With Eyes Turned Skyward

by Gregory Stravinski

  Sighing, I roll my eyes. For once, I’d like to be known for something not tinged in controversy.

  Cliff snaps his fingers, pointing at me. “That’s right, I heard your name on the PA. Damn, you seem to have some trouble keepin’ your planes in the air, don’t ya?”

  I shake my head and keep walking. What can I say to that?

  Cliff pads up behind me. “Oh come on now, I was just making light of a dire situation. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” he says.

  Cliff stops me. He lowers his voice, finding my eyes. “But in all seriousness, I heard you saved a lot of lives on that flight. It was pretty impressive.” He carefully takes my hand in his and shakes it.

  I let myself relax a bit, thanking him.

  We start walking again. He whispers to himself, lighting up another cigarette. “Man, escorting a real live celebrity. Not too bad.”

  Smiling, I allow myself a few illusions of grandeur. I wish I hadn’t been unconscious for my fanfare after I crash landed the Helios.

  The shots echoes get louder. A triage center pops out of the side of the concourse. Blood spattered rags and soldiers lie everywhere. There are a lot of wounded. Looking down at my hands, I realize my injuries are laughable compared to theirs.

  Cliff rubs his latest cigarette out on the railing. “Well Corporal, this is where I leave you,” he says, the fatigue in his voice no longer veiled. “I need to get back to my post to make sure my partner hasn’t been captured or killed in the time I’ve been toting your ass around. It was a pleasure meeting you.” He snaps a quick salute.

  I return it. “Keep your head down, huh?”

  Nodding, he starts heading back to the stern of the ship.

  I realize that’s the first time I’ve been saluted. I could get used to that.

  I make my way to the triage tent. It looks like little more than an equipment tarp rolled out over an expandable set of 2 by ten planks. At the entry way, a medic holds a bag of saline solution over a soldier.

  He looks up at me. “We’ve got walking wounded!” he yells to the back of the tent.

  I protest, both against diverting precious resources for my unnecessary treatment, and my legs wobbling beneath me. They’re losing strength fast.

  One of the medics rushes out from the back. She looks me over, opening both my eyes and peeling back my cracked lips.

  “When’s the last time you had water?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “I, uh, I really couldn’t tell you.”

  She bites her lip, motioning me over. “Come with me. We’ll get your hands and back patched up as well. Not much we can do about the face.”

  I stop, staring at her.

  “Gallows humor, kid,” she says. “I have some ointment that might be able to help.”

  I follow her outside. The tent runs along the wall of the ship. Row after row of wounded men and women groan in pain as far as I care to look. Marines cry out for water as we walk past. Some just drool, lying still. I feel guilty being here.

  The medic leads me over to the one open spot along the wall before asking me to sit down.

  As I oblige, she leans over, checking my eyes again. “You’re so dehydrated we’re going to need to you fill you back up with an intravenous bag. While you’re refueling, we’ll work on your hands, ok?” she asks.

  I nod, pressing my back against the cool steel wall.

  Her footsteps fade away, and I am left to take in my surroundings. A flood of black and gold uniforms assaults my senses: not exactly something you’d find on a recruitment poster. I inspect my closest neighbors. To my right is what appears to be a young man, although his face is so bandaged I can’t tell whether or not he’s awake, or even if he is a he. Discerning the tufts of his hair moving inside his cloth cocoon, I am reassured he’s still alive.

  I look to my left. My heart hits my stomach. It’s a young girl. She couldn’t be more than eighteen or nineteen. Probably signed up for the marines as soon as she was eligible. Her assault gloves and helmet have been removed and lie on the hull beside her head. She has beautiful blue eyes and dark wavy hair that blows slightly in the wind. Looking down the length of her body, I find the reason for her admission. A sucking chest wound gurgles from her right side. A rasping sound sends a shudder through to my toes. She’s having trouble breathing.

  Her eyes study me quietly, with no sign of panic; she’s just there. This was what could happen defending our ship. Her right hand splays out next to my arm. It’s so pale.

