment last night. Now lying within the relative cover of his dug-in hole, his expression written with a similar state of disbelief, the blank-faced Lt. Mistral found himself responding simply to the words of the thoughtfully sulking Gunnery Sergeant, replying in kind with a ghastly remark of agreement.
"I know, Gunny, I know."
The prevailing light of the sun hung brilliantly on the clear bluish background of the Falmartian sky, the radiant, winking shades of gold and bucolic shining rays casted brightly upon the idling Marines of Bravo's Second Platoon lounging about in their assigned battle positions. Their faces and body movement were numbed and exhausted from the adrenaline rush that had been their earlier hail-mary assault to seize the relatively grandiose fortress, of which they'd later discover to be nothing but an abandoned piece of objective and a stark reminder to the reckless decision-making that had came down straight from their very commander, Godfather. With the stronghold's rough cobblestone layout and aging walls contrasting starkly against the verdantly green outlines of nature being the scenery only out of place blemish, the morning appeared serene and picturesque for the fatigued men of the company dug in on the grassy fields nearby. For what probably had been the first time in the many days since their nation kicked off an lightning-fast blitzkrieg invasion of this interstellar, fantastical Romanesque empire – well, the retards started the whole fucking shit first in San Diego, to quote Simon's boisterous driver and talented radiotelephone operator, the recuperating troops of Hitman-2 finally had their chance to take off their respective combat boots for what had felt like an eternity or so.
Amidst that, explicit porno magazines, pictures of girlfriends back home and nigh-idiotic hentai doujins, bought off and traded freely with their fellow Marines in an elaborate scheme of black market before they had stepped off Camp Sledgehammer – Alnus and its surrounding hills – to spearhead the division-sized blitz through the Empire, laid about on the grimy ground below. Their erotic cover were filthy, bespeckled with fine dusts and crustied, by the hardened, dried-up ghostly white brotein milk – semen – that had flown out of the devil dogs lounging nearby in a temporary state of sexual euphoria and its philosophical clarity that followed hurriedly after. Closely, and incongruously accompanying the diverse plethora of freaky adult imagery, rusted, metallic boxes of varying ammunitions, torn-open MRE packs, dusty utility and kevlar vests, 40-mike-mike grenade rounds and its olive-tan jackets, LWH helmets sticky with salty sweat among others littered the ground beneath their humble, cozy abode. The warm, bucolic cradle of sunlight above beamed through the camouflage nettings suspended over their heads, providing those seeking sanctuary below with a healthy dose of nature's idyllically mellow light. They rested in silenced grace beneath their pleasant hooches, the optimistic melody of Ice Cube's calming "It Was A Good Day" blaring about faintly. It continued on being repeated ceaselessly, its feel-good vocal wafting softly in the distant backdrop of the heavenly bucolic fields from one of the young troops' many contrabands, a product brought by their distant childhood molded further by modern wonders of the 21st century culture; Ipod.
Today I don't even have to use my AK, I gotta say it was a good day, shittt!
As the last boots caked with muddy soil were taken off and the final socks mottled with sweat stains were unfurled under the mellowy shade of their greenish cammie nets, the weary men lounging beneath it were spontaneously greeted by an incredibly unsightly image of their very own feet. Tiny, grisly bits of their skins are horrifically hanging by slices, the pieces rotting out in reddish-pale, white strips of uncomfortably soft funguses from the literally out-of-the-world plethoras of infections, originating evidently from the peculiar nature of Falmart's mesmerizing countrysides and curious wildlives that they unfortunately had caught amidst their bizarrely gruesome odyssey throughout the fantastical continent. To add insult to the already severe wounds, the sights weren't the only horrid imagery that had stared back gauntly at the fatigued Marines. Horrible stench reeking off their disfigured foot immediately assailed the exposed noses of everyone that happened to be nearby. They, in turn, simply replied back to the unwelcomed arrival of such overwhelmingly disgusting smell by instinctively covering their respective noses from any further stinks.
The metallic-like odor of the blood – and pale, tiny bits of skin – falling off the infected feet of Marines unfortunate enough to have caught the somewhat alien fungus wrestled for dominance in the air with the fresh, sweetly natural scent of the verdant rolling fields laid all around them, as if they themselves were being cradled by the lush, pristine beauty of Falmart's mother nature.
