by J.J. Mainor
Chapter H-3
I never seen so many people hold onto their modesty! I swore most of those soldiers was willing to try their luck with the temperatures because they didn’t want to cuddle up for warmth.
The men was already standing around in the Russian barracks looking at their new friends like they was aliens or something when they was sleeping in one big dogpile. Then the Lieutenant brought the women in and you saw most of the faces light up.
One brave private approached PFC Ames. Ames was what we called an Arctic fox. She wasn’t much to look at, especially with her hair cut so short for service. Back home, she would have been lucky to catch one of the stragglers at last call, but out here in the tundra with our choices limited and many of us not seeing action in months, she looked hot as shit through our goggles. And right away, someone thought they had a chance with her.
“What say you sleep with me tonight? I think I can keep you warm.”
Now there are usually two kinds of women serving with us up there. The first is just as horny as we are. Like the men, they’d sleep with anything with a pulse. As long as it had a dick, they was fair game.
The second type is the one who gets upset. Now they can be the best kind out there or they can be the silliest you ever did see. Some of them will pull out their rape whistles and act like they was being held by force. Others will play the stress card and hide out in medical.
We found out Ames was a little of both.
“If you can harden up, it’s a deal.”
Of course it was a joke. As cold as it was, none of us was getting hard, no matter how much porn we had with us. It was that moment, I decided I liked her. She was one of the few of us who didn’t let that camp and that cold get to them already.
Most of her fellow women complained about cuddling up with so many men, while most of the men refused to lie so close to each other. It didn’t bother me none even though I had a head in my crotch while mine was on someone’s thigh. It was snug as a bug as we liked to say in the Marines. My lights went out while everyone else continued bitching.
Then my glorious sleep was interrupted by some obnoxious prick.
“All up for morning exercise!”
I thought it was one the camp guards until I lifted one of my eyes open. The accent wasn’t French, and it wasn’t American. Thank god, ‘cause I would have punched out Lewis’ lights if he thought I was getting up for morning PT!
The thick Russian accent called out again. I opened the second eye, thinking he was calling his own men. But his men was already up. That bastard expected us to obey his call for PT. What right did he have?
Like some of the privates beginning to stir, I looked to the Sergeant expecting him to knock some sense into that Russian bastard, but he just took one look at that big, dumb Ruskie and the two came to an understanding without saying a word.
“Everyone up!” Lewis joined in. Many eyes went to the Lieutenant hoping he would override the command, but this decision was well within Lewis’ domain if we was back at our own base. Johnson just rose from the pile of bodies and pulled his hood calmly over that blond fuzz of his. Outranking even our Russian guests, he had every intention of joining them.
“You won’t freeze if you keep moving,” he added to the chorus.
I finally saw their point. I didn’t like it one bit. I certainly didn’t want to be reminded about some of the worst things of being a Marine. PT was something I hoped the Canucks left behind when they marched us here, but I understood it wouldn’t feel so cold once we got our blood pumping.
At least they let us use the outhouse first…that cold, bitter outhouse. I won’t even get into how miserable an experience that was! Let’s just say you never saw forty-two men and women complete their bodily functions so fast.
We was on that courtyard soon enough, following that Russian bastard as he tortured us with his Russian calisthenics. There was still no sun, but at least the courtyard was one of the few places without snow. It made the running easier on our calves when they decided to force us into sprints.
I secretly hoped Sergeant Lewis would take over, but he and the Lieutenant decided this was the time to assess the survivors and find out who they had responsibility over. They did the exercises like everyone else, but they moved through the group conducting brief interviews with everyone while they worked up a sweat. I just shook my head though. As one of my DIs used to say back in boot camp, “if you can talk, you’re not working hard enough.”
There was a few too injured to come out there, but Johnson already knew who they was: seven privates and three PFCs, including my new friend Trujo. While they walked the line assessing the men and women, I was already painfully aware of my own situation.
See, I was looking out the day before, and I didn’t see another pair of crossed rifles. The only other person in our group who rated was the one corpsman who made it. She might have been an E-4, but she wasn’t in the chain of command. No one took orders from her but other corpsmen.
I wasn’t anxious about meeting the Lieutenant just yet. Technically I was third in the line of command even though I wasn’t even an NCO. I wasn’t exactly sure how it might work in a joint situation such as this one. For all I knew, as a Marine, I might not have expected a spot in the chain with the mostly Army group. If I was really lucky, Johnson might be the kind of guy not to trust a Marine. If I was lucky, he was picking out the senior Army PFCs to take charge of unit sized groups.