  Without thinking, I thread my fingers through hers, just holding them there. She tenuously grips back. Her eyes close, lips pulling slightly upwards. A tear crests over the side of her nose, making its way towards her other eye. I rub my hand off on my suit before using my thumb to brush it away.

  I look back out into the swirling clouds. We sit there for what seems like an eternity. The medics haven’t come back yet. They must have more pressing issues. I don’t really blame them. Now that I have a purpose, I don’t feel so thirsty anymore. A voice pulls me back from my thoughts.

  “She’s dead, lad.”

  Resurfacing from of my haze, I recognize the voice. A large shadow engulfs me. I look up into Olan’s red face, staring at him uncomprehendingly.

  Olan points his chin over to the girl. “The lass is gone, son.”

  I’m still holding her hand as I look over. I realize I haven’t heard her pull for air in a while, and I know Olan’s right. The bottom of my stomach falls out. Using my right hand to pull my left out of her cold fingers, I place her hand back on her chest.

  Olan lowers his voice. “Did you know her?”

  I shake my head. “You?”

  Olan presses out his lower lip, shaking his head as well. “She was in the other battalion, I think,” he says.

  Thirst sets back in, nausea welling inside of me. I place a hand over my face, curling up.

  Olan will not be dissuaded. “Well fancy seeing you here. I’m glad you’re alive too.”

  I try my best to focus on something constant, collecting myself. “Sorry Olan, I just, don’t feel very well right now,” I say.

  Olan snorts. “Don’t feel very well? Lad, I’ve been shot.”

  Kneeling down, he puts his bloodied shoulder in my face. The gash in Olan’s flesh does little to calm my writhing stomach.

  He stands back up. “Some fool sniper thought he could end me with a bullet! Fancy that! He should know it takes more than one to take out old Olan,” he says, thumbing at his injury. “The bastard just ended up giving away his position. We made short work of him.”

  My dehydration leaves me with less patience than usual. “Then what, pray tell, are you doing here?”

  Olan shrugs. “My cad of an officer sent me back to make sure no arteries got nicked. Low and behold, I’m just fine. Wound’s through and through, just flesh for the most part. Truth is, I think he just wanted a greater share of the glory.”

  I study Olan from my hunched position. Honor and glory. His bywords. The man’s a walking time paradox. With his pistol clipped to his leg and his massive claymore strapped to his back, he would confuse most history books. The giant sword was crafted on the Artemis by Olan’s father. He was a smith on the lower decks all his life. His magnum opus was designed to pay tribute to his Scottish roots. What better way to demonstrate your lineage in lost culture than smelting a five foot sword?

  “Lucky for you,” Olan starts up again. “I saw those medics lead you in here.” He pulls out a gallon of water and some tape. “Also lucky for you, I know that these medics don’t know their heads from their arses. So I helped myself to their stash.”

  My eyes widen. “My God, Olan. That’s a capital offense!”

  Olan shrugs. “It’s also already been done,” he says, tilting my head back and gripping my jaw. “I know you’re supposed to get this in a bag, but we’ll be doing it the old fashioned way I’m afraid.”

  A cascade of water rushes down my throat before I can protest. Coughing and sputtering is
the only thing that gets Olan to relent long enough for me to catch a breath and not throw everything back up. Even with the little medical knowledge I have, I know this isn’t the way to rehydrate someone.

  Becoming frustrated with my attempts to resist, Olan plants the half-empty gallon on the ground next to me. “Alright fine. If you’re gonna fight me about it, you can just nurse it yourself. You’ll be quite good at it if you drink your water anything like you drink your beer,” he growls.

  Leave it to a Scot to insult my drinking ability as I lie here dying from dehydration. “At least I have a soul,” I cough.

  I took a risk on that one. For a second, it looks like he’s going to slap me. A smile cracks over my broken lips, which seems to defuse the situation. When in doubt, employ ginger jokes.

  I cry out in pain as Olan grabs one of my hands, wrenching it over in front of him. “Give it here! I’ll start working on your hands while you suckle from that, he says gesturing to the gallon.

  The prospect of Olan repairing my hands is more worrisome than him drowning me, but I don’t really have a choice.

