"We schwacked their fucking kids up with arty." Miles stared at his hands numbly, the translucent medical latex gloves covering it crimson-red with the dripping blood of the boys. He felt sickened, angered even. Like a fortunate survivor of the bloody Holocaust, a permanent marker had been emblazoned lightly within the warm, dying touch of the kids' palm, injuries detailed upon it professionally by the devastated Corpsmen.
"Yeah," His mate, Clancy of the Second Platoon, similarly continued to curse under his breath just like him, as they hurriedly treated the kids laid before them, bloodied and smelling strangely like copper from all of the blood that had dripped out. "Fucking trigger-happy motherfucks."
He had been called over to his sister platoon rather frantically by the unusually agitated Sergeant Sutherby. His eyes, tired and begging for the owner to just sleep to make up for the fatigueness he had felt after spending so much time in the ever-changing battlefield, had gone wide open spontaneously upon being briefed of the situation. In less than a minute or two, he had packed up all of his medical kits, gears and was well on his way to assist his fellow Corpsman in triaging the mortally wounded, bloodied boys.
Now here he is, crouching over one of the two, grotesquely wounded kids like a guardian angel. Both their complexions had turned ghostly, pale white, and their eyes flickered, the boys trying to keep it open with visible Herculean effort. It was an alarming warning to the Corpsmen that they're losing blood, and are nearing the grisly fate of death awaiting them. His face betrayed no emotion, yet he felt a sickening feeling of anger, and was certainly quite shaken up by the ghastly sight. He couldn't believe that this had all happened because of one, stupidly unnecessary fire mission.
Their sickeningly filthy gears, mottled camouflage fatigues, grimy vests, latex gloves and even their dusted complexion, had been smeared gruesomely by the blood splashing from the holes blown open across the kids' chest, the several dozen wide-open wounds spraying crimson-red upon their guardian angel. Their faces appeared as if they had for some reason, chosen to play a game of tag in a sea of red paint.
Close, the brunette team leader of his buddy stood sentinel nearby with an IV saline bag in his grip, sickened, shaken just like them both and eyes welling with tears. He fought back so hard, yet still running down his pale cheeks, cleansing away any presence of aloof stolidness upon his complexion. Other Marines stood guard close nearby, setting security around their medically-trained comrade-in-arms. They stole glances occasionally, faces numbed with emotion, yet disgusted deep within.
The Traveler, the platoon's resident pale-faced journalist, ever-inquisitive by nature, had also grouped up with the rest of the Marines due to the hectic commotion unraveling on the edge of the shoddy encampment's perimeter. He himself hesitated to take even a single picture of the ongoing treatment by two, not wanting to be scorned by the unit he worked so hard to be embedded with as some opportunistic, apathetic reporter just wanting to get some stories out and maybe some Pulitzer prize. He observed from afar the treatment, hands busily working as he wrote down the scene on the miniscule notebook of his, not daring to even entertain the idea of pulling his camera out.
At the edge of his eyesight, a trio of figures abruptly arrived and immediately blended into the commotion, their mottled, grimy features and filthy MARPAT cammies making it very clear they're just another group of Marines crowding to see the unraveling commotion. Their posture appeared hecticly distressed, pushing past the lines of well-established security their comrades had formed frantically. One of them emerged out of the three, approaching him blankly, face numbly grave and posture hurried.
Lt. Mistral beckoned towards him gravely, motioning rather curtly for the reporter to get to him quickly. He let no second go to waste, already striding closer to the seemingly grim-faced platoon commander with a hurried jog, his embedded gears and canteens banging about in a metallic melody as he did so. The Lieutenant immediately pulled him aside, tugging at him to inch closer to the grisly, palpable scenery unraveling beneath the ginger care of the laboring Corpsmen, engrossed and hard at work as they continued on with the desperate triage.
The acrid, copper-like stench of blood trickling steadily out of the mortally wounded kids smeared the pristine atmosphere of the natural cradle that is the verdant greenery all around them, their horrid, gnarly tang seemingly serving as the ghastly conveyer of the Lieutenant's numbed, sickened words.
"Look," The Lieutenant tugged at his shoulder, motioning grimly towards the triaged, mortally-wounded boys under the two Corpsman's care. His voice sounded calm, gravely so, and his head swung around, turning steadily to face the puzzled reporter with a grimy complexion, ready to speak. 'I'm not going to prevent you from doing your job, I have no rights to tell you whatever the fuck you want to do. But I'll tell you this, this is madness. This is freakin' madness."
Thus spoke the Lieutenant grimly, not a glint of innocence left in his weary eyes as he faced keenly the inquisitive, yet sickened reporter. He watched, gravely so, as the Traveler scribbled down his words onto his notebook, and there was hesitation reserved within for the young journalist exposed to the bloody lair of modern warfare. The paper sheets of the notepad were covered with grime from the verdant soil below, their red-brownish complexion almost as brightly crimson as the stinking, dried blood pouring out of the mortally wounded kids sitting ahead in a ceaseless rhythm.
His face scowled at the sight, disgusted by the sight and holding contempt for whatever had led to this gruesome ordeal, as with others. They stared numbly at the grimy, pale faces of the kids, dying kids. It shone, blood smears, dusts and their innocent eyes alike, like a saintly figure with a halo glinting over his holy head, from the innumerous rays of the different, yet familiarly mellowy and warm sunny beam of this other-worldly sun.
The Lieutenant strided ahead, his posture fatigued yet professional like a model officer, and his sleep-deprived face unyielding with numbed graveness as he approached hurriedly the two Corpsmen laboring their best to prevent the unseen grim reaper from taking the boys away forever. They had done this, and it should be their utmost job to save these unfortunate collateral, a consequence of their rash action. Still, some higher-ups in the battalion certainly didn't share the sentiment that he, his Marines and the ever-stolid journalist held, their indifferent shrugs and smugly smirk of dismissiveness angering him within.
It was truly terrible for him, one of the few competent officers of the battalion, to be the bearer of the bad news to his men, whom he had respected so much, and in turn revered him. He felt a sickening foreboding in his stomach, as he delivered the news of the rejection for the CASEVAC request for the boys by their very leaders.
"I have some bad news," His voice sounded faintly dejected and gauntly as he delivered the less-than-pleasant news, yet his face stood unyieldingly resolute, staring down the two laboring Corpsmen with nonchalant keenness. "the battalion denied the request to CASEVAC the boys. I even told the fuckers they're urgent surgical."