With his gloved fingers tightly pressed against his exposed nose in an attempt to protect it from the assailing stench of the feet infections and the contents within his stomach's embrace threatening to lurch out violently any moment from the horrid smell trying to breach in, Clancy hesitantly slid off the muddy, mottled boots of one of his fellow Marine compatriot off nauseously for the much-needed treatment of the infection with a barely composed demeanor, much to the indifferent amusement of a nearby Evan. The man groaned in clear fatigue, and Clancy coughed with a hoarse voice as the overwhelmingly strong scent increased in its intensity just as the grisly imagery of the feet appeared to greet the straining duo in all its gruesome glory. Like others before him, bits of pale white skin, barely hanging all across the ankle right up to the shingly toes, were horrifically falling off in long rotting strips of gray and coagulated blood like a nasty tapeworm.
"You should be sucking on those toes, Doc, that'd certainly be fucking cool." Under the warm embrace of the camouflaged shade and with his back casually laid against the door of his age-old Humvee and his mouth full of M&M pieces – his appetite unusually unaffected by the grisly sight before him and the disgusting stench that came with it – taken off from an MRE, Evan, in his Rip-Its induced loudmouth, amusedly quipped with a mischievous grin widely displayed upon his cheerful complexion. "Maybe your navy mouth ought to fucking cure these Zelda rots and shit with how much cum you had swallowed down your motherfucking throat."
"Evan, shut the fuck up." As if on cue, with a chilly breeze of the mountains softly striking against the frail stands of the camouflage nets and the Marines inside it, the laboring Corpsman simply responded to the snidely banter of his cheerfully indifferent boisterous compatriot with an unamused, Brooklyn-accented hiss. "I'm just trying to do my fucking job for fuck sakes, bro."
"I don't know, dude, maybe they taught you guys to use your mouth in the Corpsman's course to treat unknown foot infections." Evan was quick to reply, as he merely shrugged in clear indifference, his voice garbled and barely audible from the ridiculous amount of M&M bits within his munching mouth. "Figured you gay-ass navy sailors would have some sorta fucking nasty-ass freak shit fetish like those toe ones."
Clancy immediately waved the statement off with a snort, his reaction evidently showing he is indeed, slightly amused by the remark of his loudmouthed compatriot before swiftly returning to the task at hand without much delay. The man whom he is treating, a certain Cortez of 2-1 Bravo and Dow's skilled 50 cal' machine gunner, merely shook his head in amused bewilderment at the grisly fate befalling his right foot. He then spoke up to the Corpsman with a quizzical demeanor.
"I don't even spend much time of my time in this fucking shithole on the ground, what the fuck man." The Mexican machine gunner was swift to grimace, bitching pensively about the matter in clear disbelief. His gauntly darkened face contorted itself into one of distraught at the horrid imagery right before his eyes, the red-haired Corpsman before him continuing on examining it with an unyielding determination, albeit with an evidently repulsive, disgusted expression as he did so.
"You should've taken your boots off sometimes, shit just happens when it's pretty moist down there." With his hand pressed against the nose and mouth against the gruesome stink muffling his spoken voice and his other repulsively examining Cortez's infection, a reply immediately came from the laboring Clancy. He moved his jarring gaze away from the foot, swinging it towards the distraught man himself. "You know exactly why it happens."
"We fucking can't, dawg." Cortez promptly interjected as he spat into the ground nearby in evident disgust, his voice livid and his expression distraught as he gritted his teeth in pain. "The orders are to sleep in the damn things, or we'll have the Sergeant Major and his cohorts like our bitch-ass company First Shirt hounding us at every opportunity the motherfuckers got."
"He's got a point, Doc. You know how much those motherfuckers up in the battalion just love to fucking bitch about shit like grooming standards and crisp uniforms while we're out here in middle of this fucking fantasy shithole fighting a war against wannabe Romans." Evan immediately chipped into the conversation on the side of the distraught machine gunner, his head bobbing up and down repeatedly, nodding ghastly in agreement at the remark of clear disgust. "At least this truly screwed shithole has some huge supply of elf pussies, fucking Hogwart sloppy seconds and furry-ass bitches though, those are the only good fucking things worth a cent 'round here."
"It'd be pretty goddamn great to come back someday and explore, though," From the metallic confines of his turret cupola, the automatic grenade launcher operator of Hitman 2-1 beaten-up, venerable Humvee, interjected curtly into the ongoing conversation with a hopeful note. "like old guys going to Normandy or Monte Cassino."
