A Hero of War--An Adrian Hell Novella

by James P. Sumner

  Hunter takes a small step forward. “Sir, if I may—”

  “Dismissed, Staff Sergeant.”

  Hock didn’t even look at him. He sits back down at his desk and begins sorting through a pile of papers.

  Hunter throws me a glance that says I’m going to pay for this, first chance he gets. I resist the urge to smile at him, realizing any smugness I show now will only further my suffering later.

  The door opens and closes behind me.

  Hock looks up at me again. “Staff Sergeant Hunter is a bit of a hard-ass sometimes, but he’s one of our finest soldiers, and I wouldn’t entrust the development of you, or your unit, to anyone else. I don’t particularly care if he doesn’t agree with me, but don’t make me regret my decision, Hughes.”

  I shake my head. “No, sir.”

  I salute again and take my leave.

  08:37 CDT

  I enter the mess hall halfway through breakfast. There’s probably around three hundred soldiers all crammed into the large space, sitting on long benches, ten-a-side, tucking into their army-issue food.

  I quickly scan the room and find the rest of my unit over on the right, about halfway back. I head over to join them, diverting to the service counter first. I don’t have much of an appetite, but if there’s one thing the army’s taught me so far, it’s to eat as much as you can, when you can. Every day typically requires a ridiculous amount of energy, and if you’re under-nourished, you’ve got no chance.

  Tray in hand, I walk over to the guys. They’re spread out over two tables, but all sitting facing each other, huddled together. As I get nearer, I’m surprised to see Newman there, in the middle of them. His voice becomes clear over the general rabble of the room.

  “…and he said, ‘Nice doggy’, before smashing it in the head!”

  Everyone starts laughing, but quickly fall silent when I get closer, all staring at either the floor or me.

  Newman stands, with some help from Imes next to him. “Hughes! What did they say?”

  I figure everyone had heard I was up in front of the CO earlier.

  I shrug. “A slap on the wrist and a don’t do it again. Hunter was pissed though.”

  The silence holds a moment longer, and then a raucous laughter breaks out, causing other tables to turn and stare. Everyone stands and surrounds me, patting me on my back and congratulating me. I do my best to accept their praise, shrugging humbly wherever possible, and trying hard to avoid saying it was nothing—which would’ve made me look like a real dick.

  Private First Class Jones appears in front of me and the group goes quiet, presumably unsure what to expect. He stares at me for a moment. “Your little stunt cost our unit victory against the 16th Armored.”

  There’s a low, audible intake of breath around me. I’m not sure whether they’re concerned about the potential reprimanding Jones might try to give me, or my reaction.

  I stare at him, not really sure what point he’s trying to make. “Right…”

  “But… I’d rather have Newman back in one piece any day.” He smiles and pats my arm. “You were right, Hughes. I messed up.”

  I rest my tray on the table next to me and extend my hand, which he shakes gladly. “You did what the army deems to be the right thing, Jones. You have nothing to apologize for. Just trust your gut a little more, and you’ll go a long way.”

  There’s an overall sense of relief around me, which is palpable enough to almost touch, and then the mood lightens once more.

  Kitson makes room for me to sit down. “So, Omaha, did you really take down a wolf?”

  Everyone crowds around to listen. I glance at Newman and raise an eyebrow.

  He raises his hands in silent apology, smiling. “They asked me what happened.”

  I roll my eyes and smile back. “Yeah… I did.”

  Murmurs of surprise and disbelief sound out around the table.

  “What was it like?” asks Wesley Goldman.

  I shrug. “It wasn’t like anything, really. It was a fucking beast, and me and Newman were trespassing on its territory. I knew I had to do something, otherwise we were both dead. If I’m honest, it was Newman who made with the heroics.” I nod to him and his cheeks flush red. “He had this thick, sharp twig about three inches long sticking in his side. We’d already agreed there was a risk of him bleeding out if we removed it. But I had this fucking wolf pinning me down, breathing on me, trying to eat my throat, and he just yanked it outta him and threw it to me. Yeah, I stabbed that yellow-eyed sonofabitch to death, but my only concern was Newman.”