The two stopped their vital work, their necks moving at unfathomable speed to face their platoon commander. Their faces were incredulously distraught as they replied, gazing dazedly in disbelief at the numbed Lieutenant.
"What the fuck?" It was Clancy, out of him and Miles, to stammer out first. His distraught, yet boyishly-pale face had become shingly from the convening grime and bits of blood, his voice raspy and dry, yet unusually soothed as it came out of his frowning lips. "That's absolutely fucked up! Sir, please, these kids are fucking dying, and the battalion's saying these guys can go fuck themselves? Please, ask them again, Christ."
He swept his gaze away from the Lieutenant and towards the Battalion Surgeon, his glare livid.
"I'm gonna go ask the Lieutenant Colonel again." The Battalion Surgeon, Navy Lieutenant Anderson, promptly interjected with nonchalance. He traded a glance tersely with his fellow sailor, similarly distraught as he do so, and then, the dull, metallic clankings of his clunky gear indicated the start of his shuttle towards 1st Recon's command lair that is their COC, his journey eyed by the Corpsmen with gravely frown across their lips.
In the wake of his frantic departure for the COC, in a futile attempt to request the permission needed to evacuate the boys about to be taken away by the ever-elusive grim reaper, their company commander Captain Walt promptly trailed behind the hurriedly surgeon in grim silence, hoping that his presence as a Marine Skipper would at least do something to change the indifferent attitudes held by their superiors. After all, his Company's Senior Enlisted Man had indirectly caused the horrible ordeal, and it was only natural for an exemplary leader like him to fix it by all means necessary.
Their leisurely jog soon turned abruptly into a hurriedly sprint, fueled by the ghastly knowledge that is the alarming state of which the kids are losing blood, and adrenaline itself. An obnoxious buzz searing through the noon's pristinely clean air caught everyone's attention away from the frantic surgeon slipping away into the embrace of the plateau's lush fields, their hectic gaze in search of the apparently man-made noise pausing even the most crucial of the triages and treatments.
The intruding dull, low-pitched rattles resolved itself into a tiny speck of gray circling in the heavenly dimensions above like a keenly eagle. It was nothing, but mere one of the Marine Division's varying surveillance UAVs, hunting with unparalleled intent for it's favorite prey; a defenseless band of suicidally brave Saderan fighters, be it the hastily-formed fanatic militias, flashy mages or true legionnaire professionals. Everyone below merely gawked at the metallic contraption with a grave demeanor, as if itself were an artificial distraction from the ongoing, deathly matter going about.
The horrid, ear-splitting whine of artillery rounds bursting forth through the clear skies whistled abruptly to everyone's ears, its horrifying melody singing to the frightened nature below. The fluffy ears of the nomadic cat-peoples recuperating nearby instinctively closed, as if to protect them from the roar of an approaching predator, and the other-worldly Marines gawked on in stunned silence, a neon flash high above in the distance amidst the bright sunny daylight of Falmart stabbing their exposed eyes.
Like innumerous, dying stars falling away together from their galactic thrones amid the darkness of the universe, the white phosphorus shells that had stunned them all with its abruptly entrance into the quiet cradle of the fields combusted curtly in the distance, letting loose its deathly contents of sparkling incendiaries flashing akin to a saintly halo amidst the sunny daylight, and onto the unfortunate receivers below; the UAVs had found their defenseless prey. The neon-like sparks of the munitions crackled and flickered faintly in the distance, cursing the defenseless Saderans perched illusively behind the shrouds of the ancient conifers pooling the gentle slopes of the Alps-like, grayish mountains in the horizon ahead to a certain, fiery death.
As while everyone were dazedly gawking at the distant, angelically white flash cursing their enemies below to a man-made firestorm, a grave grunt was heaved out of Clancy, his guardian angel-like gaze on the gorily-wounded boys below unyielding.
"We can afford to have fucking drones to fly in and direct arty dropping literal fucking fires on dirt-sniffing cavemen fuckers," His seething, Brooklyn-accented voice held back within an ill-concealed anger at the ridiculousness of the situation, and the indifferent attitudes of their leading field officers. He angrily eyed towards the skies above, cursing softly. "yet we couldn't fucking spend some radio call to save these kids?"
He fought back the urge to flare up a mutiny, and his angered remark was suppressed deep by himself, silenced slightly in a genuine effort to not frighten the kids below with the raging wrath of a navy sailor. The two boys laid on their back, bloodied and smeared with crimson as were their chest, the bucolic sunshine flashing down the bodily blemish. The bright, mottled red glowed beneath the light, as if to mirror the faint flash their innocent eyes held. Everyone nearby agreed with his grimace deep within, a stunned, grimly silence of revelation reigning, now that they were finally faced with the consequences of their recklessly actions. Simon stood resolutely by, an IV saline bag helping to lengthen the inevitable fate about to meet the kids, and eyes holding anguished, shimmering tears.
Clancy watched in sickened silence, as the blank, unspoken lips of the dying boys resolved itself into a dazed, child-like smile. Their bright, innocent eyes, hopeful and mirrored with the bright vision of their peaceful future, gazed excitedly at the distant bombardment. Not a hint of pain, nor anger, nor sadness, was held in their incongruously cheery disposition. Their cheeks were red, from both blood squeezing out of the holes in their guts, and the comforting excitement of the light show, the neon-like, innumerous heavenly flashes of the several dozen, distant bursts. Like dimming stars, the distant, cascading storm of Willy Petes soothed the dying in a dazed, twisted irony.
The silenced aftermath of the dazzling strikes of cascading White Phosphorus ushered in the Marines with the hasty arrival of their company commander, and the Battalion Surgeon racing back towards them. Their faces betrayed no emotions, no heed paid to the heavenly light show illuminating the distant foot of the snow-capped mountains afar. They appeared defeated as they approached their expectant subordinates, complexion gauntly, anguishedly so.
Clancy looked up, glancing back and forth between the dreadfully-wounded kids under his care – likely, very likely to die in the coming hours if left untreated, and the approaching duo of officers – the few inside the battalion whom he wholly trusted, besides their exemplary platoon commander. The numbed, dusted face of his contorted into a despairing frown, already anticipating inside what's about to be said. The two's demeanors said it all.
"No, Doc, we can't MEDEVAC or CASEVAC the kids, the battalion commander doesn't want to be bothered with it." The revered surgeon, Lt. Anderson, shook his head, his face one of ill-concealed despair. Even with his skillful medical traits, the kids couldn't be saved, a thing he is very much aware of, anguishing over it.
