The Mighty First, Episode 2

by Mark Bordner

  Ecu stood and walked to where her 60-watt lie, picking it up. She checked it for damage, then went to stand alone by the storefront where she had taken cover earlier. This was the second time that she had a kid die in her arms, and each one had taken a part of her as well. She watched numbly as the police officers

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  emerged from cover to help the medics. The rifle fire had dwindled as the Storians pulled back, and Marines were regrouping, some who were injured hobbling to the rear area on their own for treatment.

  Dylan watched all of this with a new-found respect for what his leaders had been trying so desperately to get him to understand. He stood and joined Manny as the gunnery sergeant checked on his people, assigning them to various areas to set up outposts. It was evident that their advance was pausing for the day, as they were establishing a defensive line. The other tanks were moving up to take their places at each of the four intersections.

  Alpha and Charlie companies were filtering back in as well. The city blocks that they controlled would be their forward base for the night. The afternoon was giving way to evening, bringing a temporary respite from the hours of non-stop combat. . Huey gunships took up patrol overhead, and would remain in place for the rest of the night, watching over the ground units so that they could eat and grab some sleep---if that were even possible.

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  The Second Battalion moved up, and assumed the fighting along the front line, about two blocks west, in order to maintain the initiative. The pops of rifle fire, and thuds from grenades and mortars echoed through the streets.

  Manny pulled off his helmet and took in several breathes of fresh air, trying to clear his head. When Dylan tried to open small talk with him, he just shook his head and waved him away. Briggs felt a little put out by that, but figured that the Gunny just needed some time to absorb what they had just been through.

  The private looked around and saw that his company was beginning to cluster in one area of a parking lot outside of a Home Depot that had miraculously escaped damage. Ecu was arriving, walking alone, her 60-watt balanced over one shoulder while she carried her helmet in one hand. Dylan decided to try to talk to her and wandered in her direction.

  She sat down and leaned her weapon against the side of a display shed, holding her helmet in front of her and gazing at its front, looking at her dim reflection in the tinted material. Her fur and mullet was matted with sweat, and the fur of her cheeks

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  furrowed from her tears.

  “Can I join you?” Dylan asked, approaching timidly.

  Ecu looked up at him, her eyes blank, and nodded. She sat the helmet down between her feet and leaned her head back against the shed, gazing off into the coming night. The city skyline undulated with the flashes of explosions, partly obscured by the towers of black smoke. The rumble was low, but constant.

  “Are you alright?” Dylan asked. He knew it was a dumb question to ask, but did not know what else to say. He just wanted to connect with someone, to feel that his witnessing those horrible deaths wasn’t something that he would have to bear alone.

  Ecu nodded again. She took her canteen and used some of the water to wash the dried blood from her gloves. It splashed and pooled between them just as it had back there, on the street. She looked down at it and choked back a sob, swallowed hard, and managed to hold herself in check.

  “Did you know him?” Dylan asked softly.

  “No,” she answered, her voice thick with emotion. “He was one of the new kids. I didn’t even know his name.”

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  Their conversation was interrupted by the sudden arrival of a GNN cameraman, who stood over them, pointing his infernal contraption at their faces. The bearded man was grinning ear to ear.

  “That was great footage back there!” He exclaimed. “Real emotional!”

  Ecu was on her feet in an instant, shoving the camera aside, gripping the man’s shirt collar with her left hand, and drawing back her right fist--- ready to drive it into his face. As she swung forward, a hand appeared from nowhere, stopping it with a loud slap. She looked up into the stern continence of Sergeant Major Ford. His eyes held her with a gentle authority while he gripped her closed fist in the palm of his big hand. He slowly shook his head no, then released his grip on her. Ecu forced herself to step back, lowering her arm.

  Ford then turned to the cameraman, towering above him. He reached out and gripped the camera, pulling it from him. The camera went sailing through the air. The bearded man was about to protest, watching his equipment shatter on the pavement, but

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  Ford’s hand slowly closed around the back of the man’s neck, and he pulled him in close--- bending down so that their noses were nearly touching.

  “The Marine that had his throat blown out was a fourteen year old boy from California, “Ford said in a low, even, venomous tone. “ He volunteered to be here, to defend his countrymen. Including you. Show some respect.”

  The man’s eyes were bulging. He nodded obediently, his beard flopping like a dime store novelty. Ford shoved him back and spat on the ground at his feet, then turned and walked away. The reporter melted off to gather his damaged gear while other troopers glared in his direction. Ecu looked down at Dylan, who was shocked by what he had just witnessed.

  “I have more respect for the Storians,” she told him. “At least they believe in what they’re doing. Scum like this guy just see us as a profit.”

  Dylan blinked. He had been inspired by all of the media coverage, which was why he had enlisted to begin with. This was a side of it that he had not been aware of.