"Shit, dude, I'll be back here when there's a fucking golf course, a cotton field on a Hilton lobby with a high-quality whorehouse across the road, and direct flights from Mississippi." Evan responded almost immediately, his voice sardonically deadpanned as he threw an empty can of Rip-Its energy drink out of their cozy abode, and into the grassy wilderness beyond. "Until then, this shithole can fucking rot and I won't even give a single shit, holmes."
The laboring red-haired Corpsman was swift to respond with an evidently amused, yet gravely nod at the frustrated remark of his compatriots. His sleep-deprived complexion, gaunt and grimly blank, shook softly in clear disbelief as he took in the immense gravity held within their distraught words. Amidst the ponderous silence under the mellow shade, Clancy can't help but feel the indomitable urge to fire back at the final part of Evan's quip in an attempt to lighten up their glum situation. Before he could do so, though, a jarringly stoic voice suddenly assailed through the quiet air enveloped around the Humvee, the tone evidently sarcastic in nature.
Entering the camouflaged net and into its mellow embrace, the stoic-faced Simon gazed with numb, indifferent stolidness at the grinning demeanor of his boisterous driver.
"As much as I appreciate your input, Evan," The brunette sarcastically spoke as he climbed onto the hood of his Humvee, his underbarrel grenade-equipped M4A1 dangling by its sling as its aloof-faced owner casually sat on the vehicle's dusty metallic hood, his gaze on the driver below seemingly held still as he settled down. "it'd very much do us a great favor had you shut your fucking mouth."
"Aye-aye Sai." Evan immediately replied with a taunting wink, continuing on rather swiftly with his little snacking time as he chugged down yet another huge volley of M&Ms. Simon responded to the goofy antics by rolling his eyes in mere, amused annoyance. He comfortably settled on the dusty hood of their Humvee, his back laid exasperatedly against the mottled windshields.
"Thank you, Evan." The brunette immediately responded to the taunting wink with his usual aloof, sarcastic voice and composed, stoic demeanor. He had finally settled under the mellowy protection of the camo net, his gauntly tired back lying comfortably, perched with coze against the Marines' Humvee age-old, venerable dusty windshield.
A dozen feet away from the lounging team leader of his, and seemingly on cue with the obnoxious rhythm of the usual grunts' varying gears and Marine field pack clanking, a certain red-haired Clancy finally got up from his earlier crouching posture in a weary manner, apparently done at last with the grisly task of inspecting Cortez's feet, ravaged gruesomely by a fungal foot infection as shown in all its horrid glory. After applying some medications to treat the injury, he had decided that it was in the machine gunner's best interest to be left alone to rest. The tersely decision was heaved out not without being accompanied with the visible relief of the latter.
This time, without his gloved fingers protecting his nose from the nasty stench of the fungus to muffle his voice almost comically like before, his attention was keenly averted to the brunette resting momentarily on top of the Humvee's filthy and dirty hood, his lips heaving out a quizzically curious voice.
"So what's the word around the smoke pit at the team leader meeting, Sergeant?" Clancy warily inquired, his head hung up in exasperation in the wake of such a gruesome medical task he had to undertake as he glanced at the green-eyed Simon, serenely silent after his little banter with the loudmouthed driver of his. The respiting brunette stayed quiet, his eyes merely eyeing the weary Corpsman aloofly, his demeanor stoic.
"I hate to break it to you gentlemen," With a sigh heaved out exasperatedly in spite of his stoic facade on the exterior, Simon finally spoke up truthfully. His cold, pensive remark of announcement was reflected disapprovingly on the face of his compatriots below the team's suspended camouflage as he delivered the news. "but we're dreadfully short on ammo and down to one chow a day. And our remaining water? They smell and tasted like some astoundingly dirty ass."
The immediate look on everyone's face was clear dismay, nothing more expressed but apparent dismay from the Marines' gritted teeth and the disappointment written across their eyes and dusty faces in the wake of the remark were evident for anyone else to see. The aloof brunette merely shook his head in silence, sulking deep within. He felt the overwhelming feeling disdain and betrayal hanging over his shoulder – hidden by the indifferent stoic facade outside, before trading a series of understandably disheartened, pensive glances with the red-haired Corpsman and the ever-talkative driver, the latter simply responding with a quick shrug and a swift eyebrow flash. Only the characteristic, metallic rhythm of weapons being cleaned and oiled up neatly by its owner remained within the team's humbly set-up abode, the quietness ever present.
