The Last Marine

by T. S. Ransdell

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the gunny answered with a hard determination that could only be cultivated by twenty years in the United States Marine Corps.

  Lieutenant Xi Tian rui felt lucky they had made it up to this point. He’d seen so many “first waves” of an attack destroyed by the US Marines, but six hours later he was still alive. Secretly he wondered how the US Marines managed to hold a line so much better than the PLA, but he would never dare ask that question out loud. He considered himself lucky this time to have a platoon of Gansiduì attached to his company, but what good was good luck if he ended up dead in the end? He was alive now and trying to stay that way. He had just been commended over the radio by Lieutenant Colonel Li for holding the line. He didn’t tell the lieutenant colonel that he too might have turned and run if it had not been for Sergeant Liu. The man was a demon on the battlefield and exhibited a confidence that proclaimed he could not be killed. He was enough of an inspiration, or a terror, to keep his line from collapsing. Now, however, Xi didn’t really know what to do. Political connections could get him promoted, but didn’t give him a clue how to defeat US Marines.

  Harris had it. He’d not slept in over twenty-four hours, and it didn’t bother him a bit. He was feeling that lust, that buzz he got from battle. He’d been raised to believe all life was a gift from God and not to be taken lightly. Nor did he take it lightly, but the exhilaration he felt from battle had grown over the years. He’d spent many nights wondering if his father had felt it, and he thought that he had. His father had spent his entire adult life fighting evil and protecting the innocent. As a boy, his father had told him that many men were content to ignore evil; but if all good men turned a blind eye to evil actions, then evil won, and the precious lives of the innocent were destroyed. His father had died fighting evil. Before he’d been in battle, Harris had wondered why his father hadn’t just stayed in Kansas and fought evil there. He thought now he understood. It was more than just going somewhere to fight evil; being among men who were willing to go to any extent to fight evil made the fight sacred. Harris felt it was an honor and a privilege to fight alongside such men, as he did now. Harris knew their situation was dire. He didn’t want his fellow Marines to die, and he didn’t want to die himself. But at this moment he knew there was no other place he’d want to be; come what may, he wanted to fight evil, he wanted to fight that fight with his friends.

  The only thing Major Thomas L. Henderson had ever wanted to do more than learn how to fly was to be a US Marine. As a boy he’d been fascinated by the stories of his great-grandfather, who’d served as an infantryman with the Fifth Marines during World War II. He grew up reading Marine Corps history and learning of its warrior culture. This had fed his desire, his ambition, to become a Marine. By the time he had turned eighteen, before the Sino-American War, he was on the verge of joining; but his father had talked him out of it. His father wanted him to go to college and study business so he could learn how to make money. At that age making money was not a motivating factor for the young Henderson. His father had played on his son’s desire to learn how to fly to get him to college. He told his son if he got a degree, he could become a Marine officer and learn how to fly. The tactic worked. Young Tommy enrolled at Iowa State University, but he didn’t study business as his father had wanted. He enrolled in NROTC and got his degree in history.

  Henderson never had the privilege of meeting his great-grandfather, but the man was still an inspiration to him throughout his Marine Corps career. It was the memory of the elder Henderson’s service that motivated him to volunteer for this mission. They were told from the outset that this would be a volunteer-only mission. As bad as it was at Camp Charlie Foxtrot, it was more dire at Michael Foxtrot. After an intense seventy-two hours, they needed to be resupplied and the wounded needed to be evacuated. Henderson barely needed more than a second to volunteer.

  He flew one of three CH-53s that flew into the camp to deliver ammo and evacuate the wounded while attack helicopters strafed the PLA. The CH-53 helicopter was an obsolete aircraft. At the start of the Sino-American War the need for aircraft was high. What was left of the old machines was refurbished and brought back into service in the Mexico Campaign. Since then, they had just been used to transport supplies, but not for combat. The only reason they were being used in this desperate situation was that they were the most expendable.