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  Ecu noticed the sash-mark of the Elite Corps on his breastplate, but did not comment on it, instead walking away to be alone, her machine gun in one arm. Dylan remained sitting there by himself, and wondered if his parents would see the day’s battle on the news-vid. Part of him hoped that they wouldn’t. He looked down at the Elite Forces sash on his breastplate, one that he had not earned, but gained solely because of a screw up in paperwork. The boy removed his pouches and harnesses to reach it, then pulled it off, tossing the ill-gotten insignia to the side. He put his face in his hands, and for the first time since leaving home, allowed himself to cry.

  From a short distance away, Jo witnessed all of this take place as she sat against the curb, eating her field rations. She was saddened by the divide that was growing between themselves and the news reporters. Both were present, trying to deal with the war in their own fashion, and in both, there were sour apples like that clown of a cameraman. Divisions within their own ranks would only serve to weaken them, and the balance was so precarious between the strength of the Allies and the Storian Army.

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  She feared that tipping too far in the wrong direction would lead to a disastrous end.

  Xxxxx

  A short distance away from the Home Depot, Alpha Company had mustered on the grassy grounds of the street-side landscaping before an apartment complex. They were lounging in groups, some already sleeping, most just chatting idly with one another while they ate their field rations. The night was clear and the moon nearly full as it hung low on the horizon, tinted orange through the haze and smoke that lingered in the air.

  Residents from the complex had come out to mingle with the troopers, offering them food and drinks, talking excitedly about being liberated. There was actually some intelligence to be gleaned from those conversations. Captain Hannock found that the Storians had rolled through that part of town less than an hour before the Allied attack, riding chiefly in hummer-jeeps and APC’s. There had not been any tanks seen by the citizens.

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  This told him that they were facing light-infantry divisions, likely onl
y covering the retreat of the heavier units in a delaying action. That meant that they would eventually be encountering stiffer and better entrenched resistance at some point down the way.

  Hannock shared this first with Mark, then Ford when the man returned from his walk down the road, muttering something about the bleeping media. This brought him to that very subject, their discussion paused long enough for a gunship to cruise overhead, the noise from its jet-wash drowning them out. Another Huey about a mile off fired its Gatling’s at something on the ground, paused, then slowly veered away, satisfied that whatever it was had been dealt with.

  “This thing with GNN,” Ford rumbled. “It’s getting out of hand. They’re in my trooper’s faces blatting callously about these kids getting butchered out there. It’s got to stop. They want to film this thing, fine, but they need to have some tact before someone punches their lights out! Or worse!”

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  Hannock listened, nodding his agreement, “I’ll talk to the head journalist and set things straight.”

  Ford looked at Mark, “Why don’t you head down the street and see your lady while you can? Charlie Company’s camped in the front yards of that neighborhood up there.”

  The master sergeant thanked him and started walking. Ford watched him go until the young man was far enough away to be out of ear-shot, then turned back to the captain, “I want to know why the Corps is sending us all of these kids. Where are the adults in this thing? Aren’t any grown men volunteering?”

  Hannock shrugged, “I don’t understand it, either, Ford. It’s the damndest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “What about a draft, then?” Ford asked.

  “That’s up to the politicians,” the captain replied. “I’m wondering why the Global Union isn’t flying in more ground forces that what they are. Where are the other countries? They surely realize that the invasion here in the U.S. is only the beginning of this thing. Their turns will come if Storia manages to get reinforcements through the Kuiper Blockade, and the Pacific

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  regions are taking one hell of a pounding right now, too.”

  Ford sighed, taking out his tin and removing a cigar from it, “ I was the best man at that young man’s wedding a few weeks ago,” he mentioned, nodding in Corbin‘s direction as the young man walked away. “His father and brother were killed defending Star Harbor. These kids are doing the best they can by their country, struggling to be grown up before they’re ready. It’s the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “They’ll definitely carry these scars for the rest of their lives,” Hannock admitted. “Those that live to remember it.”

  The sergeant major produced his Zippo and lit the stogie, puffing great clouds as he fired it up, “I’ll tell you one thing,” he said, flipping the lid closed and putting the lighter away. “Despite their young age, there’s no one I’d rather have watching my back out there.”

  Hannock nodded, watching the horizon light up with a particularly bright explosion. The sound of it thundered past a few moments later. He hoped that the Second Battalion hadn’t been on the receiving end of that one, but after a few minutes,

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  frantic calls were going out over the net for medevac helos. It turned out that 2nd had taken the brunt of it after all.