Clancy stared back at him, ghastly and despairing, face as red as his fuzzy boyish hair, livid. No words came out of him, silenced by the sheer gravity of the news; their commanding officers had pretty much left the kids to die, and they knew it full well. The chain of command was essentially passing the consequences to the youngest, and most vulnerable, of the troops. By his side, the smaller-built Miles gazed down the eyes of the numbed boys, his latex medical gloves smeared with bloody gore as he skillfully treated the kids.
His gaze was unyielding, never even taken off from the kids before him as he spoke.
"Well," He audibly muttered, numbed and devoid of any emotions, his sunken, gauntly eyes staring down at the kids before him like a faithful guardian angel, unmoving. "that just sucks, ain't it?"
Captain Walt sighed in exasperation, his exhausted body gingerly laying down on a lush, clean-smelling patch of the continent's characteristically verdant grasses, breathless after the inconclusive back and forth with the battalion's command lair.
"Fuck, mistakes like these happen in war, Doc." The Captain tiredly heaved out, his face caked with grime that had caught onto him amidst the shuttle to the Battalion COC in a desperate effort to evacuate the dying boys. His usually authoritative voice sounded hoarse, dried and dehydrated after the hurried sprint.
"That's some bullshit, Skipper." Clancy promptly snapped, shooting gauntly the exasperated company commander a dreadful glare in defiance of his rank, still incredulous by the dismissive attitude of their leaders. He lowered his voice in tere realization, yet still continued, unyielding as he gestured towards the two boys lying down nearby. "We're Recon Marines, our whole fucking job is to observe far-away enemies. We don't go around, joy-riding and blowing little children up. Bring the fucking First Sarn't here, he's the one who called in that bad arty."
The Captain gauntly stared back, doing nothing to counter the Corpsman's despaired remark. He found himself agreeing with it, a slight nod accompanying slowly.
"Don't put it on him," He muttered meekly, guilty deep within. He put his hands up, covering subconsciously his haggard, weary eyes from the immense guilt weighing him down. "I'm the one who approved the fire mission."
"Yeah? Don't lie to yourself, sir. You're not the one who completely fucked up the call-for-fire."
To his side, the commander of his company's Second Platoon stood in silenced anguish, watching in hidden despair as his men strained hard trying to save the mortally-wounded kids condemned to die by the battalion, and fate itself. Every part of the boys' body hadn't been spared by the metallic shrapnels of the artillery that had ravaged them two, the Lieutenant looking away from the bloodied children in angered disgust. His Corpsman had told him the younger one would die in an hour or so if left untreated, which they probably will after such a dismissive attitude that greeted his call for help, and the older one would be left alone, before following suit with the impending demise.
He simply couldn't bear watching the whole ordeal unfold before his entire platoon anymore, livid at the command and personally devastated. He strided away from the gruesome scene, and towards the surgeon sitting close nearby, his steps hurried as he walked. A tug or two at the naval officer's dusted shoulders gained his attention rather quickly, and he promptly pulled him aside, urgency within his eyes and movement frantic as he did so. Captain Walt and the journalist joined them, deathly silent, beyond exhausted, yet sympathetic in their intention.
"Sir, the battalion says these kids can get fucked." The Lieutenant began the conversation grimly, the surgeon and the company commander listening keenly on what he had to say. He glanced at the gauntly two and then at the journalist, all similarly devastated as were him, before continuing further in despair. "They want us to let them die. What are the rules if you take control of a casualty?"
The hazel-haired surgeon doctor, Lt. Anderson, stood before the two in anguished, thoughtful silence. He had grown up on the tropical beaches of Hawaii to an upper-middle class family, and preppy vibes could be felt to anyone that had spoken to him. Even right now, in his astoundingly grimy MARPAT cammies, donning filthy utility and kevlar protective vest draped over aforementioned figures, and a dusted M9 Beretta characteristic of an American military officer slung across his chest on a holster, he's the type of guy one would expect with a nice tan, and in loafers with no socks.
He's certainly the last man anyone would have expected to formulate a daring plan for an insurrection, a mutiny, in clear defiance of their dismissively indifferent field officers. Amidst the unyielding, devastated silence, his gloomy face abruptly lit up in spite of the convening grime and dust, as if an idea had formed so suddenly within his mind. After nobody had broken such despairing silence with any words, he quietly glanced towards the keen, desperate trio gathered around him. He then looked towards his fellow sailors – Corpsman – ahead, laboring and straining unforgivingly in thinly-veiled desperation in valiant defiance of fate.
"Put him in my care."
"What?" Clancy paused abruptly amidst the restless triaging of the boys before him, the gauntly, darkened face of his morosely perplexed as he glanced at the revered surgeon. The trio of the Lieutenant, Captain and the albino journalist mirrored the Corpsman's reaction, each of their eyebrows furrowed slightly in expectation.
"Under the rules, we have to provide him with care until they die." The surgeon told them all with determination, unyielding defiance laced audibly within his voice. He gestured towards the kids lying on the stretchers placed on the ground, the olive cloth canvas, bloodied with bits of meat and brightly crimson, shimmering faintly under the warm light of the sun. "Put him in my care, I stay next to the battalion commander. If he's under my care, the boys will stay with me by the COC. The Lieutenant Colonel might change his mind if he has to watch the boys die before his very eyes."
He glanced tersely at the platoon commander standing nearby, idle in thoughtful silence. The young Lieutenant, with a despaired, gloomy air seemingly hanging by his side, continued staring ahead into the wilderness beyond numbly, his outwardly facade gauntly as he sickeningly fought and anguished over the bold, proposed plan of the surgeon deep within. Approving it would no doubt be an affront to the dismissive field officers high in the battalion's hierarchy of the pack, and a non-washable stain for his future career in the Marines. The whole thing's bordering on a mutiny after all, he mused inside.
Yet, in spite of that, he defiantly endorsed the proposed plan deep inside. Had he stood by idly, doing nothing, watching in terrific silence as the kids slipped away into the realm of death before the very eyes of the young men he had led into battle, the entire platoon would have fallen apart certainly. Had he not done anything to save the boys, and simply sat by, he wholly expected losing both Simon and Doc Clancy, the two already sickeningly despaired and inconsolable by the overwhelming ordeal. He grimaced gravely, estimating quietly within his own mind that there'll at least be another 40 days of ceaseless combat awaiting the weary, haggardly Marines like a faithful spouse in the gloomy, uncertain near-future, and his best men had became combat-ineffective – beyond angry at their indifferent commanders, and privately devastated.