  They took some small-arms fire during the landing, but it seemed like a blessing after dodging the shoulder-launched rockets. The crew expertly unloaded the cargo under the direction of a steely-eyed gunnery sergeant and loaded up wounded Marines to be evacuated. Henderson said a quick prayer and took off to work his way out of the hell he had flown into. From the air he momentarily wondered how anyone could survive down there. All he could see was exploding earth, fire, and tracer rounds. The distraction of the combat below was interrupted by a massive thud on the port side. The helicopter no longer soared, but seemed to pull and want to spin. He could feel the heat and hear the screams of burning Marines in the back. Henderson fought for control of the helicopter, but it was a losing fight. The CH-53 spun and fell. In his last few seconds he thought of his great-grandfather, meeting Christ, and finally of his wife and three daughters.

  “Cease fire, cease fire!” Sergeant Liu ordered. “Don’t be fools! Surely they will take the wounded out when they leave. Shoot them as they leave; that way you will kill more Marines!”

  Private Yuan held the crosshairs on the Marine CH-53 as it rose into the sky.

  “Steady. Wait. Let it rise high enough to cause maximum damage when it explodes and falls,” Sergeant Liu advised. “Fire! Fire now!”

  Private Yuan depressed the trigger of the shoulder-fired antiair rocket. His aim was perfect. He nailed the Marine helicopter. He had hoped for a bigger explosion, but he could tell he damaged it. The CH-53 had lost control, spun, and crashed back into the Marine camp. Two seconds later there was a secondary explosion. Yuan savored the fireball.

  “Yes!” the private cheered and pumped his fist into the air.

  “Well done, Yuan!” Sergeant Liu slapped the soldier on the back. Private Yuan turned to smile at his comrades, who were cheering him.

  The back blast had caught Corporal Gorton’s attention. He’d seen it in the corner of his eye. He fought the temptation to look at the CH-53. He did not want to lose the spot where he’d seen the back blast. He trained the scope of his sniper rifle around the mound of dirt from where he’d seen it. There was movement and a hand thrown up in the air. He held his breath. Within one second he saw the smiling face of the fist-pumping Prick that had fired the rocket step out just a bit from the earthworks. He pulled the trigger.

  The back of Private Yuan’s head popped open. Sergeant Liu was standing less than a meter from Yuan when he was shot. Liu dropped. He didn’t bother to check his comrade; he knew he was dead. Liu dragged the body back into the depths of their trench.

  “Don’t be stupid, comrades,” Sergeant Liu chastised his platoon. “Celebrate with your head down. Chen.”

  “Yes, Sergeant Liu.”

  “Go through his pockets. Distribute his ammo.”

  President Harmon sat at her desk, with her face in her hands. Her heart ached. Three months earlier she had announced the Federal Agency of Public Safety. The mainstream media were leery of her motivations at first. When she soon afterwards revoked the charter of state militias to defend the US border and occupied northern Mexico, she acquired enthusiastic support from the media. Of course, the creation of a large federal bureaucracy that encompassed all aspects of national security, foreign and domestic, had caused dissension with the right wing of her party. However, this allowed her to look more moderate and play to the nonaffiliated and non-decided voters. She thought the dissension fit her image as a consensus builder. She had come to believe that her campaign manager, with the help of the mainstream media, had pulled off a masterful triumph.

  Islamic communities in the Great Lakes region had welcomed the deactiv
ation of militias and seemed to be embracing the concept of the new “FedAPS.” In a brilliant gesture of goodwill and “building cultural bridges,” Harmon gave the American Jihadists Council, AJC, major input in designing protocols for the new Federal Agency of Public Safety. Her campaign was able to present this as a sign that the Harmon administration was healing national wounds and bringing Americans together to stand against the People’s Republic of China.

  Zhang suddenly became more open to discussion at the peace talks. Partisan attacks had died down with the buildup of military camps north of the Yellow River. Harmon believed that she had found an agenda that would propel her into her own term as president of the United States.