  Xxxxx

  Minerva was coming to find that more and more, she was becoming introspective. There was a near constant internal comparison to the self that she remembered, and the person that she had become. Part of her was still that bright-eyed girl in high school, cramming for exams and flirting with boys. It seemed but yesterday when she and her friends were skipping last-period to meet at Darrel’s Root Beer Stand and drink sodas, and exchange gossip. Sports had been her passion. Her days had been so carefree.

  Her grades had been top of the line, and she had been sure of a scholarship, but those hopes had been dashed by a flailing economy. Her parents could not have afforded college, and the thought of leaving Winslow to look for menial labor broke her heart. She loved that town.

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  Out of the blue, military recruiters had one day descended on the campus to set up shop in the library. All of them had colorful pamphlets filled with promises of a paid education, career options, and off-world travel. Every branch was there in their attractive uniforms. Surface Navy, Space Navy, US Army, Air Force, but the one that had caught her attention was the Global Marines. They were renowned to be the best of the best, the most difficult to enter, and the pride of the world. It wasn’t the uniform of the square-jawed recruiter, the most generous enlistment bonus, or even the photos of mammoth troop carriers making rugged landings on alien shores. It was knowing that to make it through basic training, and earn that globe and anchor would command the highest of respect. She had always strived to be the best at what she did, otherwise, what was the point of doing it?

  Minerva reflected on the day that she signed that enlistment document, her hand trembling next to her father’s. She remembered that shining look of pride mixed with apprehension in his eyes. Her mother’s tears. She had vowed to make them

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  proud, to not regret their decision to consent.

  The master sergeant was seated beneath a tree in someone’s front yard, sipping coffee from her canteen cup, watching the city skyline glow with unchecked fires. She questioned who she had become. Gone was that teenage girl from Small-town, USA. Soda had been traded for strong, black coffee. She had not picked up the habit of smoking as so many of her peers had done, either out of trying to appear older and tougher than they really were, or genuinely using the cigarettes as a pacifier from the terrors of the day.

  A year ago, she would not have imagined walking into combat, and not only killing an enemy, but directing subordinates to do the same. Coordinating movements. Seeing kids die in front of her.

  There had been no war when she had enlisted. As far as she knew, there had been no wars for over a hundred years anywhere. Too long of a span of peace had made the Armed Forces lax. The skills had eroded, replaced with pomp and circumstance. Now, it had to all be re-learned, and done so in the

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  field, hands-on. Even her young, inexperienced mind knew that this was costing them dearly. Too many mistakes were being made while the leadership scrambled to catch on, relying on historic archives, no less!

  Minerva sipped her coffee and mentally examined herself. Her emotions were numb. The shaking in her hands had stopped, giving her an outwardly relaxed appearance despite the muted screaming going on inside her mind. The battles were piling up, the close-calls coming with more frequency, and she had begun to wonder if she would survive to see the end of the war. Her fellow Marines were scattered among her, some eating, some smoking, others trying to catch some sleep. Not a few were sitting alone and weeping, holding their heads in their hands and letting the tears fall to the ground. They were young, and they missed their homes and families. No amount of training or battlefield experience could change the fact that they were all still children, and this was their war whether they wanted it or not.

  An approaching figure caught her attention, and Minerva looked up, smiling wearily. The sight of her husband brought a

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  wave of calm washing over her. If there was one constant in her life, it was her love for him.

  Xxxxx

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  Five

  Into Akron

  August 5th

  By mid-morning, 1st Battalion had fought its way as far south-west as the University of Akron, near the freeway junction of I-76 and north Route 8. The inter-change had been demolished, blown apart by the Storians as they retreated in order to slow the Allied advance.

  The tactic was working. The free
way overpass had collapsed for several miles in either direction, creating a huge mound of rubble that only the tanks would be able to surmount. Colonels Strasburg and Lafferty were standing atop of it with Captain Hannock, debating whether to veer north or south to find a way around it.

  To go north was really not a viable option. The Attayan Elite Corps. had landed another light-infantry division in that direction, and was already conducting sapper operations against the Storian artillery units embedded in the city of Cuyahoga Falls.

  Mark Bordner

  Other Allied units had landed in the smallish burg of Willowick, near the lake shore, where Surface Navy amphibious battalions were establishing a supply beachhead. They had made it clear that it was better to let them do their work, preferring to operate alone.

  The officers decided to shift south, using city streets to tread in that direction until reaching the community of Barberton, where a Huey pilot had reported intact on-ramps that would allow them to get back on West I-76 and continue the push inland.

  The fighting had subsided before 9:00am, and was reduced to the occasional pot-shot from a sniper here and there, remaining elusive in the landscape of damaged buildings. The ever-present gunships did their best to fly ahead of the convoy and harass any threats that lie in the infantry’s path. Bewildered residents peered from their tattered homes, and ventured out into the streets to see for themselves that the Marines were, indeed, arriving to liberate them.