by Dan Cragg
By the time Lieutenant General Godalgonz reached 34th FIST’s area of operation, Brigadier Devh and the two companies of his infantry battalion were already there. Brigadier Devh and his infantry commander had deployed one company to back up Mike 34 and the other to assist Lima 34. Devh and his staff were at 34th FIST’s Command Post with Brigadier Sturgeon and his staff. The CP was located at the southeast corner of Gilbert’s Corners, which gave a good view of the battleground, and the surrounding houses provided some protection from stray fire.
Godalgonz quickly saw that while Lima 34 had knocked out most of the armored vehicles, the Marines of Company L were still in dire straits—the two battalions of Coalition infantry that were in support of the armored vehicles were almost on the Marines. Just before he reached 34th FIST’s command center, Godalgonz finally paused for a few seconds to catch his breath. When he stopped panting heavily, he strode in and said one sharp word: “Sitrep!”
Brigadier Sturgeon already knew Godalgonz was approaching, having been alerted by his aide, Lieutenant Quaticatl, who had been told by the FIST HQ security section, and had a report ready.
“Sir,” Sturgeon said crisply, adding a sharp salute, “Foxtrot Twenty-nine is assisting my Mike Company in beating off the Coalition attack against it. Golf Twenty-nine is beginning to engage the Coalition infantry assaulting my Company L. I anticipate being ready to withdraw by the time the hoppers return from the beach.” He already had his helmet screens up and his gloves off, so Godalgonz saw the salute.
“Very good, Brigadier,” Godalgonz said, returning the salute. He belatedly raised his screens and removed his gloves so Sturgeon, Devh, and their staff could see him. “I want to take a closer look at Lima Thirty-four.”
“Very good, sir. I’ll dispatch a squad from my security unit as a guard detail for you.”
“Negative, Viper. An entire squad might attract attention, even in chameleons. I’ll go alone, nobody will notice.”
“Sir!” Sturgeon waited until Godalgonz closed his helmet and redonned his gloves, then signaled his security section commander to send a fire team after the general.
Godalgonz marched briskly to the outer edge of the lightly wooded area that surrounded the village and stopped next to a tree, to more closely observe the firefight raging half a kilometer away. He didn’t notice the fire team that took position thirty meters to his right.
A few of the scout cars had survived the earlier fight against the Marines, and were now protected by infantrymen who climbed aboard to prevent chameleoned Marines from mounting them. Those infantrymen were suffering horrendous casualties, but were succeeding in keeping the scout cars in the fight. The scout cars were firing everywhere they saw movement in the field that surrounded them. Mostly they fired at wind, or fired where a Marine had just been, though they did cause some casualties. Some of their shots were simply wild.
One such wild shot went into the trees that fringed Gilbert’s Corners and struck a main branch on one of them. The branch, ten centimeters in diameter where it was struck, broke and fell to the ground—right where Lieutenant General Kyr Godalgonz stood. Godalgonz didn’t cry out when the branch struck, he simply dropped to the ground.
“Whoa shit!” cried Lance Corporal Russie, who was looking through his infra screen toward Godalgonz at that instant. “The general’s been hit.” He didn’t wait for orders from his fire team leader, but sprinted toward Godalgonz. The other two Marines followed close behind.
Ensign Cooper Rynchus reached 34th FIST’s CP moments after the evac team carried the general back. He didn’t know if the lessened sounds of battle were because the firefight was dying down or because his hearing closed off—and wouldn’t have cared if he was aware of the lesser battle noise.
“What happened?” he demanded. Two surgeons were working on Godalgonz, who was naked to the waist, and several corpsmen were clustered around, assisting them. He saw the blood and roared, “Why aren’t you putting him in a stasis bag?” He moved to rush in and deal with it himself.
“Hold on there,” Captain Copsen, 34th FIST’s logistics officer, said, grabbing Rynchus by the upper arm to hold him back.
Rynchus wrenched his arm free, almost knocking Copsen to the ground in the process, and kept moving.