  The polls had her anywhere from five to ten points ahead nationally. She was even leading in many of the key battleground states. Harmon had become optimistic about her ability to bring Americans together. As president, she would end the wars that no longer had to be fought, and focus the energy and resources of the nation into evolving as a people and a culture.

  It was hard for her to believe that was all just a week ago. The PRC offensive had caused her poll numbers to crash over the weekend. Her advisors had assured her that Zhang was not behind the eastern offensive, that he had nothing to gain by such an action. They confirmed Zhang’s accusation of this renegade general, upset by the peace talks, launching his own offensive. General Mythers assured her that if they focused their military assets in the east, it would all be over by election time.

  Now he was telling her that they had “misinterpreted the situation.” Zhang had baited them into committing resources in the east so the PLA could launch a massive assault to the west. Instead of peace talks, the North China Plain was a cluster of battles. Allied forces were dispersed, misplaced, or otherwise occupied.

  She sat in conference with General Mythers and his team of FedAPS advisors at Camp David. President Harmon had just been advised that not one, but perhaps two US Marine battalions might be lost. They had been completely surrounded. Air and artillery support was just spread too thin as it was.

  “Does the press know about this yet?” Harmon lifted up her head and looked directly at Mythers.

  “Yes, Madame President.” Mythers cleared his throat and looked down.

  “Goddamnit, General!” Harmon exploded. All this was too much.

  “Madame President, we have to get ahead of this. You should call a press conference immediately,” Porter advised.

  President Harmon shifted her gaze from Mythers to Porter. “Do it. Now!” Harmon ordered. She turned her attention back to Mythers. “If you can’t tell, General, I am pissed.”

  “Madame General, I understand, but this is not a time to dwell on what has gone wrong. Instead we need to focus on fixing it. My generals and I have been working on—”

  “Fix it!” President Harmon interrupted her new commander of FedAPS. “How do ‘we’ fix this? The election is in two weeks! How do we possibly fix this by then?”

  Harris watched the sun rise for the third time since the Prick assault. He started thinking Scott ought to be back any minute. As if on cue, Scott scurried into the earthen machine-gun pit with more ammo for the .50-caliber machine gun they were now manning.

  “I got some chow with the ammo.” He pulled an MRE from one of his cargo pockets.

  “What’d you get?”

  “Chicken à la king.”

  “Goddammit!” Harris hated chicken à la king. “You know I hate that shit!”

  “Well, fuck.” Scott was a bit indignant. “I’ll eat it. You’re fucking welcome, by the way.”

  “Give me the cheese and crackers.” Harris didn’t feel hungry, but it’d been about twenty-four hours since he’d eaten. He wanted to keep his strength up.

  “This one’s got peanut butter.” Scott had torn into the packet.

  “Same fucking difference.” Harris took the food. He manned the gun while Scott ate. Then the two switched roles.

  “I saw Hastings while I was getting food and ammo.”

  “Yeah? Glad the bastard’s still alive.”

  “Says he’s tired of pulling your weight for you. When this is over, you owe him a bourbon of ‘his choice.’” Scott laughed as he talked, appreciating the joke.

  “Ha! Typical Hastings. Tell you what, Scottie, next libo I’ll buy you both a round.”

  “I’ll fucking hold you to that.”

  “You do that,” Harris managed to reply with a mouth full of crackers and peanut butter. He washed it down and lit up his first cigarette of the day.

  Lieutenant Xi didn’t mind getting his ass chewed out by the colonel; it was better than being on that damn ridge, getting shot at by Marines. What he didn’t like was the message that they needed to be more aggressive.

  “It’s the fourth day; we’ve not advanced. Why?”

  “Sir, my men are attacking uphill against a fortified position. We’ve made three attempts. My company is down to about two-thirds strength. The Marines are dug in well, sir, but we will take them.” It was a bit of theater on Xi’s part. He didn’t care if they took the hill or not. In fact, nothing would make him happier than if the whole assault were called off, or the whole war for that matter. The notion of a communist North and a democratic South didn’t bother him in the least. He thought for sure it was a whole lot better than dying.