He didn't care if they put the two kids on a MEDEVAC helicopter only for them to die several dozen minutes later, he had to get the bloods off the hands of the platoon, off his hands, and off the shoulders of the young, crudely foul-mouthed, ultraviolent and itching for battle with their primitive adversary, yet undeniably innocent Marines within his closely-knitted pack. They really had to do something.
The Lieutenant curtly swung his head to the left, a morose, deathly silence lingering as he did so. He eyed his company commander, and the gloomy journalist that stood close quietly with intentful keenness, awaiting with unyielding patience for the Captain's imperative input. Captain Walt promptly glanced back, his baggy, sleep-deprivedly gaunt face betraying no emotions as he stared back at his subordinate, the facade put-up unspokenly blank. Then, he nodded slightly, an unspoken approval of the mutinous plan instantaneously given out to the despairing Marines of his subordinate's platoon.
Lt. Mistral shot back an unyielding glance towards his numbed company commander, his despairing lips contorting into a hearty, gracious smile of appreciation. He then swiftly averted his keen gaze away from the Captain, and back to his laboring Marines, and with a authoritative voice, clear imperativeness laced throughout it, he hollered down audibly.
"Gather the stretchers!" The tersely urgent, audible shout of his sent everyone's tired, dazed attention turning abruptly towards him, apparently caught off-guard by the sudden directive of their platoon commander, moments ago consumed by an ill-concealed air of despair and anger. Then, they all began to work, lingering upon the gravely words no more. "Get the kids on it, the battalion surgeon taking them under his care, come on fellas."
The Marines strained wearily beneath the sunny, golden light, their shadows criss-crossing with the ebulliently-green grasses of the plateau swaying gingerly from the passing breeze, their soft movement as if dancing to the same rhythm as it all moved about in a hectically composed beat. They labored strenuously with the mortally-wounded kids, their gravely bloodied hands treading lightly with acute care. The boys stared back at the frantic movement of the gentle invaders of their land with a child-like curiosity, the astounding grimacing of pain hidden behind the sentinel mask of ashen puzzlement.
"Alright gents, in 3, 2, 1, go!"
They lined up the two, grimy stretchers in a column line, the men tasked with the upsetting task of carrying the dying boys gravely as they moved about. Yet, in spite of the gathered Marines' gauntly complexion, they stared ahead expectantly, hoping deep within that this mutinous course of action would save the fatally-wounded cat-kids and redeem themselves from the grisly blood on their guilt-ridden hands.
Simon and Doc Clancy, along with half a dozen others of their fellow compatriots holding the IV saline bag high in the air, took on the gruesome task of carrying the lead stretcher. Laboring and straining greatly throughout the way, blood and charred meats from the holes lodged with innumerous artillery shrapnels continuously dropped below like a suppressed waterfall, its deathly red stain smearing their filthy combat boots and mottled MARPATs, and in its immediate wake, a trail of bright crimson lining their despaired march to the Battalion COC to anyone trailing close behind. Immediately behind them, the second stretcher carrying the less serious but still dying boy followed their comrades ahead faithfully.
Laid on their back, bloodied astoundingly, the kids stared lifelessly towards the pristine heavens high above, their unyielding innocent eyes seemingly detached from any grisly pain their other-worldly-inflicted wound had wrought to their petite figures. The two bounced up and down buoyantly as the gentle, caring invaders hurriedly began their hectic, desperate march from Bravo Company position, towards the shoddy, hastily-made command lair of the Reconnaissance Battalion half a kilometer or more ahead, the innumerous numbed and distraught family members and cat-peoples of their nomadic tribe trailing close behind, the teary-eyed mother occasionally sweeping past to check on her dying kittens, others maintaining resolutely their graceful, serene complexion, face lightly emblazoned colorfully with honorable tribal tattoos. They gawked about along the way, marveling in stoic, well-concealed awe at the well-oiled, modern killing machine that had brought such biblical devastation, amidst their unyielding, mechanized march of several thousand men through the bucolic plateau.
The various plethora of dustied, mottled gears, grenades, sidearms and rifles of the Marines bounced back and forth in an obnoxious staccato of metallic rattlings, their hurriedly stride towards the dismissive lair of indifferent officers unyielding in the face of such sunny, warm light of the bucolic spring. The forlorn, ancient grasses of the plateau, swaying about lazily from the mountainous breeze, grazed tenderly the hasty troops and the wounded children they carried, the disappearing, shimmering morning dew seemingly baptizing the dying and the guilty. Ahead, the aging, beaten-up silhouettes of the abandoned Saderan fort dominated their blank vision, and with it, the distant sight of the muddied COC of the battalion before it, and the shoddy battalion aid station that sat very close by to the right. Like the lush, idyllic vegetations they had passed amidst their march, the camo nets and filthy tents nestling the command post within wobbled from the passing gentle winds, a constant reminder of their questionable quality and the time it had been set up in haste.
A slight, feeble squint of his weary eyes had the Lieutenant's dazed, sleep-deprived vision focused on one figure in the distance ahead, his face reddening slightly in anger by impulsive instinct. It was the Major, the dismissive, indifferent battalion executive officer he had morosely conversed with earlier in vain. He gulped, trying to formulate a response to the soon-to-be furious superior of his lounging about within the protective sanctuary of the command tent and camo nets for this mutinous action that he had made, the battalion surgeon hastily planned, and approved in an instant by his rather hesitant yet sympathetic company commander.
The Marines soon arrived at the shoddy headquarters of the 1st Reconnaissance Battalion, moving hurriedly past the muddied Humvees and trucks parked arbitrarily nearby, and weaving gingerly through the sprawling ant-farm of radio antennas. Its tall form reached ambitiously towards the clear, bluish heavens beyond, the sentinel devices swaying gingerly like lush grasses on the fields they had passed before from the torrent of chilly, astoundingly cold winds of the surrounding mountains. They strode numbly towards the filthy entrance to the command lair, the family members of the dying boys and their comfortingly serene tribal fellows trailing faithfully behind the gentle other-wolders. The Major, lounging carefreely on a haphazardly placed boxes of differing ammunition and MREs, clearly hasn't expected an entire nomad group of natives to be knocking up his door whilst he were busy recuperating. He gazed ahead at the rag-tag group of grave-faced troops, and the cat-peoples in tow, aghast and overwhelmed by the exodus.