“Sir, you can’t go in there,” Corporal Nyralth said, stepping between Rynchus and the sheltered operating table, Lance Corporal Russie and PFC Obburst joining him. Like Rynchus, they had their screens up and their hands bare.
“But I’m his aide, I have to be at his side!”
“Mr. Rynchus,” Captain Copsen said as he stepped between Rynchus and the fire team that had brought Godalgonz back from the trees, “the surgeons are trying to stop the bleeding. The general’s wound is too severe to put him straight into a stasis bag, he’d bleed out before the bag can take full effect. Please, Mr. Rynchus, stay back and let the surgeons do their job, they know what they’re doing.”
“But…” Rynchus shuddered. Deep inside, he knew the general wouldn’t have been shot if he’d been at his side instead of having his own shoulder seen to. “But it’s my fault he’s hurt. Can’t you see that I have to be with him?”
Copsen flinched at the raw emotion in Rynchus’s voice, but he stood his ground. “Mr. Rynchus, it was a freak accident, I don’t think anybody could have prevented it.”
“Accident?” Rynchus gasped.
“That’s right.” He turned his head to the three security Marines behind him. “Tell him.”
Nyralth nudged Russie. “Tell him what you saw,” he said.
Russie swallowed. “Sir, the general was standing under a tree over there,” he said and gestured vaguely in the direction of the trees. “A cannon round hit a branch directly above him and it fell on him.” He looked back to Nyralth.
“Sir, he was on his side when we got to him, the broken end of the branch had impaled his chest,” the fire team leader reported. “I called for evac. Corpsmen came and got him.” He shook his head. “I had to use my blaster to burn off the branch a few centimeters from his chest so he could be moved.”
“That’s right,” Copsen added. “If the branch was pulled out, he would have bled to death almost immediately.”
“So…?” Rynchus waved weakly at the operating table.
“The surgeons know what they’re doing, Mr. Rynchus. Let’s let them do their job.” Copsen took Rynchus by the arm and led him out of sight of the makeshift operating theater.
After a time the sound of approaching hoppers reached the medical team, still working on the general. The chief surgeon directed the corpsmen to layer synthskin over the massive wound in Godalgonz’s upper chest and put him in a stasis bag. Then he went looking for Rynchus.
“Mr. Rynchus,” the surgeon said softly when he reached him. “I’m Doctor Fenischel.
“How is he?” Rynchus asked hopefully as he jumped to his feet.
Fenischel shook his head. “We got the worst of the wood out of his wound, and got the bleeding under control. He’s in a stasis bag now, but he lost so much blood, I doubt he’ll survive until he gets back to the surgery on the Kiowa.”
“But, but how could he not survive?” Rynchus asked, his voice cracking. “I mean, he’s been wounded lots of times. He’s always come back.”
“Not everybody comes back,” Fenischel said sadly. “Sometimes the best a surgeon can do.”
“What didn’t you do that you should have!” Rynchus shouted. He reached for the surgeon, but pulled his hands back and balled them into frustrated fists before making contact.
“I worked on him with an experienced assistant surgeon and several very experienced corpsmen. If there’s anything that could have been done that we didn’t do, well, it’s something beyond the knowledge and ability of a combined century and a half of medical training and experience.”
Rynchus bowed his head. “I know that, Doctor. I-I’m sorry I shouted at you. Where is he now?”
Fenischel looked over his shoulder toward the hopper la
nding zone. “About to be put aboard a hopper for transit back to Bataan.”
Rynchus ran to catch up before his old friend and commander flew away without him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Marines of Company L limped as they returned to their bunkers facing Pohick Bay. Most of them limped; some didn’t return to the bunkers at all, but were borne on flatbed lorries to Essays for transport to the fully equipped hospitals aboard one of the navy starships orbiting above—or set aside in makeshift morgues for later transport to orbit.
They limped into the bunkers, bunkers where they’d fought off a massive amphibious assault at some indefinite time in the past, a time none of them could remember clearly, whether it was hours, days, or weeks ago. An assault that most of them had thought would see their deaths, and for some nearly had. They shrugged off their gear and put their weapons down—but close at hand where they could be snatched up again to resume a fight that was ended. They slid, or slumped, or collapsed to the floor, or leaned precariously against walls, or leaned out of embrasures. They said little, and mostly avoided each other’s eyes.