  Exhaling, I try my best to focus and relax. “Do you happen to have a bullet I can bite?” I ask.

  Olan glares at me under his red hedge brows, unclipping his side arm. “I’ve got nine if you don’t shut yer mouth. Now lay back,” he says.

  Obeying, I let fate take its course as Olan’s sausage fingers press together, patching up what’s left of my hands. Although not known for his dexterity, he actually does a serviceable job. I just wish my fingers would stop tingling from loss of circulation.

  Satisfied with his medical venture, Olan pulls me up by my straps.

  “What are you doing? Where are you taking me?” I ask, confused.

  Olan breaks into a smile, gesturing with a platter sized hand towards the popping sounds to our left. “Back into battle of course!”

  Fear wells up. I look away, trying my best not to let my hands fidget.

  Olan shakes me. “Do you want this triage center to get overrun or not?”

  I open my mouth to respond, but just glare at him instead. He always knows how to provoke me into doing something I don’t want to do.

  “Alright, let’s go,” I mutter, reaching down to grab my rifle.

  He slaps my hand away. “You won’t be needing that. Too slow and unwieldy.” Before I can respond, he reaches over, plucking the saber from the dead girl’s kit. He gives it to me to strap to my hip. “We’ll be heading into close-quarters combat. All you’ll be needing is that, and your trusty sidearm,” he growls.

  As Olan hauls me down the rows of wounded, I look back at the dead woman, silently thanking her for her sword. With a last glance at her glassy eyes and slack mouth, I promise her that it won’t be dry by the time I’m done with it.

  7

  The water begins working its magic. My shriveled body starts coming back to human form, like a soaked sponge. With each step, my reliance on Olan diminishes. Eventually, I carry my own weight, using his shoulder only every once in a while to steady myself. The closer we get to the bow, the sterner the faces around us become. Making every effort to operate under my own power, I focus on burning away the mental clouds. For many of these men and women, I’m their superior officer, so I need to look the part.

  Olan and I fall in line with his platoon. A steady stream of bloodied wounded are being carried back the other way. Even though we control well over half of the zeppelin’s deck, this fight’s far from over.

  My muscles tense as we reach a wall of marines. Shouts, gunshots and the clang of metal on metal echo just over the other side.

  Olan nudges me. “The containment wall. The ruckus is coming from the first platoon that’s gone in. The second platoon’s here to contain the fighting and make sure they don’t break through our lines.”

  Wounded and dead marines emerge out of the holes morphing in the perimeter, supported by their more able-bodied comrades. Whatever’s happening on the other side, I want no part of it. All of the kindness in Olan’s eyes evaporates; it has no purpose in this function of his life.

  “Since we’re in reserve, we may be committed to this melee as well,” he says.

  That’s when I hear her. Out of habit, I freeze, standing at attention. A one-eyed fury charges the lieutenant who is leading our platoon, going nose to nose with him.

  “Where the hell have you been?” growls none other than Captain Janna Dixon.

  The lieutenant sputters out a response, but it does nothing to appease the Captain.

  Dixon’s eye sweeps the fresh platoon. “Doesn’t matter! You’re the flanking force now. Hit the other side of this fight from the through-way. Watch for choke points. These assholes are vicious, but they aren’t stupid.”

  The lieutenant snaps a quick salute, relaying the orders to his sergeants even though everyone’s already heard them loud and clear.

  Dissatisfied with the pace of execution, Captain Dixon windmills her arm towards the front line. “Let’s MOVE!”

  “Cry Havoc!” everyone responds, breaking into a run.

  We turn left at the perimeter towards the through-way. I appreciate their convenience on my own ship, but the through-ways that once provided easy passage to the different parts of the deck now seem cramped and claustrophobic. Their narrow routes make the perfect death trap. The clatter of our boots reverberates off of the steel walls, making a deafening sound. With all this noise, whoever’s waiting for us at the other end must know we’re coming.

