Chapter 1 - March
These soldiers were not moving forward, they were going down; and adding to the lumped field of corpses. The sky blazed the burning yellow of crashing Suns, crashing into the earth. Noise is everything, calamity to silence. They were screaming and pushing but not moving forward, were going down, and adding to the lumped field of corpses.
You look around and the ground doesn’t rumble now; vehicles lay sided, gaping and smoking. The sun crashes into the earth less frequently and you’re vision strobes with the light—between faceless shadows and friend or foe. We’re just firing forward, firing and screaming but going nowhere. Locked against our enemy, trying to fire into them, trying to put them down. But we’re all going down together; and not moving forward.
Then the call for retreat—RETREAT! We’re air dropped into some codenamed shit hole in the middle of the dark with no plan other than ‘Move Forward’ and now we’re falling back. One step after another. And now, with movement revealing the who’s who of this dank fire fight, you see there aren’t many of us left. ‘Us’ being the good guys. ‘Us’ as in my guys. There aren’t many left.
‘Us’ grabs my arm as I stand insoluble—just trying to register the facts of the matter—and pulls me back with him, pulls me towards ‘us’. We’re scrambling and ducking fire, not saying words, pointing and nodding. ‘Us’ lets me go to help carry another wounded; we’re all wounded, but he’s worse. As we drop into the forest 2 by 2. I stall to point others in our direction. Two more crutching off each other; one more dragging another severely wounded, I point “this way” before grabbing a leg and a half and helping them into the forest.
One of ‘us’ comes back to take my place and screams “north west, 2 clicks, go back, tell the rest”
He takes my place and I run without the use of one ankle, only upright in my boot. I run toward the field, but the fire fight is dimming in the distant. I see no-one coming, the field is five minutes on this ankle. I run.
Then the whistle.
The unmistakable whistle of many rockets flying free. Freezing me still for a split, then flat on the deck with my helmet to the field. Fire climbs over me in the ringing. On light spikes it flits down my back and around my sides, burning the skin off my knuckles, melting the hair around my fist covered ears. One moment more and I roll several times then try to look forward. Deaf I hear nothing; smoke is all that’s left see. The rest? Fuck the rest; the rest are either in eternal rest or on the opposite sides of the blast radius. I drag myself to the north west, drag myself to the hope of help. Drag myself slowly to the other six.
You look around and the ground doesn’t rumble now; vehicles lay sided, gaping and smoking. The sun crashes into the earth less frequently and you’re vision strobes with the light—between faceless shadows and friend or foe. We’re just firing forward, firing and screaming but going nowhere. Locked against our enemy, trying to fire into them, trying to put them down. But we’re all going down together; and not moving forward.
Then the call for retreat—RETREAT! We’re air dropped into some codenamed shit hole in the middle of the dark with no plan other than ‘Move Forward’ and now we’re falling back. One step after another. And now, with movement revealing the who’s who of this dank fire fight, you see there aren’t many of us left. ‘Us’ being the good guys. ‘Us’ as in my guys. There aren’t many left.
‘Us’ grabs my arm as I stand insoluble—just trying to register the facts of the matter—and pulls me back with him, pulls me towards ‘us’. We’re scrambling and ducking fire, not saying words, pointing and nodding. ‘Us’ lets me go to help carry another wounded; we’re all wounded, but he’s worse. As we drop into the forest 2 by 2. I stall to point others in our direction. Two more crutching off each other; one more dragging another severely wounded, I point “this way” before grabbing a leg and a half and helping them into the forest.
One of ‘us’ comes back to take my place and screams “north west, 2 clicks, go back, tell the rest”
He takes my place and I run without the use of one ankle, only upright in my boot. I run toward the field, but the fire fight is dimming in the distant. I see no-one coming, the field is five minutes on this ankle. I run.
Then the whistle.
The unmistakable whistle of many rockets flying free. Freezing me still for a split, then flat on the deck with my helmet to the field. Fire climbs over me in the ringing. On light spikes it flits down my back and around my sides, burning the skin off my knuckles, melting the hair around my fist covered ears. One moment more and I roll several times then try to look forward. Deaf I hear nothing; smoke is all that’s left see. The rest? Fuck the rest; the rest are either in eternal rest or on the opposite sides of the blast radius. I drag myself to the north west, drag myself to the hope of help. Drag myself slowly to the other six.
