A thousand times, Sgt Gus stamped on his spirits with a gleaming black boot. Crush, crush, into his mind, into his soul, over, and over, and over… The Sergeant was pushing Icarus close to the edge…
Now came the Drop training. Shroom Raiders were trained to assault the Enemy below by dropping down on fungal tendrils called fungee cords. The cords were biologically engineered to be a mile long, light yet extremely strong, and very elastic. They were attached to a harness that the Shroom Raider wore, and they had to be coiled very carefully so that they unravelled as the Shroom Raider dropped, without any snagging.
The Shroom Raider dropped the mile to the Neufundland Rock, and then had to attach his fungee to an anchor point. The tip of the fungee was fitted with a range of hooks, claws or other attachments to allow the Raider to quickly fix them to an anchor. Once secured, a windlass at the top of the fungee wound it back into a state of high tension. When the Raider had hopefully achieved his objectives and returned to his fungee, re-attaching it to his harness and releasing the hook, the fungee recoil would pull him with tremendous force, up to ten times the force of gravity (or 10 Gs), high out of Enemy reach.
Through all this the Shroom Raider had to maintain the presence of mind to react when the effect of the recoil petered out – it could lift him two hundred yards into the air, but then he had to grab hold of his fungee cord or he would fall straight back down again. The Raider then began the laborious process of climbing back up, gripping the gnarly nodules of the fungee, until, hopefully, a drop engineer descended on a normal, non-elasticated rope, to clip him in and haul him back up to New London.
Then Icarus discovered with a certainty that he suffered from vertigo. He had endured some dizzy moments on the route marches, but he had soon issued himself with the iron order never, ever to look down. And he had survived. But now every Shroom Raider had to climb the bolted iron ladder to the test-drop platform, which would drop him 150 yards to a practice landing zone rather than the full mile to Neufundland. And now there would be no escape, for a Raider had to look down to see where he was dropping…
As soon as Icarus hauled himself onto the platform and forced himself to look down, the world danced like glassy squibs before his eyes, his throat closed into a dry clench and his ears were deaf to everything but a tinny ringing noise. He had to sit down before he blacked out. His drop engineer viewed him with undisguised contempt.
“Private Earthstar – Drop refused…”
For once, Biff and Arla managed better than him. Biff barrelled off his platform, stretched his fungee to such a strain that Icarus and Arla feared it would snap, and landed like a soggy boulder, bumping, rolling and struggling to his feet with tear-stained eyes, trying to hide the burning in his jarred ankles. But jump he did. Arla jumped confidently and performed a textbook landing, hitting the ground with both feet together and rolling with straight legs to absorb the impact.
And they gathered round Icarus to offer advice and encouragement –
“Don’t worry Ick, I felt dizzy too…”
“You’ll be fine next time, Ick, it’s just a matter of practice…”
But Sgt Gus beasted them all.
“Drop like that again, Private Woodwax, and you’ll break your ankles. And wipe that smile off your face, Private Scarletina – one half-decent training drop doesn’t make you an Airborne Raider yet…”
And he turned to Icarus, whose ears cleared just in time to hear,
“I will see your body broken a thousand times on the rocks below, before you endanger your comrades with another Drop refusal, Private Earthstar. I will cut you into a thousand pieces and feed them to the bats, before you embarrass me with another Drop refusal, Private Earthstar. Am I understood?”
Icarus remembered little of the next Drop. His eyes swam and his ears sang, but somehow he fell, somehow he landed, somehow he wasn’t broken.
And he remembered the Drop after that a little better.
And the Drop after that, better still.
But every time he felt so sick.
And every time Sgt Gus was a bitter medicine…
Then came a moment when Icarus found himself all alone, among the Drop platforms, amidst the fungee windlass machinery. There before him was Sgt Gus’s platform, his fungee cord within reach.
“I could do something to it… Sabotage the fungee, weaken it so that it snaps under a man’s weight…”
But Icarus wavered.
“Could I do it? Could I really do that to a man – even this man…?”
Then Sgt Gus appeared.
“What are you doing up here without permission, Private Earthstar? You know you’re not allowed up here unsupervised?”
Sgt Gus seized Icarus by the throat, and pressed their faces close. He peered into Icarus’s eyes, studying one, then the other, and smiled.
“I know what you’re thinking, Icarus”, he said. “It would be so easy to do, wouldn’t it? Just take your bayonet and cut the fungee halfway through, there, where nobody would see the cut. And then I would drop, and drop, and drop, and all your problems would be solved…”
Sgt Gus patted Icarus’s cheek and laughed.
“Am I right, Icarus? I’m right, aren’t I? Am I right?”
And Icarus found himself nodding… and suddenly the hand was choking him, tight as a strangleshroom.
“You’re a coward, Icarus”, said Sgt Gus. “You’re a cockroach. And your thousand lives are up…”
And Sgt Gus pushed Icarus off the platform…
For the second time Icarus knew he was falling to his death…
Already in his mind the first razor edge rock was cutting into him…
… gouging out his guts…
… when suddenly strong hands gripped him…
… and it was Sgt Gus, who in a flash had fixed himself to the fungee and dropped after him. The fungee slowed their fall… and four boots clattered heavily onto the ground.