The respite didn’t last long.
“Third herd!” Staff Sergeant Hyakowa’s voice boomed along third platoon’s section of corridor, ricocheted into the bunkers, “Fall in on the company street!”
Groaning or silently, the Marines of third platoon pushed themselves off walls, away from embrasures, levered and lifted themselves from the floor, gathered weapons and discarded helmets, and shuffled out of bunkers to stand in rough formation before the platoon sergeant in the tunnel that the bunkers backed onto.
Unperturbed by seeing only heads and hands, and the occasional V of chest under the heads, Hyakowa watched the Marines shuffle into position. If he noticed or felt anything about the men missing from the three lines that formed up in front of him, he gave no sign. When the Marines of third platoon finished looking left to right to dress their lines, and lowered the arms they’d extended to get proper interval, he barked, “Squad leaders, report!” Farther along the tunnel in both directions, Company L’s other platoon sergeants were also calling for squad leaders’ reports.
The squad leaders didn’t call for their fire team leaders to report, they already knew who was there, who wasn’t.
Sergeant Ratliff looked down the line of his squad. Corporal Pasquin and PFC Shoup were more visible than the others because of the blood on their chameleons, blood they’d shed themselves. He didn’t expect to see Lance Corporal Longfellow; he’d seen to Longfellow’s evacuation to orbit himself. “First squad, all present or accounted for!” he managed.
Sergeant Kerr didn’t look; he’d counted up while his men were getting into position. Unlike first squad, second didn’t have anyone visible because of bloodstained chameleons. Still, second squad’s line was shorter than first squad’s; Lance Corporal MacIlargie was on his way to an orbiting hospital bay, and PFC Smedley was waiting transport to a ship’s freezer for later transit to the cemetary he’d designated as his final resting place when he enlisted. “Second squad, all present”—his voice broke—“or accounted for,” he finished when he got his voice back. He broke discipline to look toward Corporal Doyle to see how his newest fire team leader was taking the loss of a man. Doyle looked green, but was standing at a better position of attention than anybody else in the squad.
Sergeant Kelly was the last to report. “Guns, all present or accounted for.” His squad was missing Lance Corporal Tischler, evacuated, and PFC Delagarza, dead.
The squad leaders’ reports complete, Hyakowa about-faced; as he turned he saw Ensign Charlie Bass approaching from the platoon’s right. He raised his hand in salute when Bass reached and stood to face him. “Sir, third platoon, all present or accounted for!” Hyakowa said emotionlessly.
Bass returned Hyakowa’s salute as soon as the platoon sergeant completed his report. “Thank you, Staff Sergeant,” he said in a firm voice. “You may take your place.” He stood looking at his platoon from one end to the other while Hyakowa marched to his parade ground position, a pace in front of the first squad leader.
“Third platoon,” Bass said in measured tones, “you performed in the highest tradition of Marines today. Yes, you got hurt, but you dealt a severe blow to the Coalition forces on Ravenette. I am sorry to say that PFC Smedley and PFC Delagarza are gone, but Lance Corporal Longfellow, Lance Corporal MacIlargie, and Lance Corporal Tischler will rejoin when their injuries are healed. There are some of you, Corporal Pasquin and PFC Shoup, who will report to the battalion aid station when you are released from formation.” He named the names without referring to the comp he carried loosely in one hand, or obviously looking to see who was not present.
“You may not have heard,” Bass continued, “but Lieutenant General Godalgonz was also killed in action, while observing the end stages of our battle against the Coalition armored cars.”
The Marines of third platoon hadn’t heard, they’d been too busy trying to win their battle. At first, those who weren’t too exhausted from the fierce battle they’d just fought were shocked by the news—none of them could remember the last time they’d heard of a flag officer above the rank of brigadier being killed in action. Few of them had even heard of so high-ranking an officer being on a battlefield during a firefight. Slowly, what Bass had said sunk into the others and discipline dissolved as the Marines looked side to side, front to back, at one another. A lieutenant general was killed on the field of battle, right near them, and they hadn’t even noticed? What had they done wrong that such a thing could possibly happen? They’d thought they won that battle, but if their commanding general was killed during it, they must have…
Bass saw the expressions growing on his Marines’ faces and knew what at least some of them were beginning to think.