Then, the seemingly uncaring Evan, still sitting on his back on the relatively huge and muddied wheels of their Humvee and his mouth just as full of M&M bits as before, slowly averted away from the steely gaze of the brunette and instead, moved towards the direction of the apparently dismayed Clancy crouching nearby in distraught silence. His curt action was noticed immediately by the Corpsman, his mere reaction to the terse gaze simply being a sigh just as the boisterous driver, his face deadpanned and devoid of any emotion, spoke with indifferent, nonchalant goof.
"Told you Doc, you gotta rely on those toes and lick them, otherwise your pretty-faced faggot-ass would've starve to fucking death or some shit." He goofily quipped, his deadpanned voice and demeanor abruptly breaking the terse silence of dismay lingering within the camouflage net much to the bewildered amusement of both the usually silent brunette team leader of his and the team's vehicle gunner. It seemed to be that the driver's terse attempt at lightening up the mood, even by a tad bit, had worked quite well. "I mean, shit, knowing how fucked up the Romans can be when it came to fucking twinks, they might use your corpse as some fuck-fuck toy, dude."
Then, a Brooklyn-accented growl was promptly hollered back towards the cheekily deadpanned Evan by the Corpsman crouching several dozen feet ahead of him, livid and evidently serious, unamused even.
"Fuck you." Clancy unamusedly hissed back just as he curtly sat down on the plenty boxes of 40mm grenade behind him, his irritated accent threatening to leak out much to the amusement of the previously stoic and silent brunette, shown apparently so by his suppressed laughter. "I'm no twink and which fucking one out of us two that regularly fucks his goofy-lookin' morbidly fucking obese redneck relatives back home?"
"Yeah, yeah, love you too, Doc." The driver cheekily shot back, his voice and demeanor tauntingly deadpanned and sarcastic as he gazed at the flustering Corpsman, whose face was seemingly stupefied by the remark. Clancy promptly flipped on the middle finger towards his grinning compatriot, his irritated form of reply received with a slight grin.
"What?" A goofy response was heaved out immediately by the grinning Evan, his eyes locked with those of Clancy's. "You're giving me that 'fuck me' eyes."
"Bro you should've fucking borrowed Cortez's glasses," Clancy answer to the flirting tone of Evan was quick, as he shot back spontaneously with a quizzically livid tone. "my fucking eyes certainly doesn't look like that."
A mere mention of his name sent the machine-gunner recuperating nearby into an exaggerated alarm, his voice livid as he faced the speaker.
"What the fuck do my name have any business being mentioned in you motherfucking faggots' little flirting?" The 2-1 Bravo machine-gunner, resting as he sat on top of hastily made sandbags and whose foot rotting with fungal infection that had earlier been treated by one of the banter's active participants, suddenly interjected in clear puzzlement at the situation and his sudden inclusion into it.
"Shut yo' cocaine-dealing fuckin' mouth." Speaking out of the blue with a snidely voice from Hitman 2-1 Humvee's turret cupola on the roof, Kirito sarcastically hollered out the insensitive remark towards the Latino Marine, his remark much to the amused disbelief of the brunette team leader lounging about on the vehicle's grimy hood. "I'm tryna hear these two motherfuckers duke it out mouth-to-mouth, French-kiss style or whatever the fuck they fucking called it."
Immediately picking up half a dozen pebbles of tiny rocks from the muddy soil below him impulsively without much thought, the somewhat bemused Cortez quickly hurled them towards the Asian gunner of Hitman 2-1's automatic grenade launcher. The pieces swiftly negotiated the distance between the two, narrowly passing by the head of the stoically resting team leader before finally crashing against the LWH helmet of the targeted individual with a loud smack, the abrupt impact sending him spiraling down towards the vehicle's interior for cover.
"Keep my race out of your fucking mouth!" Cortez hissed, his tone a mix of slight amusement and lividness at the unexpected remark from the usually quiet and timid Kirito. Gazing at the previously bantering driver and Corpsman duo, he promptly gestured to them, then towards the snickering turret gunner. "Un-fucking-believable dawg, would you look at this silly-ass motherfucker."
"I mean, shit, dude," Evan merely shrugged at the bemused remark, sarcastically chuckling as he continued. "he's pretty goddamn' right, you know? Are you even a Mexican?"
"Yeah, I am?" The pained machine-gunner spontaneously replied, his brows furrowing at the strange inquiry asked by Evan. "Why'd you fucking ask?"
