Drew had a bad feeling when he saw rig 2 under the wooden canopy next to the petrol barrels where he worked. He checked the Chevrolet over first for any obvious problems, eyes straining in the semi-darkness. No fluids dripping onto the boards beneath it, no broken parts thrown on the hood, no odd smells or bullet holes. But he did see a rather bad omen.
The hood was up.
The Lancaster native groaned. Didn't I specificallytellGeorge not to leave the hood up? He thought. He pulled on his old gloves and walked up to the rig, knowing what he'd find. Sure enough, a layer of dust covered everything in the engine. God only knew how many parts needed cleaning or replacing.
"Shite." He muttered. He went to get his toolbox. The Chevrolet had only been due to have its tires replaced, now it probably needed the brakes fixed. God forbid it got into the oil...
"Problem Drew?" Drew looked up to Brauer peering at him curiously. Karl was next to him, silent.
"Ah," Drew looked back at the rig. "Just... can you do me a big favor and tell George to listen to me when I'm talking to him next time? There's sand in some of the engine parts now."
Brauer frowned. "That doesn't sound good."
"I should think not." Drew muttered. "Happy shooting by the way. Just please try not to wake up the entire camp." The set-up shooting ranges were right next to several of the tents in their patrol's small camp at headquarters.
Brauer led Karl over to the armory, set up in a rickety, wooden shanty with rack after rack of the many rifles, pistols and sub-machine guns the patrol had been issued, traded with other patrols for, and occasionally stole from dead opponents and their captured outposts. They came out Brauer holding a Carcano taken from an Italian soldier and Karl with a Lee-Enfield wrapped in camouflage netting. As he checked the fluids in the truck he heard the two men discuss how the bolt-action gun's recoil had been affected by its other alterations.
Karl frowned when Brauer refuted his argument, but his eyes showed no true annoyance. Drew had learned that the German-American sniper liked to keep his cards close to his chest, and he deliberately adopted expressions that were difficult to read. But Drew had also learned that he could read Karl by watching his eyes.
During a mission the sniper's ice-blue eyes were piercing and focused, like an eagle's and once the look lost some of its harshness he had shifted out of his hunter mentality and could be talked to normally again. When the corners of his eyes turned up slightly, he was amused. A fractional narrowing indicated offence. If his eyelids dropped slightly he was relaxed - a rare expression, sometimes accompanied by him fiddling with whatever object was in his hands at the time, usually his scarf or one of Brauer's tarot cards.
Now the turned up slightly at a joke about the length of the Italian Carcano Brauer made, despite Karl chiding him for being so coarse.
It was good that Brauer had approached Karl. Drew had succeeded in earning the sniper's forgiveness after the oasis practical joke, but had never managed to crack the man's shell. Brauer had, perhaps because of a shared kinship in how Karl rescued Brauer and how they had both spent much of their childhoods in Germany. Not only that, but he got Karl to open up, at least a little, to the rest of them. Since Karl found the wine stash in the outpost, he'd been popular within the patrol, his reputation undergoing a shift from "the silent, scary sniper from Germany, thrust upon us by the Americans" to "the badass sniper who ensures the mission's success". He still rarely stayed very long at the campfires, but he was coming there regularly, and was slowly spending more and more time there.
Drew found the belts thankfully unbroken but they showed some wear and breathed a sigh of relief to find no sand in the engine oil. At least it wouldn't be necessary to explain to the captain why the entire engine needed replacing. He'd still need to check the brake system later though.
He closed the hood and looked over to the rifle range, where Brauer and Karl were cleaning the rifles they'd picked up before shooting. The ranges were well set-up - Drew had to give Patel and himself credit. They had a pistol and SMG range in addition to a rifle range, and Drew had jury-rigged a system to make the target cut-outs pop up and down and move from side to side in between piles of junk that simulated cover. Brauer set up first, and Karl flipped the switch that activated the range. A bell sounded out to let the camp know that someone was using the range and thus gunshots were (probably) no cause for alarm. The first cut-out flipped upright, and Brauer shot it down.
The pound of rifle was a sound that was strangely soothing and familiar, after the chill that went down Drew's back with the initial shot despite himself. Drew grimaced as he went to his station to get a jack. He been in this war too long.
Duncan Murray, a Scotsman in the patrol deeply dedicated to both his drink and his church, staggered out of the main sleeping tent. He glanced at the firing range where the bell that had roused him sounded and muttered something inaudible over the noise of Brauer's rifle. He walked over to Drew, who was just beginning to loosen the wheel nuts on the left front wheel. "Do they have to be up and shooting so early? I was in the middle of morning prayer." He grumbled.
"Desert shooting is best in the morning. Sean should be up and with them in a moment." Drew replied, as he positioned the jack.
Duncan waited until Drew had finished jacking up the vehicle to speak again. "I bloody know that I just wish they didn't start shooting this early. I can't hear myself talk." He had to shout a bit to be heard over the periodic cracking of the Carcano.
Drew looked up at him as he quickly removed the wheel nuts and wheel before draping a tarp over the spot so no additional sand got at the brake as he put the tire and nuts aside for the moment. "If God's up there Duncan, he'll hear you no matter what."
"Well...oi, what do you mean if he's up there?"
Drew shrugged. "War." He said simply.