Clancy and Simon, straining at the front of the first stretcher, strode silently towards the command post sitting ahead through the opulent fields of forlorn grasses, the fortress sitting beyond it as if to mock the despaired, young Marines with its ancient grandioseness. There were tears of guilt in their eyes, ill-concealed. They would arrive at the COC mere minutes later, a shuttling exodus of unyielding grunts and nomadic cat-people in their tow. The Major, watching ghastly the mutinous actions of the men and their sympathetic officers, and his little respite interrupted so abruptly by such ordeal, glared lividly at the Lieutenant trailing with the group, and then towards the battalion surgeon. No words ever came out, whatever held within his mind cut-off tersely by a sudden remark from one of the enlisted troops.
"Here you go, sir." Clancy remarked numbly, an unyielding defiance held in his eyes as he and Simon lowered the stretcher, the boy cradled within unmoving. The Marines, and the nomadic cat-peoples trailing faithfully behind mirrored the actions of their compatriots ahead, the ground and the stretcher's canvas, laid widely before the Major's eyes and the battalion headquarters, glow a dazzling crimson from the unabated sunlight, smeared vibrantly by the dried dripping blood. "You want to let them die? They can fucking die here in front of your tent."
They gingerly laid the two stretchers before the Major and the humble COC command post that laid behind in resolute defiance, the dismissive officers lounging within bearing witness to such ordeal with their very eyes. The boys' clothes, cut-open by the hasty triage of the Corpsman, donned bright crimson that mottled its smooth, skillfully-sewed fabric. They stood about silently, gears, vests, rifles, helmets and utility equipment astoundingly filthy with innumerous specks of little grimes, their numbed, despairing eyes staring gravely ahead, anguishing deep inside.
Major Ross, who, for once, had nothing left to utter, appeared anguishedly restless as he eyed the bloodied, gruesomely-wounded children before him, the unyieldingly numbed stares of the innumerous enlisted Marines of Bravo Company weighing down on him like the judging gaze of the heavenly beings. Now faced with a small-scale mutiny of the young reconnaissance troops, and the growing realization that forthcoming posterity would frown ghastly on infantry officers who sat by while dying kids, eyes bright with pristine innocence, passed away of gnarly artillery-inflicted wounds, he slipped tersely around the back of the frail-ly set up tent to wake their sleeping battalion commander.
They patiently awaited the anticipated arrival of Godfather, the several dozen staff officers nestled cozily beneath the humble command tent's innumerable maze of cackling radios and grimy maps gazing at the mutinous troops, and the tribespeople in tow gravely, their filthy faces darkened considerably. The forlorn, ancient grasses of the plateau stood wobbly, bearing witness to the uneasy stand-off. With all of the tribespeople, full of hope that their sons would be saved from a certain demise by the gentle, other-worldly invaders, pouring into the camo nets and its close vicinity, it even appeared as if the battalion's perimeter wires itself had collapsed and overran. A rapid, ceaseless succession of hurriedly steps from within the COC's mellow abode sent the men of Bravo Company turning to meet the such abrupt source, their dazed, sleep-deprived stares expectant of what lay ahead.
A burly figure strode hurriedly out of the dim cradle of the command post's abode, veins popping visibly on his sweaty forehead in a show of ill-concealed anger, and his eyes locked fiercely with the mutinying Marines. He stood before the ghastly scene of evident insurrection and man-made devastation, blood spurting like a well-maintained fountain, and the vibrant grasses below soaked and bathed in deep crimson. They wobbled lazily from the chilly winds, swaying forlornly against the filthy reconnaissance men caught amidst their bucolic embrace.
The Sergeant Major waded his way frantically through the bustling COC, veins on his forehead pulsing wildly in barely restrained anger. He would soon emerge from the COC's elaborate, yet shoddily-crafted pair of forlorn tents and camo nets of dubious quality. His dustied face glowed vibrantly from the scattered sunlight, unyieldingly resolute as he confronted this mutinous breakdown of military discipline unfolding before his very eyes.
"What the fuck is goin' on 'round here, devil dogs?!" His gravelly, hick-like voice bellowed coldly to the small crowd of men before him, their aloof faces unyieldingly defiant as they stared ahead numbly, eyes gaunt and faces haggard. As if to curse the dying boys, he nodded towards the bloodied stretchers lying stoically behind lushy blades of ancient grasses, livid and angered by such a munitous show of action by the enlisted Marines. "And what the fuck are y'all thinkin' y'all doin'?!"
"We brought him here to die." An acrid smoke curled out of Miles' mouth as he spoke gravely, the dangling, burned cigarette on his dreadfully dry lips breathing out stinging nicotine towards the Sergeant Major. He stood before the senior enlisted man, in clear, bold defiance of his authoritative powers within the battalion. He stared numbly ahead, weary and blank, beyond sickened even after witnessing such a ghastly ordeal.
He's just thankful overall, knowing his status as a revered Corpsman certainly had prevented the Sergeant Major, already livid beyond comprehension by this abrupt insurrection, from lashing out further. Pursing his lips by impulse, he warily eyed in silenced anticipation as the Sergeant Major gazed down upon the dying children.
The Sergeant Major's eyelids narrowed slightly as he coldly stared down the bloodied stretchers, the pulsing veins upon his forehead unforgivingly visible to the weary band of Marines gathered within.
"Get these boys outta fuckin' here." With fiercely disdain in his eyes, and dismissive anger throughout his booming hick voice, the Sergeant Major bellowed audibly with incredulous indifference. He stood authoritatively before the rebellious band of haggardly enlisted men gathered beneath the COC's humble sanctuary, his seething demeanor unyielding, not moved even by a slight bit by the tragic scene unraveling before his very presence. The Marines before him stood wearily, their exasperated stance sentinel and their filthy, gauntly complexion, all of them young and boyishly innocent, remained resolutely stoic in valiant defiance of the palpable rage held within their superior's appaling tone. "Now, ladies."
Lt. Mistral grumbled and despaired in anguished silence, his haggardly face turning quietly towards his men gathered close by in brave defiance. He beckoned slightly to his Marines and the mortally-wounded boys, then towards the battalion aid station sitting adjacent by the humble command post of the battalion hurriedly, only gravely word spoken as he did so.
"You heard the Sergeant Major, head over to the BAS." He stoically ordered his weary men to the medical lair across, his voice resolute and stolid and his gravely blue eyes locked in an intense, unyielding stare with the furious Sergeant Major before him. The enlisted Marines of his promptly jumped into action, no words spoken as once again led by a certain teary Simon, they labored in silenced despair and distressing anguish, carrying silently the bloodied stretchers and the dying contents it held upon its grimly reddened canvas. As the band of his young troops fanned out steadily and filed out of the COC's shoddy entrance quietly, the tersely exodus left in their wake a group of a dozen or two officers and SNCOs of Bravo Company standing numbly within, their indomitably unyielding faces shimmering angelically in the scattered sunlight beneath the hastily-set up camo nets, as if rewarded by unseen heavenly beings high above for their good deeds. "We'll handle this gents."