  The narrow passageway opens up into a large enclosure with crate sized generators dotting the floor. If it’s anything like our ship, this place provides power for a significant portion of the living quarters below. This is a huge find. Without power, it’ll be awfully hard for the pirates to fend off our siege. But how can it be so unguarded?

  The screech of a hatch at the far side of the enclosure answers my question.

  It’s not.

  A large machine gun punches its muzzle through, firing tracers across the open area. The marines in front of me are immediately cut down. Some dive behind the small generators, while others split to the sides in a panic.

  The lieutenant spins to face us. “Take cover in the through-ways! Move to either si-“

  A bullet pierces the skin of his throat.

  A look of surprise hits his face as he clutches the side of his neck before collapsing to the ground. Fear strikes so fast, I actually stop moving, frozen by indecision. What do we do now? A bullet whizzes past my cheek, stirring me back into action. The generators out here aren’t big enough to provide enough protection.

  A strong arm grabs me by my collar, throwing me in the direction of the left through-way.

  “On the hop, boy!” Olan shouts, picking up a wounded marine and throwing her over his shoulder. “You’ll find no kindness here!”

  My muscles engage as they’re trained to do, just like a call for a downed plane. My legs kick in; all of my previous wounds no longer mattering. I lunge towards the through-way in a dead sprint. It’s just large enough to house half of our platoon. At the rate we’re being whittled down, that may be all who’s left.

  Covering the last ten meters, I slide into safety with a handful of marines who’ve already made it. Some sit in the corner covering their heads. A few have taken up combat positions, firing back at the machinegun nest.

  Pock, pock!

  Behind me, bullets strike a marine in the leg and chest as he runs to safety. His carbine clatters to the floor, his body sliding to a stop. Looking over him, I see Olan running towards our platoon as fast as his mass can move; speed never was his strength.

  Snatching up the fallen marine’s carbine, I stand over the other soldiers, providing fire cover. I’ve never used a carbine before, but its recoil’s gratifying. Each shot makes me feel less helpless. Olan was right though; I never would have made it to the through-way lugging this around. Bullets begin ricocheting off of the paneling in front of us as the nest’s line of fire skip
s up. The marine in front doubles over, lead finding its home in her chest.

  The iron sites of my carbine explode as the weapon wrenches from my hands. A searing piece of metal cuts through my eyebrow. I drop the gun, clutching my face. My hands come away bloody, as a warmth trickles down past my jaw. Hunching back behind the wall, I blink my eyes repeatedly, making sure I can still see. My hands are still there, this nightmare is still there.

  Olan barrels toward the entrance. He cries out, his body shaking as he clears the passageway. He slides in, one leg in front of him, dropping the poor woman to the deck. He swears to himself.

  I duck around, trying pull him further into the alcove.

  “Ah feck! Baz, they got me in the fecking arse! God above that stings,” Olan grunts.

  Pulling him in further, I reach down, tapping him lightly on the face. “Could have been worse!”

  Olan reaches up to push me away. “Feck off!”

  Satisfied with my friend’s safety, I survey the killing field. Most of our platoon’s made it either to this through-way or the one directly across from us. A shocking number of us lay prone in the middle of the open area. The nest rakes through the enclosure, shooting at anything that’s still moving. It’s sickening.

  The dull thud of bullets echo as they find their targets. Wheeling around, I spot a marine just out of reach from us. He’s still moving, smearing the deck with the blood leaking from under his sergeant’s markings. We lock eyes.

  “Get me out of here!” he yells.

  I press a finger to my lips, motioning for him to stop moving. It doesn’t seem to register. The sergeant continues writhing, attracting the nest’s attention.

  A young marine in front of me dives to his hands and knees, also trying to get his Sergeant to relax. “Matsumoto, you gotta stop moving!” he pleads.

  The Sergeant snarls in a slight Japanese accent, “You try to stop moving when you’ve got hot lead pouring through you!”

  The young marine pokes his head out from behind our barricade, just enough to try hooking the Sergeant with the muzzle of his carbine. His rifle explodes in his hands. The young marine ducks back into the enclosure, bullets beginning to rain around his Sergeant. Matsumoto curls into a protective ball.