As Duncan walked away, Drew draped a rag he wet with water from his canteen over his face and put on his goggles before holding his breath and looking under the tarp, toolbox in hand. After swiftly removing the many parts attaching the drum brake, poking his head outside the tarp for some fresh air to avoid inhaling any brake dust, and finally carefully slid the drum off the spindle before wiping it down with rag which he tossed as far from his station as he could manage, to be disposed of later. There were grooves from wear on the brake drums, but thankfully nothing severe, and no hard spots or burned places either. Drew would have sighed in relief if he wasn't so worried about inhaling any brake dust. The shoes didn't even need readjusting. He put back the drum, and replaced the tire and set the vehicle down, before moving on to the other tires.
He noticed Sean walking down to the firing range, Lee-Enfield shouldered. The dark-haired sniper headed over to the rifle range, and without a word, set up next to Karl. Karl briefly glanced up at Sean in between rounds, but didn't say anything either. When Sean was done cleaning his Lee-Enfield, Brauer flipped the switch on the firing range and stood back.
The air filled again with crack of rifles, this time closer in sync and faster, as the two men shot down target after target, each trying to get more than the other. Their shots were so close together that as soon as one cutout fell from one's bullet, it would be struck again by a bullet from the other as it fell. The other men in the patrol, who had been steadily trickling out of their tent, started to collect at the firing range, watching the impromptu competition.
Once Drew finished setting the truck down after putting on the last tire, he joined the others. Impressed whistled and comments were being exchanged, but not between the two competitors. Karl and Sean were both stone-faced and they shook each other' hand stiffly and with hardly a grunt of acknowledgement. The crowd was hardly phased by the lack of sportsmanship. In a combat unit, pride was a closely nurtured and protected thing, and boasting, mocking, showing off, and challenging others was as natural as breathing. Besides, Karl and Sean's antipathy towards each other was well-known. Within minutes of their first meeting Drew felt a bitter distaste between them, and it had only gotten more pronounced now that they were in regular contact through the group's twilight gatherings and team missions.
"Must be nice to have a spotter for once, eh lads?" Everyone hastily turned about and saluted. The captain smiled, a bit of affection deep in his eyes, like a father watching his children roughhouse. The crowd parted for him as he walked towards Sean and Karl, who still stood, saluting. "At ease," Their hands returned to their sides.
"We've got new information." He rose his voice so the entire patrol could easily hear. "The Germans have a motor pool of Tigers in a small outpost not far from the camp we were at a week ago. If we take out those tanks and the radio tower near it the next push will be considerably easier. However, the area is surrounded by rock faces and therefore all roads in and out have multiple choke points. A drive-by is risky." He pinned down Karl and Sean with blue eyes. "Two lone operatives however would have little trouble slipping through the cracks in the outpost's defenses, and the terrain in and around the area is ideal for snipers."
Sean and Karl briefly glanced at each other, then turned back to the captain. "Markson, Fairburne, I want you two to get in and destroy the radio tower and motor pool. Kelly will drive you near the area and provide you with an exit once you're finished." Drew stood straighter at mention of his name. "I expect the three of you to meet me here in two days for the mission at nineteen-hundred hours. Dismissed."
The captain walked away, and the crowd dispersed like smoke someone waved a hand through, drifting in small groups towards their stations. Drew tried to get a glimpse of Karl or Sean through the moving bodies. If they started the day with an argument, it wouldn't bode well for the mission later. It wasn't as if Drew expected them to refuse to work together or for one to throw the other to the wolves if things went wrong. Both men were far too professional for that and not nearly spiteful enough. But he worried about the finer points of their teamwork: anticipating the other's actions, knowing how to best complement the other's abilities, coming to a consensus on strategy...
The sound of someone clearing their throat next to him jerked him out of his throats, and Drew rose a hand to the edge of his helmet when he saw it was the captain. "Drew," The man asked in his gruff tones. "How goes it?"
Drew tried to process the question. "The trucks or the upcoming mission sir?"
"Both." Captain Kelson was a veteran of the first Great War and a careful man, with deep-set, insightful blue eyes and a face as tanned, cracked and soft as old leather. Once a new member of the patrol got past the perpetual glare his wrinkles and sunken eyes seemed to give, he was a remarkably patient leader.
"Rig 2's tires have been changed sir. Rig's 3, 1 and 4 should also be good to go. I'd prefer to take rig 4 to the next mission since she's got four-wheel drive."
"Diesel is expensive." The captain grunted. "Be frugal in how you drive. I actually meant to talk to you about Markson and Fairburne."
Drew clenched his jaw and stopped rubbing his gloved hands together as he sometimes did when thinking. "They don't get along well, sir." He answered honestly.
"I'm aware. Make sure you impress on them that their rows can't affect the mission. I wouldn't give them this mission if I didn't believe they could work in tandem."
The captain turned to go, then paused and looked Drew in the eye. "I heard from the majors that there's going to be a crackdown on drinking next week."
Drew bit back a handful of swears. "I see, sir." He murmured, already considering new places to hide the still.
There was a knowing twinkle in the captain's eyes when he walked away. Drew sighed and let his shoulders go limp.
He walked over to where Karl and Sean were, looking each other in eyes, each refusing to look away before the other did. Brauer watched the silent exchange with a grimace and he briefly looked at Drew before looking back at Karl. Their position a few feet away from each other and identical glares made the differences all the more prominent in their faces: Karl's tanned and stubble-swept jaw and icy blue eyes and Sean's pale jaw, long hair and fiery green eyes. But their reactions were the same: like two dominant dogs in a pack refusing to share or give up their position.
It occurred to Drew why the two were always tense in the other's presence - they were too similar by half.