by Unknown
Chuckling, the first sergeant checked the loads on his rifle, and began walking.
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Six miles north from Dog One, Minerva was beginning her day with her first sustained fire fight.
Lieutenant Irvin had decided that a patrol was necessary, and gathered her among a squad of eight others to set out in the direction of the wall. They had hiked a mile at the most, and happened across a mobile anti-aircraft battery hidden in a small clearing. The patrol and the Storians were both caught by mutual surprise at the encounter, and began exchanging a wild spray of rifle fire.
Minerva was on her belly in the grass, with little more than a slight rise in the ground to hide behind as rounds snapped over her head. The squad was spread evenly to both sides of her, in a half-moon pattern, returning fire as best they could. She risked raising her head just far enough for a better look, and saw that the gun crew numbered less than a dozen, but they were defending the battery fiercely.
She was shooting, laying down suppression fire as they had been taught to do in training, trying to hold the Storians behind the truck so that Irvin could order an advance, but the lieutenant didn’t seem to be doing anything beyond doing the same thing the rest of the patrol was doing.
That was when the Storian came around the rear of the truck.
He was running full-tilt straight at her, one arm rearing back, as if to throw something. With dawning horror, she realized he was about to fling a grenade. Minerva’s training took over, and without conscious thought, she shifted her rifle ever so slightly, and fired a burst into his mid-section.
The Storian staggered, and fell to his knees, but that arm was still arcing forward. She aimed, and put a round though his face.
That seemed to spur the patrol into motion, and they charged, firing from a crouched stance as they closed each flank inward
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toward the truck, forcing the Storians to expose themselves. The fight ended quickly from that point, with the patrol gaining control of the battery and counting nine dead enemies.
As the air cleared, Minerva rose to her feet, feeling numb. She slowly walked toward the Storian that she had killed, and stood over his body, staring down at him struck dumb. Her eyes played over his body, and the horrible wounds that she had inflicted on it. The grenade lay within a few inches of his hand, still inert since he had not had the chance to thumb the activation pin. The grenade that would have killed her and at least two others if he had tossed it.
Lieutenant Irvin appeared at her side, and stood looking down at the body. She turned her face to him, still wearing an expression of shock.
“I just killed someone.”
Irvin nodded, still staring at the body, “Yeah. Someone that was going to kill you, Sergeant. Good work.”
He left to set explosive charges on the gun battery. Minerva looked back down, unable to fully fathom what she had done. She had killed someone. That thought kept playing over in her mind. It was not so long ago that her greatest concerns were grades, sports, and dating. Where had that girl gone? The innocence of childhood was no longer there, leaving her in a void.
Other marines passed by her, slapping her on the shoulder plate, telling her that she’d done well. Their praise only deepened the hurt that was settling over her heart.
Throughout the county, the scattered companies of the 1st Battalion had been linking up with one another since the previous
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day, creating random fighting units anywhere from squad-size up to platoon strength. They were engaging in skirmishes over a wide area as they gradually closed in on the western flank of the wall.
The Storian officers were in a near-state of panic. Reports were filtering in of the numerous engagements taking place all around them, and had come to the false conclusion that they had been surrounded by a far superior force than what there really was. This misconception resulted in the outpost responding with hesitation, which allowed the marines to gather in ever-stronger numbers as they closed in. Some Storians were abandoning their posts, and falling back to the wall where greater safety lie in mustering among their own.
Deep underneath the portion of the wall that the allies had labeled Omaha Beach was a fortified bunker where the Storian command staff resided, attempting to guide their dwindling field operations. The field marshal was hunched over a wooden-plank table, studying a map and making marks with a pencil indicating where allied units were being reported. He glowered at the red areas that were not only growing in number, but closing in ever nearer on the western approach. His head ached from a hangover brought on by allowing himself to over-indulge in the Terran wine that he adored so much. Empty bottles clattered at his feet as the bunker shook under another rolling bombardment. He uttered a curse. It such an effort just to think!
A harried-looking captain stood nearby, reading the scrawled messages that the radioman had received from units in the field. It was amazing to him that the Terrans had been able to launch such a coordinated assault, and that the ferocity of it was as intense as it was. He felt as if a nest of hornets had been angered, and the swarms were relentlessly drawing closer.
“We’re losing the wall!” The marshal growled, tossing the pencil down in anger. “The Terrans have managed to box us in!”
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The captain handed the latest report to his superior, “Reinforcements are turning around at Youngstown, but it will be another day before they can reach us.”
“Why so long?” The marshal demanded.
“The allied air wings are slowing the column down.”
“Damn it!” The officer roared in frustration, pointing at the hapless radioman. “You make it clear to the regimental commander that we don’t have another day! We stand to be overrun by the hour!”
Another profound explosion rattled the bunker, making the generator sputter, and the lights dim. Dust wafted from the ceiling. A message runner appeared in the doorway a few minutes after, panting and wheezing. Blood stained the front of his grey cotton uniform. He offered a shaking salute.