“As you were, people!” he roared. “Lieutenant General Godalgonz was half a kilometer away from us, observing from what he thought was a safe distance and location. A stray enemy round was responsible for killing him. There was nothing you or anybody else could have done to prevent his death.” He stopped and glowered at his Marines, meeting every eye that dared look at him. He had to move on, to distract his Marines from the fate of General Godalgonz.
“I have two more items for now,” he said. “First, we will be receiving five Marines from Whiskey Company, two to replace Smedley and Delagarza, and three to fill in until Longfellow, MacIlargie, and Tischler can return. Second, you are as scuzzy as I’ve ever seen Marines get. When you are dismissed, you will clean your weapons, your gear, your uniforms, and yourselves. And you had best do a thorough job of it, because I will conduct an inspection later today.”
Bass looked up and down the ranks again, then said, “Squad leaders, when I dismiss the platoon, you will take charge of your squads and see to it that they prepare themselves for an inspection!
“THIRD platoon, dis-MISSED!”
If PFC John Three McGinty seemed somewhat shell-shocked by the callousness of Ensign Bass in ordering the platoon to prepare for an inspection right after a battle in which two members of the platoon had been killed and several more wounded, this was the first time he’d been in an action that saw platoonmates killed. Sure, that other squad leader was killed earlier on Ravenette, and so was that corporal in the gun squad. But both of them were killed before McGinty joined the platoon. The raid in force on Gilbert’s Corners was his first real action. And closer to home than the two Marines who were killed was the second fire team in McGinty’s own squad, all three of its Marines wounded. One of them, Longfellow—wasn’t there an ancient poet or novelist who had that same name?—was wounded so badly he had to be evacuated to orbit. McGinty thought he should feel real bad about PFC Smedley getting killed. After all, he and Smedley had both come from Whiskey Company at the same time, but he hadn’t known Smedley when they were in the replacement pool. Besides, the Marines of first squad didn’t associate as much with second squad as they did with the other Marines in their own squad. That was someth
ing McGinty had seen in each of the few units he’d served in during his short time in the Confederation Marine Corps: first you associate with the other Marines in your fire team, then with the other Marines in your squad. Marines in other squads come after that, and other platoons even later. He didn’t think anybody ever associated with Marines from different companies. But Smedley’s death did affect McGinty. Smedley had been in the Corps about the same length of time, and they’d joined the platoon at the same time. If Smedley could be killed so quickly, then so could McGinty, and that thought shook him.
McGinty flinched when an arm suddenly draped over his shoulder and Corporal Dean spoke softly. “Be cool, Marine. Shit happens. Good men die in combat. I don’t think there’s anybody who’s been in the platoon for more than one deployment who hasn’t lost a friend, either killed or badly enough wounded that he was evacuated and never returned.”
McGinty turned his head to look at his fire team leader, but was surprised to see Dean looking off into nowhere rather than at him. He wondered what friends Dean had lost along the way, and how the older, more experienced Marine dealt with the sudden, violent deaths of men he knew and lived and worked with, and maybe called “friend,” but he couldn’t bring himself to ask. Not yet anyway.
Dean heaved a deep breath, then looked at McGinty and said, “But sometimes they do come back. Look at Sergeant Kerr. He was wounded so badly it took two years for him to make it back. Now he’s a squad leader. Someone you didn’t know was Sergeant Bladon. He was a squad leader, lost an arm on Kingdom. If he got treatment early enough, his arm will be regenerated and he’ll return to duty, maybe even with Lima Company. Lance Corporal Quick was almost killed—you’re his replacement. But he’ll be back, maybe even soon enough to help us finish winning this war.” Dean slid his arm off McGinty’s shoulder and shrugged.