"Then why aren't you loud and stealing my fucking shits?" And with just that remark, the ever-sarcastic driver quickly earned himself a pebble of rock hurled towards him by the somewhat livid Cortez. He then turned towards the seemingly amused Clancy, his face widely grinning. "At least fucking Cortez actually got some nerves to throw rocks at me for playing little harmless fuck-fuck games with him, unlike your fucking Tartaglia lookin'-ass."
"Don't fucking bring me into your KKK racial shits bro." Clancy merely waved the accusatory remark off with an impulsive motion of his gloved hands, his face similarly donning the wide, friendly grin on Evan's face, apparently amused slightly in spite of the aggressive nature of the duo's friendly banter. "I'm trying to fucking forget Cortez's smelly-ass feet infection."
"Aye-aye sailor." Evan sarcastically called out as a reply just as he opened yet another plastic package of M&Ms – the second one in the hour – much to the slight amusement of his team leader and the Corpsman, whose faces are plastered with a hearty grin.
"Well, Evan." Finally and suddenly out of the blue, after spending much of the friendly banter of his fellow teammates in stoic silence, Simon finally spoke up to the boisterous driver with a clearly delighted tone – a contrast to the previously brooding mood of his upon hearing the bad news delivered by the Lieutenant at the usual team leader meeting. "It appears that the platoon's whiny twink Corpsman seems to be right."
His steely eyes remained focused, gazing on the distant imagery of grassy fields stretching far ahead into the verdant horizon and whatever lies beyond as he continued on with a slight grin.
"I think it's time for you to shut the fuck up." The brunette's cold, wittily aloof tone was authoritatively heaved out of his slightly grinning lips, much to the slight amusement of the loud-mouthed ebullient Evan currently glancing at his superior. "That'd be very much appreciated, Corporal Carson."
"Roger that Sergeant!" Evan's cheeky reply, full of taunting sarcasm, swiftly followed soon in the wake of the brunette's half-serious authoritative remark. Witnessing the driver's sardonically casual reaction, Simon and his other compatriots nearby merely replied with a spontaneous snicker of bemusement.
Quickly recovering from the tersely heaved out amused snickering earlier, Simon promptly nodded in affirmation at the reply of his ever-cheerful driver, his actions reflected in kind by the munching Evan as the team leader quickly returned to his earlier state of lounging respite on the vehicle's aging hood.
Once again, with the swift passing of the previously lively banters between the Marines in the wake of the young team leader's bemusedly authoritative urging, the men lazing and idling around casually under the sultry protective shades of Hitman 2-1's shoddily set-up cozy camouflage nets yet again returned to the earlier, prevailing state of silent half-brooding over the recents events; the loss of two of battalion H&S's supply trucks, the reckless assault to seize the fortress and the very fact that they're 13 klicks west of the main forces of the Marine Division relatively deep behind enemy lines among others. Everyone within the mellowy confines of the humble abode had by now returned to their respective business, whether it be radiowatch duties, cleaning and oiling their dusty rifles, machine guns and grenade launchers, munching carefreely on MRE-issued M&Ms or simply day-dreaming, dozing off under the broken-up winking hints of the golden sunlight protruding out of the canvas' miniscule holes.
Save for the few, familiar silhouettes of Bravo Company and its sister unit's various Humvees, MTVR trucks, along with its exasperatedly fatigued Marines idling around the established perimeter of the battalion and the distant, vaguely discernible billowing smokes of small Elvish villages and bombed out enemy positions, the whole landscape of rolling fields and tall, grandiose mountains surrounding it widely stretching out seemingly in every direction appeared to be completely untouched nor affected by the ongoing war between the two giants. The men, numbed and tired after the adrenaline rush assault earlier, chattered and dozed off carefreely under the warm sun rays of the morning, evidently caught up by the mesmerizing cradle of fantastical nature all around them.
The firm yet muddy soil below them, the tall, verdant grasses of the hilly rolling fields stretching into the horizon and the bright, shining beam of the warm sun casted below upon the relatively wide valley of the Duma Plateau made the lush, ethereal landscape currently occupied by the Marines of 1st Reconnaissance Battalion beautifully appear as if it were the fertile Garden of Eden itself. Save for slight blemishes like the horrid stenches of foot infections and the acrid-smelling diesel fuel of the battalion's varying vehicles, the spring scenery of the mountains was exceptionally magnificent. It was especially so for the countryside of an Empire currently at war with a modern-day mechanized juggernaut.