“Field Marshal! We’ve lost another gun tower!”
The marshal ground his teeth at the news, and turned away. His first instinct was to shoot the messenger, but he knew better. Right then, he needed every man available on the wall. The frontal assault from the east was unrelenting despite the fury of the defensive fire being lain down upon them. If only the over-marshal had not taken better than half of his manpower to redistribute along the southern front!
Part of him had to give a grudging respect to the Terrans. Those fair-skinned Earth-dwellers had really managed to pull themselves together, even if it had taken the better part of two years to do it.
He spoke over his shoulder to the captain, “Transmit the order for every outlying position to fall back to the wall. We must hold.”
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The captain motioned for the radioman to do so, even as yet another blast shook the room.
Dog One
The section of the wall that cut the town of Campbell off from the east was a scene of heated battle. The fighting had grown to a crescendo far beyond even that of the initial landing as the 3rd Battalion made its hardest push yet.
Huey gunships circled angrily, pouring suppression fire and rockets onto the upper concrete trenches, and against the gun tower. A trio of tanks held back along the rear area, sending main gun rounds into the wall, which was beginning to crumble under the onslaught that had gone non-stop all night long.
The marines had managed to crawl nearly all the way to the wall’s slanted base, utilizing cover from the moonscape of craters left behind by mortars. Being that near, they were beneath the angle from which the machine guns along the top could reach them, and were free to begin shooting their way toward the massive iron gate that blocked the road. Hand grenades were traded back and forth between the marines and the Storians trying to keep them back, but the ebb and flow of the fight was steadily falling in favor of the marines.
A tank round
blasted against the frame of the entrance, blowing concrete and shrapnel out in a wide fan, injuring both parties, and bringing a momentary lull in the advance. Screams of pain went out, as did yells for the Corpsman. The navy medics were dashing frantically from one wounded person to another, making on-
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the-spot decisions about who had the best chance to survive and who would be a waste of precious supplies.
As the smoke and dust cleared, the marines trying to take the gate could see that the barrier was hanging cockeyed by a single hinge, but an armored truck had already come forward to brace it up. A top-mounted 60-watt machine gun began chattering its heavy rounds out at them, driving the marines back again.
On the western approach of that gate, First Sergeant Ford had positioned about half of his troop in a ditch behind the dirt road that ran perpendicular to the length of the wall, and the cut-off that led into town. He chose Ecu to take charge of them.
“You stay out of sight,” he told her, “and wait for my signal. Then you hit that truck defending the gate.”
“Got it,” she replied, facial fur bristling with excitement.
Ford scanned the area, taking notice that the majority of the Storians were actually up top, and focusing their attention on the eastern side, leaving the space before him open for brief maneuvering away from cover. He elbowed Mark in the side, and pointed.
“Look at the way they’ve built the end of the wall into the side of this hill. We can use the trees to get up even with the trench line, and take out that gun tower.”
Mark nodded, “My turn on-point.”
Ford slapped him on the backpack, “Go.”
With half their number divided, the remaining thirty-two marines crossed the road in a leapfrog fashion, each person
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advancing for a ways, then pausing to cover for the next to run forward. They reached the wood line undetected, and had no trouble making the steep climb through the brush. The thunder of the battle swallowed any noise they were making in reaching the crest of the ridge.
Near the top, they kept low, just behind the edge in order to avoid being inadvertently struck by friendly fire. They had a commanding view of both sides of the wall. The beachhead was crawling with marines, the air before them a withering sheet of exchanged plasma rounds. The ground on that side had been chewed to ruddy mess for miles. Far out from the wall, well out of range of mortars, a make-shift camp and airfield had been put together.
Ford craned his neck, taking a chance at leaning far enough over the lip of the ridge to peer down below. He motioned for Mark to come up beside him.
“Stay hugging the ground,” he warned as the sergeant crawled up to him. “Look right down there.”
Mark saw right away what Ford was pointing out. The squad of marines from 3rd Battalion were putting everything they had into trying to take that gate. The first sergeant slid back down behind the cover of the shale.
“If we take out the Storians manning this section of the wall trench, and disable the gun tower, the Third will be able to breach the wall,” Ford told him.
“Sounds like a solid plan,” Mark agreed. Then he caught Ford’s grin. “What’s the catch?”
Ford was between him, and the where the brush cleared at the point the wall had been built into the side of the hill. He was looking down, and rolled back to face the sergeant.
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“There’s a drainage gap. About a six foot jump across a fifty foot drop. You aren’t afraid of heights, are you?”
Before Mark could even respond, Ford turned from him, rising to a knee. He pulled a grenade from its latch on his harness, primed it, and threw. It landed squarely among the center of the group of Storians in the nearest section of the trench. They looked down at what had thumped next to their feet, and it went off with predictable results.
Ford sprayed a burst from his rifle at any of them that appeared to not be sufficiently dead, then took a running leap, and landed in the concrete trench with a grace that seemed out of place to someone his size. He crouched behind the outer curve of the concrete gun tower, and signaled for the others to follow.