They stood side by side just outside the humbly-established bustling COC, anguishing silently within before the seething Sergeant Major, and the aghast crowd of battalion staff officers behind, their job of running the very beating heart of the 1st Reconnaissance Battalion halted abruptly by this scene of unforeseen mutiny, the ghastly sight of ashen bloodied children in grimly reddened stretchers sickening and stunning their indifferent selves to very core. By now, the stand-off of defiance had gone on for long enough for the battalion commander to suddenly slip into the scene of this very insurrection, his sleepy eyes and disheveled, haggardly faces exasperated and weary after having been woken up in such a sudden manner by the unusually agitated XO of his. He approached the men before him in silenced fatigue, keen eyeballs observing each of the defiant men warily; from platoon, company commanders, to platoon sergeant and the battalion surgeon himself.
"What in the fucking fuck is going on here, fellas?" Godfather's muddied hands were hovering closely above his numbed eyes, gauntly baggy and groggily darkened from sleep-deprivation as were his fellow compatriots and subordinates, pupils still trying to adjust desperately to the sudden neon-like assailants of the other-wordly sunlight. His hoarse, characteristically raspy voice was beyond exasperated as he spoke incredulously, mouth nigh-slightly agape at the unbelievable scene before him, the glowing haloes of sun from the high heavens above flashing as if to accompany his grave remark.
"Bravo Company's in rebellion, boss," The Sergeant Major answered with a tight grimace, gloomy and fierce as were everyone else, be it the rebellious troops of the aforementioned company, or the stunned officers sheltering within the ashen abode of the battalion COC. The venerable man instinctively straightened his posture firmly and his chins higher ahead, as if the terse arrival of the battalion commander had subconsciously messed about with his impulses. "'cause they think they dropped arty on some kids. We already told 'em to fuck off and deal with it, but they kept comin'."
"Right, so these gentlemen humped their way from their position all the way up to the fucking COC all while carrying two wounded kids, just so they can request CASEVAC that my second in command had denied fucking moments ago?" The battalion commander listened on with intent, his darkened groggy eyes narrowing warily as he turned towards the unyielding band of Bravo Company officers, his face ashen and rumply haggard from the widespread sleep-deprivation plaguing him and his elite band of reconnaissance troops. "Did I get that right, gents?"
"Yes sir, we did." Lt. Mistral answered the curt inquiry in affirmation, his firm, cool-headed idle posture unyielding and his gauntly face defiant as he stared blankly ahead, numbed eyes locked keenly with the ones of their battalion commander himself. There was a swelling, a feeling of sickening remorse within his stomach, his indifferent facade of defiance hiding behind it silenced anguish as he eyed Godfather with resolute intent.
Godfather sighed gauntly in resignation, his grimy hands rubbing his groggy eyes as he remarked further.
"Gentlemen, our problem here lies in what all of you had mistakenly believed in." The baggy-eyed field officer clasped his filthy hands curtly, his level-headed yet glum words blunt as he delivered it hoarsely, devoid of any emotions and stolidly unyielding. "I'd assume that most of you here are under the assumption that we are obligated to treat wounded civilians every consideration we would give ourselves had we ever been wounded."
Pulling out quietly a cylindrical case of dipping tobacco out of the innumerous pockets lining his disheveled mottled MARPAT cammies, and placing softly its darkened nicotine content within his dried-out mouth amidst the tersely, the battalion commander gazed bluntly at each of the officers in silence, as if to judge these rebellious men before him dauntlessly challenging his unquestioned authority.
"That is completely incorrect." Godfather continued abruptly, his already hoarse and naturally raspy voice muffled slightly by the intruding presence of the chewing tobacco within his mouth. His chin appeared faintly bloated from the dip he had put so casually, further reinforcing his medium-build and rather stocky Italian figure. "Under the established ROE we operate under, it says that we have to treat them with the medical standards they'd be treated around here, and said standards is fucking zero, completely non-existant in this ancient place. CASEVAC by land vehicles is unavailable for the time being; RCT-5 is assaulting the town of Knivari 15 or so klicks southeast of us as we speak. We are deep behind enemy lines, fellas."
He grunted solemnly, seemingly sympathetic to the plight and ordeal plaguing his subordinating company. He pursed his lips, the squarish disheveled complexion bloated by the chewing tobacco written across it one of worry and admiration, admiration at the resolute, unyielding resolve of the officers standing idly before their very commander, their faces numbed and behind the facade, guilt, only one thing left lingering in their mind as they stood steely sentinel; the urgent evacuation of the very casualties, inevitably lethal if left untreated, they had brought rudely upon these tranquil plateau of forlorn wildlives, and humble ancient peoples.
"I'm afraid that is not fucking possible. I don't want to risk having the vehicles evacuating the wounded caught in middle of fucking firefight and get themselves schwacked by our own guys like in Italica." Everyone's mind flashed back to the slugfest of Italica, their steely, unyielding gaze outwardly hiding behind the gauntly mask a sickening replay of the AAV friendly fire tragedy that they had all witnessed before their very eyes.
The horrid imagery of their fellow Marines, left to contort ghastly into a burning, flaming lump of mangled corpses by the Romanesque roadside from the deadly blue-on-blue repeated endlessly through their mind, and yet it had done very little, if any, to perturb these determined officers of Bravo Company from standing resolute before him, unyieldingly defiant and unfazed. Godfather could see and feel the silent fierceness of the men, and he assumed his fellow compatriots, moments ago so detached and indifferently dismissive of their tragic ordeal, now left to feel the sickening aftermath of denying the dying, urgent surgical kids' their only hope of living to seeing another day; an urgent evacuation to nearest shock trauma unit.
Godfather was impressed beneath his gaunt, steely facade of authority, admiring silently the unshakeable resolve of these young officers that stood sentinel, quietly so, before him in unfazed defiance. There was one option left he could do to please these silently devastated Marines, and perhaps deescalate the situation by appealing to their sense of responsibility over the maiming of the boys. It was an immediate evacuation by helicopter, and he wondered why he had even denied it in the first place, especially knowing it'd antagonize the very troops he had led going into the battle. Godfather spat out the tobacco lingering beneath his dried-out tongue, a brownish-black sprout of filthy mess escaping the soggy cradle of his mouth as he turned to face one of the rather radio operators laboring beneath the humble abode of their COC.
"Get me General Kelly."