The light-hearted chit-chats continued and dissipated in a cycle throughout the hours, the Marines bathing under the warm morning sunlight with shimmering grace, taking in the sweetly, moist scent of the spring's dazzling streaks of yellowish flowers and the lush, vibrant grassy fields surrounding them. For a brief moment, it felt as if there wasn't even a war raging on all around them. The Traveler, with his relatively small portable camera brought for journalistic purposes, would on a couple of occasions, snap pieces of mesmerizing photos of the wide valley's idyllic countryside, and the Marines themselves lolling around ebulliently.
They idled around in the fields, grimly reflecting on their assault earlier. It was a risky affair, and everyone knew that it could've very well gone horribly wrong. They also knew that they were simply lucky enough to have such a cowardly enemy unwilling to fight, otherwise they could have been bloodied in the ensuing skirmish within the ominous confines of the structure's grandiosely-made wall. None of these factors such as dumb luck and impotent enemy forces were reliable enough for any of them to continue to depend on for their survival. The Marines scattered around the colorfully lush fields had by now, entered into a state of numbed equilibrium, where nothing fazed them anymore; they've been shot at by friendly reservists troops in the darkness of the night, lost two of the battalion's supply trucks that carried vital supplies and equipments for them, gambled on a reckless charge to seize what turned out to be an abandoned, aging fortress.
Amid their silent dwelling of the past, the prickly, rustling sound of grasses and the spring's flowers being trampled upon swiftly brought the Marines lounging under Hitman 2-1's cozy camouflage net back to reality from their previously numbed state. Someone is evidently approaching their mellowy abode, it seems – not like they cared, though. Soon enough, the echoes of footsteps making their way through the vibrant fields beyond, and into the ears of the men respiting within the humble shade stopped, and a burly figure firmly stood under the golden hues of the sunlight.
It was the battalion's senior enlisted man, Sergeant Major Ackermann. His face was livid as he spoke, the ill-concealed seethe erasing any semblance of peaceful respite for the Marines lounging beneath the camo nets. Someone is clearly about to be chewed out.
"What's this with the scuttlebutt that you lost yo' rifle?" The Sergeant Major's southern drawl sounded cold and evidently livid as it escaped his lips, his keen eyes firmly directed towards the men lounging beneath their mellowy abode. They stared back at him, confused and in disbelief.
His attention was focused solely on a single person, his bespectacled features standing out from the dozen of Marines lounging beneath the cover of the same camouflage net : Cortez, whose rifle was lost amid their rushed journey to the fortress last night, much to the machine-gunner's evident disbelief.
"It bounced off my hands when I was trying to fix my NVG mount, Sergeant Major." Without a hint of fear for what's about to come, Cortez truthfully remarked, his voice unyielding as he stared at the burly Sergeant Major of the 1st Recon. The senior enlisted man merely grumbled in response.
"Bounced off yo' hands?" The menacing stare of the senior enlisted man gazed resolutely into Cortez's bespectacled eyes, his brows furrowing and then, arching as he repeated the machine-gunner's level-headed statement with an unamused voice.
"Yes, Sergeant Major." With his compatriots watching the exchange of words between him and the unforgivingly cold Sergeant Major in gloomy bated breath – both massively differing in rank, the machine-gunner continued matter-of-factly in defiance. From his position, Cortez could feel the lividness building up inside the senior enlisted Marine, threatening to burst out in a visceral hail of smelly spit patters and obscene profanity hollered towards him.
His intuition was right.
"That fucking rifle wasn't yo's to lose!" His face menacing and his voice full of anger and disappointment, the senior enlisted man obscenely exclaimed as he lividly leaned closer to the sitting offender, the man's brown complexion resolutely defiant in the face of such intense ass-chewing. "That was the property of the United States Marine Corps! It belonged to every single motherfuckin' Marine!"
The Sergeant Major stopped for a moment, as if to let his snidely words sink into the blank-faced offender. Then, he continued seconds later.
"Because of yo' fai'ure, to secure that rifle, you've jeopardize every Marine servin' today!" The man's astoundingly livid voice clearly stood out, seething and unforgiving as he yelled. Cortez's expression remained blankly defiant, unyielding as small ounces of spit hurled out unknowingly by the screeching Sergeant Major blanketed his glasses, like a searing barrage of rocket artillery covering an entire grid area. "I was considering NJP'ing yo fucking arse."