“Listen to me, cockroach”, said Sgt Gus. “The next time I find you in an unauthorised area, or the next time I find you displaying cowardice, I will push you off again – but next time I won’t be jumping after you to save you. I promise you that.”
9 - FSO
A few days later, Biff was injured in an accident on the shooting range. He had managed to shoot himself in the foot with shrapnel-spores. Icarus and Arla went to visit Biff in the infirmary – just as Sgt Gus appeared.
“Private Woodwax! Two range technicians have testified that you deliberately self-wounded to get out of the Drop. No matter how badly hurt you are, you are jumping – and if you survive, you will return to face a court-martial!”
Sgt Gus thundered out, leaving a military policeman to guard the ward.
Icarus and Arla stayed with Biff.
“I’m afraid”, said Biff, “Afraid of letting everyone down. I’m so slow, no matter how hard I try to get fitter – and I’m afraid I’ll get you both killed hanging back to wait for me. My old man used to be a – well you know, they would call him a spiv, a black-marketeer – and much fatter than me – yes, you can laugh - but he had relied on the speed of his wits to keep him out of trouble rather than the speed of his feet.
’Biff’, he had always said, ‘If you’re relying on your feet to get you out of trouble then your brain’s done something badly wrong…’”
“That’s good advice”, said Icarus. “Do what your father said and you’ll be fine, I’m sure. Where’s your father now?”
Biff looked down at his bed-clothes.
“In jail. All his mates working on a ration-book scam got away, except my old man…”
“We’ll think of something, Biff”, said Icarus. And he paced the room, chewing his lip.
“I’ve got an idea - The Fire Support Officer with 2nd Platoon! There is a Fire Support Officer who drops with every platoon, but hangs back with a wireless set, talking to the bombardiers back up in New London, calling in fire support if needed and giving them the coordinates to bomb…
“Now I know that 2nd Platoon’s FSO has always been itching to have a go with the lads, to get up front with the Raiders and actually fire his shooter in anger… I’ll talk to him. Biff, you could swap places with him, be the FSO on this drop, perform an important role but not have to run so far!”
Biff was visibly cheered by this. But Arla had become quiet, eyes fixed on the floor.
“Something wrong, Arla?”
And Arla looked up. Her eyes were glistening.
“I’m scared, Ick. Really scared.”
“Arla, why? You’re the pride of the Platoon, top in almost every test…”
“Except marksmanship. Ick, I’m a terrible shot, the worst in the whole Platoon. All my life I’ve wanted to prove myself with a weapon, to make my poor Dad’s spirit proud…”
Arla’s father had been a Harvest-Guard, protecting the Harvesters who crawled precariously out from the hanging rock of New London onto the roof of the Cave itself to harvest the abundant crops of fungi that dangled down from the roof. As they clung to the roof, the Harvesters were vulnerable to attack from cave beasts – giant centipedes bigger than a man, giant pale-eyed geckos that could swallow a Harvester whole, giant bats… And so the Harvest-Guards kept watch with their shroom-shooters, ensuring that the Harvest was gathered in, and New London was saved from starvation.
“My old man was a famous shot. Never missed. Until the day a giant bat came swooping in like silent death and snatched him away…
“But my poor old Dad had troubles with the drink and the gambling, and when he died me and my Mum found out that he’d left us with a mountain of debt. So our house got repossessed… and my Mum had to do every kind of grotty job, every hour of every day… and so I vowed, I vowed to bring the food in, any way I could…”
“I know my old man is up there, watching me – and I want to show him that I can do better in life. But – I’m scared. Ick, Biff, I’m so scared of dying. I’m afraid that I’ll, I’ll – seize up, solid as a rock, and not be able to do anything – and then I’d make a perfect target for an Enemy stormtrooper, wouldn’t I?…”
And Icarus racked his brains for an answer, a trick that would help his friend. A practical solution, like the one he found for Biff…
“Of course, Arla, so obvious! Listen - at least one Raider is tasked to hang back and give protection to the Fire Support Officer. I will have words and get it sorted. Think about it, Arla, you will be further back and safer. But also, remember your job, which is to protect the FSO. Protect Biff. Protect your friend. Focus all your thoughts on looking after Biff, and you’ll have less opportunity to be afraid for yourself.”
Arla laughed. “Ick, you’re a genius!”
“But Ick”, said Biff, “We’re going to feel bad now, because you’re going to be charging ahead, at the spearhead of the attack, in the greatest danger, without either of your mates to watch your back…”
10 – Sgt Gus
A cockroach has a thousand lives…
The culmination of 2nd Platoon’s training was the Man-Breaker March – a full-pack ordeal up a brutal range of stalagmites, the Bat’s Teeth, and back again in a cruelly tight time limit. 2nd Platoon were treated to extra helpings at breakfast – but Icarus didn’t feel right… And soon into the march it hit him… Someone had spiked his breakfast with laxishrooms, and his bowels were about to explode… Every few yards he had to stagger off the course to squat behind a mossmite to do his sickly business…
And there, like a toadfly drawn to the stench, was Sgt Gus.