"Alright I've got the fucking helo on the net, so get those kids up on the LZ. " A bellowing shout sounded faint, drowned out considerably and night-indiscernible from the imposing whips of an approaching helicopter. The roaring beast flew low towards an empty, lushy patch of verdant grass several dozen meters away from the COC, and the battalion aid station, with the dying kids nestled gingerly beneath, came to life with a series of feeble profanity and yells. "What the fuck are y'all waiting for?!"
Simon stood in silenced anguish, the innumerous blades of verdant greenery wobbling forlornly through his fatigued leg, his stolid facade, and sentinel stance unyielding. He watched solemnly, all alone by himself as a little, insignificant speck of gray dancing buoyantly through the clear, pristine skies resolved itself into the boxy silhouette of a Marine Venom helicopter, the iron pegasus skimming low methodically through the ancient field of grasses, finding a place on the ground of which it can rest is cumbersome belly upon. His emerald-green eyes shimmered faintly, feeble shadows of the approaching beast dancing distortedly upon the left-over tears he had let loose freely amid the sickening ordeal earlier, stunning and shaking the ever-stoic brunette to his very core. On the edge of his hazy peripheral, the battalion's forward air controller, radio handset tightly held with his grip, strained and labored strenuously from the approaching cloud of ashen dust the rotor wash had kicked up, guiding the hovering beast calmly into its destination below with a ceaseless torrent of alarmed cackles.
His genuine plea to assist the boys' urgent treatment had been politely declined by the Corpsmen lounging beneath the humble nest of the battalion aid station, their faint, tired eyes full of understanding sympathy as they insisted his immediate exit out of their shoddy lair. Leaving dejectedly with the rest of his fellow, similarly distraught Marines, with Doc Clancy and Miles left to their own accord with their fellow medical comrades within, he had exchanged one final glance with one of the kids. Their faces were bright as he gazed morosely, full of guilt, upon them like a distant guardian angel, unaware of their inevitable fate.
He felt little, if any relief from knowing that they might very well survive now that their medical salvation had came, now knowing their stunned battalion commander himself had approved the grave evacuation – an optimistic sign that the rebellious actions of the few officers inside the battalion that he, and his fellow compatriots trusted with all their lives, bore fruit. The brunette sighed in slight remorse, his unyielding stoic facade hiding behind its resolved mask a sense of guilt as he stared ahead, watching numbly from detached afar as the distant silhouette of the red-haired Doc Clancy, unpins the safety fuze of a smoke grenade that had clung for so long, on his now filthy olive-shaded FLC utility vest.
The young, boyish-faced Corpsman's vibrant red hair flowed gracefully beneath the hurricane-like rotor wash of the hovering man-made beast, as if to guide the awaiting pilot onto the loosely-defined LZ below by its sheer, crimson lushness. He hurled it across the blades of grasses by instinct, eyes hurriedly tracking its terse flight to its destination. It skipped methodically past the leafy greenery, a deep purple haze wafting hecticly out of the cylindrical device as it stopped, and its gloomy, acrid contents promptly let loose. The plump cloud of violet billowed and swayed softly through pristine air of the ancient plateau, the rotor wash and the chilly, mountainous breeze tearing through the neatly-formed clouds asunder.
The deep, striking hues of the gloomy haze bloomed about amidst the sentinel verdant greenery, the purple smoke it had spat out incessantly billowing wildly to the left from the nigh-ceaseless, chilly breeze of the ancient mountain backdrop. Tall, forlorn grasses swayed disorderly, and like Moses himself parting the red sea, the fierce rotor wash and the clanking hum of the hovering helicopter blasted away the man-made mist into an abrupt frenzy of two curling vapors, the roaring beast making its chaotic descent into the crudely-made LZs on the ground below slowly but surely. Simon eyed aloofly from afar, the distant, fuzzy silhouettes of his fellow compatriots, shrouded illusively from any keen-eyed view by the monstrous cloud of dust the trundling metallic pegasus had rudely kicked, emerge hurriedly out of the flapping mess that is, the battalion aid station's humble abode of shoddy, venerable camo nets.
"Let's go, bros."
With the deep, red-haired Clancy and his rather young platoon commander, the Captain, a certain petite Doc Miles of Hitman-3 and the Battalion Surgeon Lt. Anderson himself, plus an unrecognizable corpsman from the BAS to hold the wildly dangling drips of IV at the front of the first stretcher, and half a dozen or so of their fellow comrades trailing faithfully behind with the second, gravely-wounded boy lying frightened within its humble carriage, the hastily-formed band of differing troops braved the cloud of dust, and the deep, purple gloom unhesitantly. They labored strenuously, hurriedly trundling down the swaying, forlorn blades of the greenery, charging dauntlessly through the parting seas of dazzling purple haze amidst constant assailance from the beast's unyielding rotor wash. The dying children within their gentle embrace curled into a ball instinctively, indifferent to the pain wreaking havoc, and their floppy cat-ears drooping shut, for they had never seen such monstrous metallic entity before. Their families and fellow esteemed members of the nomadic cats stood several dozen meters away to their back, mouth agape as they gawked in disbelief at the hovering man-made, metallic pegasus.
Simon stood wearily from afar, grimacing deep within in deathly silence. Seemingly detached from the hectic commotion distances ahead as he idled by gravely, he observed quietly as the beast glided down into a stop, the boxy silhouette touching gingerly the grassy cradle of the lush greenery below, its true, graceful metallic form shrouded illusively behind frantic clouds of dust and purple it had kicked up wildly. His fellow compatriots charged boldly through the scattered haze of the purplish smoke grenade, hands laboring hard with the gauntly task of carrying the bloodied stretchers and the mortally-wounded kids, their protective goggles shielding their rumpled eyes nicely from the grime in the air as they ran through the foggy LZ, and towards the awaiting embrace of the helicopter and the hasty medical crew it had carried within its sizable belly.
Doc Miles jumped hurriedly into the belly of the aircraft, his gloved hands guiding his comrades trailing behind, and the dying kids they had carried skillfully into the open embrace of the idling helicopter. The boys closed their eyes quietly, frightened by the monstrous pegasus, the gentle invaders that had treated them in silenced guilt striding into the beast with haste, strange protective goggles obscuring their exposed visage from the stabbing, prickly sensation of the dusts flying wildly about. IV bags dangled rumply about beneath the fierce rotor wash, Clancy and another unknown fellow corpsman hanging into the saline bag for dear life as they transferred their vilely-wounded content into the trustworthy hands of the helicopter's abruptly-formed, yet competent medical crew.