Stopping his seething rage directed at the unyielding offender sitting ahead, mouth zipped and eyes blinking numbly in audacity as he stared back at him, the apparently livid senior enlisted man quickly turned his attention away from the blank-faced machine-gunner and towards the sole team leader within the camo nets' cozy abode; Simon. The steely, indifferent eyes of the brunette NCO swiftly met with the ones of the Sergeant Major, his complexion menacing and furious as he spoke with visible fury.
"Sergeant Williams! This is what will happens if you get complacent in enforcing the groomin' standards!" The Sergeant Major furiously declared towards the team leader, donning the usual undeterred facade of stoic aloofness, and his half a dozen fellow compatriots lounging nearby, their attention now focused solely on the ongoing session of ass-chewing. "The man gets all relaxed, and other standards start to fall."
Behind the veil of his stoically indifferent lips, Simon gritted his teeth in frustration at the sudden shift of attention to him. The Sergeant Major gestured towards the Mexican machine-gunner, his face still resolute in the face of such intense scolding and such grotesque feet infection. The sound of an M&M packaging being clumsily opened filled the air, and with it, the ass-chewing resumed.
"Devil dog right 'ere stopped usin' his goddamn sling," The mean-faced enlisted man boisterously declared, his posture exaggeratedly dramatic much to the suppressed amusement of the Marines watching nearby, his head meanwhile nodding grimly towards the undeterred Cortez. "his rifle went up into the night and goes fuckin' missin', and our defensive posture is weakened."
With his little scolding session done with, the senior enlisted man returned his menacing gaze back towards the brunette, the glum expression of resignation plastered visibly on his aloof face. He nodded in affirmation, silently wishing that the man's elongated, barely-comprehensible speech tainted with his astoundingly thick southern accent to be over with.
"Yes, Sergeant Major." The look of aloof, stoically bleak resignation was dominant on his pale-white complexion as he nodded in affirmation, his affirming words exasperated as was his eyes. All he wanted to do now was to get back to his little respite.
Fortunately for him, his prayers deep-inside were answered almost immediately by the angels high above, as if he himself were a saint asking for guidance on a religious matter. The fuming senior enlisted man, seeing the team leader's resigned nod of affirmation, promptly returned the gesture grumbly, indignant and still apparently livid. He swept one final glance towards the lounging men beneath their humble, cozy abode, before finally leaving – much to the men's evident relief, his face still furious from such insolence by the enlisted Marine he had just chewed out seconds earlier. All that was there in the wake of the SNCO leaving, was silence, nothing but the sulking silence of resignation lingering over their heads for the moment.
There was however, the metallic clank of the men blankly cleaning and oiling their respective weaponry, plus the occasional arbitrary munching of Evan, his casual actions now joined by his brown-haired superior, both men shoving barrages of M&M sweets down their dried throats with a seemingly uncaring face, the brownish package passed usually between the two deadpanned. The driver however, as blank and expressionless his complexion was, would soon succumb to the indomitable urge to heave a goofy remark, unable to be suppressed by the ever-talkative Marine amidst the unrelenting ass-chewing.
The sulking silence lingering within their abode was broken asunder, the sound of Evan quizzically wheezing. He's evidently amused, bewildered by the earlier over-the-top scolding of the battalion's senior-most enlisted man, and now, out of the man's earshot, he goofily quipped, a hearty giggle appropriately accompanying as he audibly munched on the MRE's aged candies.
"What? What the fuck does his illiterate-ass fucking groomin' standards had to do anything with Cortez losing his fucking rifle, dude?" He quizzically remarked, his head quickly glancing, as if to gouge a reaction from the man, at the ever-stoic team leader recuperating casually nearby on the Humvee's astoundingly dusty hood. A snort or two came immediately in the wake of his bemused quip as he continued, nonchalantly deadpanned as he did so. "I mean, shit man, at least Cortez ain't the fucking retard that lost two of the battalion's supply trucks."
The Marines respiting nearby merely cackled and snickered slightly upon, their – including Cortez's – lips wide smiling and their eyes stealing a glance or two towards the driver as they continued on with their earlier task, a hearty grin donned as a sign that they were evidently amused by Evan's light-heartedly crude attempt to lighten the tension lingering in the air.