Mark took a breath, steeling himself, and took off. The jump was not nearly as bad as he had expected it to be, but it was pretty gross to have set foot down on one of the fallen Storians. He kept low as plasma rounds snapped past from below. The marines down there could not distinguish who was who up on the wall.
As the rest of the platoon made the leap across and spread out in the trench, Ford and Mark each took a position on either side of the steel door for the tower. The first sergeant took another grenade and readied it with his free hand on the door handle. He gave Mark a questioning look, which was answered with a quick nod. A yank pulled the door open, and he tossed the grenade in while leaning back away from the edge of the frame. The blast was sharp, blowing smoke and shrapnel outward. Both sergeants then leaned in, Ford high and Mark low, and fired wildly back and forth. The pair of 60-watt guns ceased their firing over the eastern field.
Ford leaned over the western edge of the concrete trench, and waved at the marines he’d left positioned in the ditch below. Ecu immediately began firing on the armored truck parked at the gate, as
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did the rest of her team. The Storian gunner went down first, and rifle grenades finished the rest of the crew. The Attayan leapt up, and bolted toward the truck, keeping a watchful eye for trouble, but no other Storian soldier had even noticed what was going on, so great was the din of the battle on the other side of the wall. All of the attention was focused east.
This allowed her to safely reach the truck, and pull the dying driver from his seat. She jammed the gear into reverse, and backed away from the gate, allowing it to lean even further inward. Stepping out, she cautiously peered around the frame, and started waving at the squad from 3rd Battalion. The sight of her set off a wave of whooping that could be heard over the constant drone of gunfire, and like an army of ants, the marines picked themselves up from the ground, and began to surge forward.
From atop the wall above the gate, Ford smiled, seeing the advance. The flood of troopers pouring through to the inner compound was a sight that did the soul good. They were at last accomplishing something, and gaining a foothold.
The first sergeant waded through the tight space of the trench past his marines, and began trekking northward toward the next machine gun nest. The Storians in that direction had still failed to notice his presence, and he intended to take advantage of it.
The appearance of a Huey stopped Ford in his tracks. The gunship swooped in from the east, about a thousand yards out, and began pouring plasma into the concrete trench from its Gatlings. The sheer power of it thundered above the din of the battle, the vibration felt under their boots. The machine gun nest flew apart, as did several Storians.
Ford squatted, motioning for those behind to halt, and on a whim, tried the comm-net again.
“Skywatch! Skywatch! This is Ground One, over!”
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To Ford’s astonishment, someone actually replied. An elated voice answered the moment his transmitter cued off.
“Ground One, we read! Glad to finally get through, over!”
He did not have time for chit-chat. That Huey was making its way in his direction, continuing to shred everything along the trench.
“We have Marines on the wall at Dog One! Call off the gunships, over!”
The helo-shuttle was perilously close, its side gun blazing. In desperation, Ford stood upright, and tried to wave them off. The pilot either hadn’t noticed him, or just wasn’t buying it. Onward it came. The plasma stream was intensely bright.
“For Christ’s sake! Call them off!”
At the last possible second, the door gunner ceased firing, and the gunship slowed to a hover facing them, no more than a few hundred feet away. The pilots were obscured by the tint of the windshield.
Ford waved them off, pointing north. The door gunner actually leaned
out far enough to look at him, and gave a thumbs-up. Ford responded with a middle finger---a thank you for scaring the hell out of him.
The Huey veered about, and began cruising north, resuming its fire on the trench up ahead, this time to clear the way. Ford leaned against the edge of the trench, and pulled his helmet off. He leaned on his knees, and ran a shaking hand over the top of his shaved head.
Mark motioned for the rest of the fire team to continue on while he remained behind with the first sergeant. He watched 3rd Battalion as they kept on with their charge through the gate, and
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went about mopping up what remained of the defenders within the compound side. Among the tide of marines, the tanks were trundling through, their tracks squeaking and crunching over both rubble and Storian bodies. The Storians were falling back; those that couldn’t surrendered. The fighting in the newly captured area was at last beginning to subside.
After a few minutes, Ford seemed to have recovered some of his composure, and stood upright again. He held the open faceplate to his mouth so that the transceiver could pick him up.
“Skywatch, Ground One. Ground Three has breached the wall. We hold Dog One. I say again, we hold Dog One, over.”
“Roger that, Ground One! Stand by for instructions, over!”
Ford sat his helmet down next to his rifle, and worked at the flap of his cigar pouch with hands that still shook. Out came the metal case, which he popped open, revealing his prized cigars. He removed two, and offered one to Mark. He lit his own, and handed over the Zippo.
“You look a little pale, Top.” Mark teased good-naturedly as he fired up his stogie.
The sweet aroma of the tobacco mingled with the stench of spent Thermite and burning flesh. Ford took a long drag, then let the smoke flow slowly from his nose.
“If I’m going to get killed out here, I sure as hell don’t want it to be because of some careless, trigger-happy bastard on our own side,” he confided.