  “Yes, WE will, Lieutenant.”

  This statement caught Xi’s attention. He wondered if the colonel was going to lead the charge himself. The thought almost made him laugh; but since doing so would likely get him executed, he did not.

  “We are being reinforced this afternoon. High command, President Zhang himself has ordered this hill taken. We will not fail. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir!” Xi gave a well-practiced gung ho answer.

  “Our timing couldn’t be better, Lieutenant Xi. The Americans are unorganized right now. President Harmon is a fool and has left her forces unprepared. We have the element of surprise and superior numbers. Our victory here can change the course of the war and lead to vanquishing the American force.”

  Xi was surprised to hear the colonel admit to a “change of course” could lead to victory. The PRC line was that they were winning and always had been, even if they had lost a quarter of China.

  “Sir, we will win or we will die. I will be the first up the hill.” Even Xi Tian rui was impressed with the passion with which he delivered this lie.

  “We will intensify our artillery at 0330. Then launch the attack at 0400 hours.”

  “Yes, sir.” Xi saluted and left the tent to go back to his command. All but one of his junior officers had been killed trying to get up that damn hill. Xi had no intention of charging up that hill if he could help it. His mind began to plan how to get Sergeant Liu to do it.

  “Sheridan caught some shrapnel in the calf, but he’s patched up and fighting,” the corpsman, Doc Hansen, filled Harris and Scott in.

  “So not many more wounded, Doc?” Scott wanted to reconfirm.

  “No. Knock on wood, boys. All things considered, the last couple of days ain’t been too bad. Just as well, too. Word is we’re too far out, and air support is too damn sparse. For the time being anyway.”

  “What the fuck’s going on that we can’t get any air?”

  “What kinda talk is that, Harris? You ain’t gonna up and quit on us, are you? Go join a Buddhist temple or some shit?” Sergeant Bohanan crawled into the machine-gun pit. He’d brought an ammo can and two packs of cigarettes with him. He tossed a pack each to his two section members.

  “That’ll be the day,” Harris grumbled.

  “Heads up tonight. Intel on Prick movement. They’ll try another attack, so stay sharp. Stay awake. Remember, green flares, fall back to the secondary defense. Red flares mean ‘Alamo,’ you beat feet back to the command bunker ’cause all hell is going to rain in on this hill,” Bohanan reminded his section members.

  “Roger that,” Harris confirmed.

  Bohanan slap
ped him on the shoulder and turned to walk out. “Oh, by the way, Harris.” Bohanan spoke like he’d just remembered something. “Hastings says you’re buying a round of drinks when this is all over. Scott, you keep his dumb ass alive. You understand me?”

  “Aye, aye, Sergeant,” Scott confirmed with a grin.

  Seven minutes after Sergeant Bohanan left, Prick artillery and rockets rained in. Harris figured another attack was coming; the Pricks had probably been reinforced and their confidence was up.

  “Goddamn cocksuckers!” Harris cursed. He was angry. His war lust was up. He was ready for the fight. Harris gave Scott a disapproving look when he lit up a cigarette in the dark.

  “You think they don’t know we’re here?” Scott replied.

  “Fuck it.” Harris thought he had a point. “Don’t smoke behind the gun. I don’t need a sniper taking your stupid ass out.”

  Harris sat behind the gun as shells fell all around him. He prayed for peace of mind. He prayed for courage. He prayed for strength. He prayed to kill as many of the enemy as he could until he took his last breath.

  Private Chen lay in the early morning dark. He, along with the rest of his platoon, had spent the last few hours crawling several hundred meters towards the Marine base. The order to assault would soon be given. Of all things at that moment it was the memory of his grandfather that came to his mind. He recalled the first time his grandfather took him to look at newborn chicks in the barn. His grandfather selected those that were fit to live and those that were not. The latter had their necks wrenched. Their lives terminated before they ever lived. He’d not thought of that time in over a decade, and he found absolutely no comfort in it at this moment.