"Fuck that dickhead's grooming standards anyway," Clancy nodded in agreement with a quizzically bemused smile, his face clearly exasperated as he remarked, his back lying down recuperating on a relatively small pile of metal boxes of ammunitions. "what the fuck does it has anything to do with our fucking combat effectiveness on the field? It's not like it's Cortez's fault that he lost his rifle because the fucking NVGs are so fucking fucked up, you can't see jack shit with it."
"Yeah." The Mexican machine-gunner visibly grimaced as he mumbled disappointedly beneath his breath, his head hung in the air, sulking apparently. He merely shook it in disbelief, continuing on with his disgruntled brooding. He glanced at his team's open-top Humvee grimly, idly parked beneath a suspended camo net like the one he's lounging under. "If only that stupid-ass Italian motherfucker actually took some time planning on his fucking assault on that fort over there and at least manage our supply situation a bit more fucking better, maybe I wouldn't have fucking lost my M4 because of the piece of shit NVGs that I had to fix every fucking second."
Cortez, still grimacing and disgruntled by the lost of his rifle and the less than pleasant foot infections ravaging below on his very feet, merely picked up a pebble of rock sitting idly on the ground, the pieces hollered over frustratedly by the man over the heads of his similarly grimly amused comrades and into the vibrant fields beyond. The stone bits slowly grew fainter as it seared itself through the air, abruptly disappearing on the sweetly atmosphere of the rolling landscape of green beyond. He shook his head, the menacing words of the battalion's grumpy Sergeant Major still resonating clearly within his head.
"Point is, man, is that we'll always have to follow fuckin' Godfather wherever the fuck he pleases to go, no matter how fucked up the entire goddamn shithole is." He cursed under his cursed audibly, making it abundantly clear that he's exasperated by the series of very unfortunate events befalling the battalion throughout its bizarre journey thus far.
A foot or two ahead of him, his black team leader, Dow, agitatedly entered the team's humble abode as his gauntly silhouette emerged from the fields beyond, his face somewhat apprehensive and perturbed as he approached the lounging Marines hecticly, his weapons clenched tightly within his grip. His face bespoke grim, as was his hurried posture. In the far-away distance, outlines of distant figures, hurried and growing steadily in size, crisscrossed the verdant greenery, their nigh-indiscernible bodies contrasting starkly with the luxuriant emerald-like grasses.
"Sai, we got a whole-ass fuckin' family of cat-eared motherfuckers gathering outside the wire." Dow casually exclaimed, his voice calm and precise in spite of his highly alarmed expression. Everyone's brows promptly furrowed upon getting wind of the remark, bewilderment and confusion on clear display. He stood by the napping brunette lounging upon the Humvee's hood, before continuing grimly. "You got to fucking see this goofy-ass shit dawg."
The sleep-deprived Simon groaned in evident frustration, somewhat disappointed by the fact that his ever-loyal assistant leader had just disturbed any semblance of peaceful respite for him. Yet, he didn't complain at all, instead merely opting to hear what Dow had to say as he gathered his gears, lying nearby basking under the morning's orange sun rays. He simply looked into the eyes of his second-in-command in silence, the man responding swiftly with an eyebrow flash, and a gesture urging the brunette to follow him to whatever the hell is currently unfolding on the company's encampment perimeter.
Still puzzled by the sudden, alarmed deeds of his darker skinned compatriot, Simon merely exchanged one final glance with the casually idle Evan lounging nearby. The driver's back lay comfortably inside the mellowly confines of a recently dug fighting hole situated by the Humvee, his deadpanned eyes gazing keenly into the green ones of his team leader.
"Don't look at me, dude," Evan shrugged, his voice making it abundantly clear that he's in a sardonic mood as he glanced towards Dow, the burly assistant team leader already well on his way towards the developing situation unfolding nearby. "just fucking follow him or something to whatever the fuck's happening outside the wire."
His sarcastically rational remark was treated with dead silence, the brunette responding merely to it with an intently terse glare before setting off, following in the trail of his assistant team leader earlier. Evan was quick to react to the sudden exit of his stoically aloof superior as he threw his hand into the air, the expression displayed on his face visibly puzzled.
"What?" The driver perplexedly inquired, his casual-sounding voice a confused mix of bemusement and evident bewilderment. He'd receive no answer though, the brunette's long gone into his terse journey and clearly out of his earshot. He quizzically turned towards the rest of his fellow compatriots lounging within the camouflage nets, his face still perplexed and bewildered much to their evident amusement. "The fuck's the matter with him?"
A/N Glossary for military terms should be in Chapter 21.3 "An Unforeseen Mutiny".