  They all turn to congratulate Newman, who struggles to deal with the attention. Bless!

  “Well, well… what do we have here?”

  Everyone stops, including me, and look across to see a group of six guys heading over to our table. The entire mess hall has fallen silent now, looking on.

  The 16th Armored Regiment.

  Nobody really likes them—they’re a bunch of arrogant douche bags who think they’re better than they are. Don’t get me wrong, every soldier has to believe they’re the toughest sonofabitch they know, but most of us—especially Infantry—appreciate we’re not exactly Marines… But these bigheaded ass-clowns are deluded enough to think they’re God’s gift to combat.

  While everyone openly dislikes them, they seem to have taken issue only with our unit. Maybe they fancy themselves as the big schoolyard bully, and don’t like us because we’re brave enough to stand up to them.

  Whatever… they’re all dicks.

  The voice belongs to Corporal Kyle Young. He’s the unit celebrity—favored by officers and on the fast-track ladder to the top. Third generation military brat, thinks of himself as some kind of G. I. Joe.

  A real asshole.

  They stop in front of our table, and Young steps forward, looking at us all in turn. “So, what happened to you guys yesterday? We were waiting by our flag all afternoon, and when only half of you actually showed, we kinda felt bad whooping you the way we did!”

  He turns to look at his friends, who all laugh along with him.

  Jones, to his credit, takes it upon himself, as our highest-ranking soldier, to step forward and defend the honor of our unit. “Back off, Young—we had a medical emergency. You might’ve won by forfeit, but you didn’t beat anybody.”

  I can’t fault the guy for stepping up, but he’s not got enough about him to be effective. They won’t take him seriously, which is ultimately going to prolong this torturous ordeal of having to listen to their bullshit.

  The way I see it, we all fight for the same army. Why try to compete against each other? Friendly rivalry’s one thing, but to treat each other like the enemy—you might as well surrender now, save the real enemy some time.

  Young laughs. “Oooo, Private Jones—check you! Sit down, boy, before you hurt yourself.”

  That’s it.

  I stand and knock my tray to the floor, purely by accident. Thinking about it, it probably looked really dramatic… I guess there are times when image counts for everything, right?

  I square up to Young, who’s a little short than me, but also a little wider. The rest of my unit stands behind me. I feel a hand on my shoulder, trying to pull me back, but I shrug it off. I look him dead in the eye, my feet planted firmly on the ground. I’m not going anywhere.

  He laughs again. The kind of laugh that’s loud, and has no humor in it. It’s all for attention. “And who’s this? I know they call your unit the Wolfhounds, but the way I hear it, you’re more of a Wolfslayer!” He chuckles to himself and glances behind him, prompting his friends to do the same. “You think you’re tough, Wolfslayer? You killed a dog. You ain’t got what it takes it survive real combat. You’re a fucking pussy, like the rest of your unit.”

  I smile at him, not taking my eyes off his. “I love how you’re trying to poke fun at me, yet you give me the coolest-sounding nickname ever. Wolfslayer… that’s awesome! Thanks, Kyle.”

  He glares at me, narrowing his eyes and breath
ing heavily, seemingly enraged at the lack of impact his words are having on me. Behind me, I hear muffled laughs.

  “Are you stupid, Hughes? All that shit yesterday doesn’t mean anything.”

  “I never said it did. You’re making more fuss about it than I am.”

  He breathes in to his full height and width, moving his head forward slightly, trying to intimidate. I do the same, all the while, my eyes never leave his. I don’t even blink. It’s a trick my old man taught me—you don’t actually look into their eyes, you focus on the bridge of their nose instead. You go slightly cross-eyed and your vision blurs, which means you don’t need to blink. But to the person in front of you, it just looks like you’re staring them out.

  “Think you’re smart, Hughes? Huh? Think you’re a big man around here?”

  I shrug. “Not really. Do you?”