Everyone, now their precious cargo already delivered to the warm embrace of the trained medical crew of the Venom helicopter, streamed hurriedly away from the beast's vicinity, and back into the wild, lingering haze of deep lavender and choking grime, their hectic exit like an entire kingdom of ants on a frantic exodus. Miles full-heartedly stayed on the helicopter as it took off with a shimmering, metallically ashen grace, the gaunt-faced petite corpsman of Hitman-3 staying within dutifully as he volunteered to provide a continuous care of the dying kids like an unyielding guardian angel until they had finally reached their urgent destination; the many shock trauma units of the 1st Marine Division, trained precisely for such cases like this ordeal. The nomadic catboys, young and keen for adventure ever since they were born into this cruel ancient world, gazed and gawked out of the open sides of the pegasus gliding through the air, the vivid greenery below passing swiftly like mere memories of innocence they had kept prior to the intrusion of these other-worldly invaders. Unceasing ethereal images of the other-worldly nature slipped by beneath like innumerous flashes of comets skyhigh above, trees and grasses, lush and vibrant in its full glory of the fantastical spring, disappearing quickly within the blink of an eye below the beast as it glided tenderly through the pristine air.
The brunette stared numbly ahead into the thick purple spewing forlornly out by the drying smoke grenade, its brilliant shades scattered into innumerous atoms by the pegasus' ferocious rotor wash. By his side closely, in similar deathly silence, the albino journalist stood there in well-hidden shock, his face shaken yet composed by the passing ordeal, its hopeful end too curt and abrupt for the young Traveler to process. The young man turned to his left, his somewhat concerned demeanor greeting the unyieldingly stoic, illusive mask of Simon with evident worry. As the helicopter burst away into the puffy clouds above, the engine humming darkly further and further away from the sprawling temporary encampment of the 1st Reconnaissance Battalion, it left behind in its immediate wake a tranquil peace, where all there are, is mourning silence left to linger with the despairing Marines.
"Sergeant, are you okay?"
"I don't really fucking know, Traveler. " Simon responded warily, his voice hesitant as he spoke, the unyielding stare ahead unbroken. He sounded solemnly blank as he gazed numbly ahead, the outwardly aloof, stoic exterior he had unwaveringly donned hiding behind it deep, sickening anguish. "I'm going to have to bring this home with me and live with the shit for the rest of my life."
He slowly turned to his right gauntly, solemn and languishing in deathly silence. His brilliantly green, verdant eyes shimmered as the two stood idly beneath the sunny sun, perhaps from pooling tears held back by his outwardly facade of unyielding aloofness. They stood there, deep in anguished thought and mourning for the ordeal they had been tested with, basking quietly in the tranquil peace of the venerable fields.
"A pilot doesn't have to look down and see the kids they vaporized to bits. A goddamn arty gunner don't have to witness the result of their fucked-up handicraft. But we grunts do, we fucking do." He shook his head wearily, and his cramped feet shuffled softly in its place, as if to remove any bits of despair and anguish preventing him for functioning effectively in combat, or whatever the uncertain near-future has in store for him, and his fellow compatriots, all tired and gauntly. He spat darkly grime onto the ground close by, the dust from the helicopter's fierce rotor wash mired deep within his saliva as he wandered off, silent and solemn in spite of his attempt to ward such emotions away. The Traveler merely gazed numbly at the man as Simon strode away in mourning peace, personally devastated and remorseful beneath the unforgiving stolidness. He mumbled faintly beneath his breath, its indiscernible, tiredly grimacing content yet audible enough for the worried journalist to hear its despairing content. "This shit is killing me deep inside."
Simon continued on solemnly as he wandered away and further away from the concerned Traveler, the emotion upon his dustied complexion as he trudged numbly through the peaceful, verdant greenery of the ancient plateau one of unyielding, professional stoicism. Yet, despite all the aloof faces, stolid postures he had worn hurriedly and desperately clung to as a mere mask of indifference, a sickening feeling of guilt remained lingering about, the ever-stoic brunette team leader privately inconsolable as he stalks away blankly through innumerous, never-ending blades of leafy viridescent.
Skipper - Nicknames given by enlisted to their Captain/Company Commanders.
'Terp - Short for interpreter.
NJP - Non-judicial punishment. Punishment in the military that's severe enough to warrant demotions among others, but not on the level of straight up court martial.
Word around the smoke pit - Rumors, gossip.
Scuttlebutt - Same meaning as Word around the smoke pit.
Urgent Surgical - Same criteria as Urgent (Evacuation to next higher capability of medical care is needed to save life or limb). The difference is that these patients need to be taken to a facility with surgical capabilities. Evacuation must happen within 2 hours.
XO - Executive officer, second-in-command for companies, battalions, regiments, brigades and so forth
COC - Combat Operation Center. The beating heart of formations the size of a battalion or larger, like brigade, regiments and so on. Marines use the COC term, and the Army uses TOC (Tactical Operations Center) term, but their job remains the same.
BAS - The Battalion Aid Station. A battalion aid station is a medical section within a battalion's support company. As such, it is the forwardmost medically staffed treatment location. Usually led by a Navy Lieutenant (equivalent to a Marine Captain) in the Corps. Said LT also acts as the battalion surgeon for such a battalion.
CP - Command Post. Usually used for units smaller than battalions like companies.
Company First Shirt - Nickname for First Sergeants.
Ant farm - Places/fields where a command unit places their radio antenna en-masse.
40-mike-mike - 40mm Grenade rounds. Mike-mike is a reference for the character "m" in the NATO phonetic alphabet.
Grunts - Infantrymen on the ground, specifically those with the MOS of 03–, be it machine gunners, infantrymen, LAR scouts, recon or mortarmen tube-strokers, they're all grunts. Those who didn't fit the criteria are derisively considered as POGs (persons other than grunts).
LZ - Landing Zone (for helicopters), ranging from well-crafted helipads on a cleared patch of ground or some bumfuck nowhere field the troops had hastily found.
Forward air controller – Trained troops assigned to a unit whose jobs are to guide in attack planes for their close air support runs, call in resupply and guide in incoming aircrafts.
Chow - meals.
MEDEVAC and CASEVAC - Medical Evacuation and Casualty Evacuation, the former using dedicated vehicles for medical task and the latter much more improvised (all vehicles can be considered CASEVAC vehicles, while MEDEVAC only uses dedicated ones).
Willy Pete - White Phosphorus.
The Wire – Defensive perimeter of a firm base or some temporary encampment, crossing it denotes the end of relative safety.