“Private Earthstar, diarrhoea is weakness leaving the body. But you are weak, Private - in fact, I think you are diarrhoea in human form… So maybe 2nd Platoon should shit you out of its bowels, and be the stronger for it? What do you say, Private Shitstain?”
Icarus was thirsty now. So thirsty…
… with cracked lips oozing blood, and a swollen tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth…
… and he reached for his water canteen…
… to find Sgt Gus holding it. Unscrewing the lid. Turning it and spilling every last drop onto the ground.
Nobody else in 2nd Platoon had stomach troubles, and Arla and Biff dropped back to help their friend – slipping him sips of water when Gus wasn’t looking. They finished the course, all the way up the Bat’s Teeth and back – but hours outside the time limit.
“We’ll be back-marked”, gasped Biff through ragged breaths.
“We’ll have to do this all over again”, panted Arla. “Basic training again. The Man-Breaker March again. Sgt Gus, again…”
And that was when Icarus realised that he couldn’t endure Sgt Gus all over again…
The three friends talked it through in the darkness of their dorm. Arla and Biff were less sure, but Icarus was adamant.
“I am not going to endure Sgt Gus a second time…”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
Icarus didn’t answer. But that night he loaded his shooter with shrapnel-spores…
… and drifted like a shadow through the perimeters of the Officers’ Quarters….
… and there he stood, over the sleeping form of Sgt Gus, an enemy he hated far more than any of the Enemy below.
Icarus prepared to pull the trigger...
His shooter breathed with him, felt his feelings, was desperate to fire…
But the night was still, and the stillness crept into his heart. Icarus realised he couldn’t do it.
“Not murder. Not in cold blood. Not here, not now. This is not me.”
And he lowered his shooter.
A light flicked on. Icarus spun round, blinking, to find Sgt Gus standing there. Sgt Gus prodded the figure in the bed. It was made of pillows. Icarus was visualising a court martial, followed by an execution – but to his amazement Sgt Gus smiled.
“Icarus, you have taken everything I could throw at you. You have helped your friends time and again, knowing you would only get a beasting for your pains. And now, instead of collapsing in a heap and crying, you have shown initiative, shown that you are prepared to fight back.”
Sgt Gus looked Icarus in the eye.
“You only failed in one respect. You should have pulled the trigger. But in every other way, your father would be pleased.”
Just as Icarus had guessed from that eavesdropped phone conversation –
“Father was behind this all along!”
“Yes, Icarus. You are General Willard D. Earthstar’s son, and you had to be tested, pushed, proven to be better than anyone else’s son. New London couldn’t afford to give the Enemy the propaganda gift of seeing the General’s only remaining son as a weakling or coward…”
2nd Platoon’s training was coming to an end, and their first combat drop was drawing near. Nerves tightened. Suddenly this was all becoming very real. The Shroom Raiders practised more diligently at their shroom-shooter target drills, performed as many test-drops as possible, took more particular care over every aspect of their equipment. And then Sgt Gus briefed them about the Drop:
“After the New London bombardiers launch some distraction bombing patterns on other parts of Neufundland’s defences…
… and after a decoy drop is launched, using rubber dummy soldiers packed with firecrackers to confuse the Enemy further…
… 2nd Company, and you, 2nd Platoon, will drop on your fungee cords to assault a radar station that the Neufundlanders have under construction. This station is of a type that the New London scientists haven’t seen before – so you are to grab any documents, and ideally any key technology, that you find there, blow the place up, and spring back home on your fungees. Any questions?”
As the briefing ended, Sgt Gus gave a stern warning about secrecy.
“The rocks have ears, and there are Enemy spies in New London radioing their secrets back down to Neufundland, dropping documents down, or even sending messages by carrier moth. Careless talk cost lives, and you will all be confined to barracks until the mission is completed.”
Sgt Gus then came round with a piece of paper for every Raider.
“Your life insurance policy. You need to made sure that if you die, your family will benefit financially…”
And as Icarus scrawled his signature and gave the sheet back to Sgt Gus, he thought of his family – his Dad, General Willard D. Earthstar, and how he really didn’t need to worry, financially, whether his only remaining son lived or died…
11 – D-Hour
D-Hour, Drop-Hour, approached, and the Raiders of 2nd Company made their final preparations. A last meal – a generous one of bat steak, roast toad-potatoes and lemon-algae sorbet. A last chance to study the reconnaissance photos and table-top model of the radar station. A final gear-check, making sure their shroom-shooters, ammo, harness and fungee cords looked A-Okay. Icarus, Biff and Arla shook hands.
“Stay back and stay safe”, said Icarus. “Biff, you keep close to the radio and call in those bombs where needed. And Arla, you make sure you look after Biff, okay?”
And Biff and Arla exchanged glances and kept silent, when they wanted to say:
“Icarus, who’s going to look after you?”
The Tannoy barked -
< D-Hour minus four minutes. Raiders, stand ready…>
Each Shroom Raider stood on his fungee platform, a mile of cave-air swirling beneath his feet.
A mile below, he could see the Enemy defences.
His drop engineer made last checks.
The red light came on beside his head, and he felt its warmth.
Shroom Raider Page 6