  “I am! We’re the top-ranking unit in his entire Battalion. And I’m its leader.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re the highest-ranking grunt, but you’re not the leader. And that’s like saying you’re the highest-ranking piece of shit on the crap pile. We’re all grunts here, Young, and we’re all on the same side. So back the fuck off.”

  He muscles against me, trying to force me backward, but I hold my ground. He must’ve been expecting me to shrink and back down, because he almost double-takes and steps away again when he finds himself nose-to-nose with me.

  Once more, he narrows his eyes as he looks into mine, blinking rapidly. “And do you think you’re intimidating me with that stink eye of yours, Hughes?”

  “No. Why? Am I?”

  He scoffs and looks over his shoulder at his friends. “Who does this guy think he is?”

  “This guy is still right here, ass-wipe. You got something to say, say it to my face.”

  He looks around, his face contorted with anger. “One day, that mouth of yours is gonna get you into trouble.”

  I nod. “I know… but today isn’t the day. So why don’t you take your band of merry men and fuck off. Maybe go and stand on the firing range or something, do us all a favor.”

  He pushes me hard with both hands. I didn’t expect it, thinking he wouldn’t be stupid enough to escalate this to anything physical, but I didn’t move back very far. Like a volcano erupting inside, my anger explodes, coursing through my veins. Every muscle in my body tenses and my eyes go wide. Kitson and Imes are right behind me, so I’m guessing it’s their arms and hands I feel wrap around me, quickly securing me to the spot.

  “Don’t do it, Hughes—it ain’t worth the shit you’d get into.”

  That was Imes.

  “He’s right. You can’t start shit with someone who outranks you.”

  And that was Kitson.

  In front of me, Young’s smiling, taunting me. But all he’s doing is throwing gasoline on an already out-of-control fire.

  He points a finger in my face. “Listen to your pack, Hughes. Respect your superiors.”

  He laughs, and his friends laugh with him.

  I shrug everyone off and take a deep breath. “That badge on your arm doesn’t mean shit. You’ll never be superior to me, you fucking nutsack.”

  “If you were in my unit, you’d be cleaning my boots, Private.”

  “If I was in your unit, I’d fucking shoot myself. You’re all a bunch of girl scouts. What kind of soldier needs to hide behind a bulletproof tank? Too afraid to get involved, put yourself in the line of fire and fight it out man to man? Kyle Young, you’re a goddamn disgrace. You hide behind your metal tanks on the battlefield, and you hide behind your rank off it. You say I’d be cleaning your boots? You’re not fit to even be in the same room as my underwear. If I wasn’t so damn tired from being inside your sister all last night, me and you would have a real problem.”

  Holy shit, that does it!

  He lunges at me, both hands aiming to grab my throat. I don’t see him move in time and he gets a hold of me, but only for a second. Both units step in, pulling us apart. It genuinely takes four or five guys to restrain us both.

  “You’re dead, Hughes! Do you hear me? Dead!”

  “Set your rank aside and bring it, you prick!”

  The noise inside the mess hall is deafening, everyone crowding around and cheering us on, desperate for some entertainment. My unit surrounds me, pushing me away and standing between us.

  “Jesus, Omaha!” says Lee Travis, a Private from Seattle. “You got some mouth on you, you dumb sonofabitch!”

  “Yeah,” agrees Todd Bloom. “Young could’ve killed you, man.”

  I crack my neck as I walk away. “Huh, he could’ve tried. Piece of shit.”

  As the commotion settles and the crowds disperse, the doors to the hall bang open loudly. Everyone turns to stare. Standing at the front, looking on, is a line of officers—Lieutenant Colonel Hock and his fellow COs. Next to them is Staff Sergeant Hunter, along with his equivalents.

  “Ten-hut!”

  The sound of three hundred men standing to full attention echoes around the room, followed by a disciplined silence. We’re all staring straight ahead, and if everyone’s like me, they’ll be wondering what the reason is behind such an entrance. It’s rare to see any officer join us lowly grunts in the mess, let alone have all of them descend on us en masse.

  A gap forms in the line, and another man appears, stepping through and taking center stage. He’s a tall man, easily six-four. He’s broad, and old, and I can see his star from here…

  Holy shit, that’s Brigadier General Lewis Ford!

  I’m guessing others have recognized him, too, because I hear the barely audible gasps of surprise all around.

  “At ease, gentlemen,” he says, his voice deliberate and unquestioningly authoritative. “Take your seats.”

  He walks slowly back and forth as everyone does, causing another collective noise of boots on floor. Silence falls again. I hold my breath, feeling inexplicably nervous.

  Ford stops his pacing, and stands facing the room. “I’ll get straight to the point. You’ll have undoubtedly seen on the news, and maybe heard around the base, about the ongoing crisis between Iraq and Kuwait. Effective from oh-six-hundred tomorrow, the United States will be sending troops into Saudi Arabia, as a defensive measure to pre-empt any advancement from Saddam Hussein, which could potentially lead to further conflict in the area. This comes from talks between the White House and King Fahd of Saudi Arabia, who is concerned an invasion of his country could give Iraq a strategic advantage in their ongoing feud with Kuwait. President Bush has declared that we will begin Operation Desert Shield tomorrow. Soldiers, I need your help. It’s our responsibility, as one of the greatest nations on this earth, to act as peacekeepers on the ground, while we work to find a diplomatic resolution to the troubles facing the innocent people in that region.”

  Desert Shield? Jesus…

  I throw a sideways glance to my squad mates. My brothers. My friends. I see the looks of concern on their faces, and I share those feelings. My jaw muscles clench together as a very real fear hits me. Not like when I was face to face with the wolf. This is different. We’ll be in the Middle East, and face to face with the devil himself. From what I’ve heard, diplomacy isn’t high on the agenda over there at the moment. I understand the role of peacekeeper, but my gut’s telling me this is going to be something else.

  We’re going to war.

  5

  January 3, 1991

  14:41 AST

  The heat is blistering. Compared to what I’m used to, anyway. It’s ninety degrees, and it’s like the sun is sucking the air from around us. We’ve been in Saudi Arabia a little over five months, as part of Operation Desert Shield, and I’ve never experienced temperatures like these. I still haven’t gotten used to it.

  Christmas and New Year were a bust, too—I ushered in 1991 by cleaning sand out of my boots and drinking water. I’ve drunk so much water these past few months, I’ve forgotten what a real drink tastes like.

  For the last three weeks, ou
r unit has been stationed in Hafar Al Batin, a city about ninety-five klicks from the Iraqi border. We’ve been patrolling sections of Route 50, making sure no Iraqi troops get any bright ideas about coming over here and starting shit. Meanwhile, our Air Force has been flying out of Al Kharj Air Base, running patrols along the Kuwait border to the east of us.

  We’ve seen very little action, and even less resistance, so far, and I’m not complaining.

  There are six of us today, patrolling a section of the road about fifty klicks north of the city. We’re all in full desert camo gear, and it feels like I’m running in a sauna. Next to me, Private Lee Travis is struggling with the heat too.

  He takes a swig from his canteen. “Goddamn, this place feels like hell.”

  “It feels like I’m walking on the sun,” adds Greg Imes, from somewhere behind me.

  I smile. “You’d soon complain if you were freezing your ass off doing this.”

  Ahead of us, Mike Temple’s leading our squad. I think he’ll make Private First Class when we get home. He’s a nice guy and a natural leader. No disrespect to Jones, but Temple’s better at this kind of thing than he is.

  “We’ll take a beat here,” he calls over his shoulder to the rest of us, pointing to a small cluster of rocks at the side of the road.

  We break formation and move over, grouping together and coming to a stop. Private Bloom sits against one of the rocks. He rests a hand down on it, but snatches it off again a second later. “Holy shit, that’s hot!”

  Newman laughs at him. “Gee, I wonder why, dumbass?”

  A ripple of laughter sounds out. We position ourselves so one of us is facing in every direction, then we take a knee and re-hydrate. I’m facing the way we came. There’s nothing for miles. Just sand and homesickness.

  Travis is squatting down beside me, resting on his haunches. He sighs. “How much longer we gotta be out here, man?”