I wasn’t counting on that though and tried to move myself as far to the back of his line as I could. Before I realized it, I found myself next to one of those Russians while we was doing jumping jacks.
His name was Yeorgi, and he was only one of three of them who knew any English.
“How long you been in here?” I asked, trying to break the ice and hoping I couldn’t make this any more uncomfortable than I already did.
“Six months, me think.”
“Fuck me!” First words out of my mouth, and I doubt it impressed. “You put up with this for six months?”
“Not so bad. It summer when we came. Almost like home.”
It was almost easy to forget much of Russia sat this far north. I guess when all you want to do is kill each other, you don’t really take the time to think about where they came from. I figured if we was going to try to survive together, least I could do was show that interest.
“Where’s that?”
“Vladivostok. Hearty winters. Much like this.”
“Guess it was easy for you then,” I said without thinking.
“Nyet! These Canadians are dogs.” Then he spit on the ground to punctuate his point. “They mad because we make mess of their pretty snow. Scare their seals away. We heard what they tell you yesterday. They told us same thing six months ago.
“They say there is no food because of war, but we see the supply trucks. We watch them unload. They keep best for themselves and give us scraps. You see. Their officers get fat eating food meant for us.
“They say they cannot fix heaters. They say there no parts and they cannot get new ones. When they take you for questioning, you look around. I look around when they take me, and I saw three heaters. I think it to show me they in control.
“Canada!” He spit on the ground once more. “They make world think they so friendly, but they are dogs. There were more than one hundred of my comrades when we got here. Now we are twelve.”
I didn’t want to believe that when he told me! I couldn’t believe it. If they lost that many during summer, I didn’t want to think about what winter meant for us.
“What about the Red Cross,” I asked him, “or the UN? Don’t nobody come to inspect the camp and make sure they was treating you right?”
He spit on the ground a third time at the sound of the UN. Frankly, I had the same thoughts when they did nothing for us after the first Russian attack! Ten thousand troops landed on our shores, and the rest of the w
orld acted like we deserved it. I almost think Montefering wanted Canada’s oil claims just for the satisfaction of telling the world to go to hell when they expect us to share it.
“No one come to see us. UN don’t care. Red Cross don’t care. They see Russia as thugs. One African migrant die on way to Europe, it major calamity. Ninety-five Russians die in torture camp, and it is ‘praise to our gods!’”
I think if I didn’t have a bunch of other things to worry about, I might’ve pondered on some big revelation. Maybe I would feel bad for thinking the same way when beneath that Russian bravado, they was just men like us.
But I didn’t, and I didn’t. Something troubled me, and I just had to ask to make sure they wasn’t just a bunch of cowards.
“If they was killing you, why didn’t you try to escape?”
“We try! We lost forty men! And they have ways to make sure we do not try again.”
Before I could ask what those ways were, I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“What’s your name…” I turned to see who it was, allowing Johnson to read my insignia so he could finish his greeting. “…Lance Corporal.”
I was almost embarrassed he knew my rank. It was as if I had just given him permission to dump on me for his entire shitty day. If he wanted a body for a working party, I was now the first person he would come to find. If the sun ever showed itself and he wanted it swept from the courtyard, it would become my job. And if any of those privates got in trouble with the guards, it would be my ass he’d chew out. Those rifles had become a target on my uniform, and just like with Marine NCOs and SNCOs, all the shit flowed to and stopped with me.
“Freebourne, Jackson Freebourne.” I stuttered too much, sounding like a recruit with a DI screaming in his face for the first time. My only saving grace was that the cold and my tired breath gave me excuse.
“This one’s a Marine,” Sergeant Lewis chimed in as if he was already thinking of the fun ways he could fuck with me. It was bad enough being a lance in the Marines, but with all the shit we and the Army gave each other all the time, it was worse being a Marine lance in an army platoon.
Thankfully for me, it didn’t seem to make any difference to the Lieutenant. I could see him mulling it over in his head, locking it away for later use. How he learned everyone’s names so quickly was something I couldn’t understand. Sure we all wore nametapes across our parkas to make it easier, but somehow he committed them all to memory.
It wasn’t as if he had much of a choice. The Canucks confiscated our Control Tablets and his Command Tab. I suppose they might have found orders and strategies hidden away on Johnson’s or Lewis’, but if they searched mine all they was getting was my collection of porn…Hey, we all need something to get us through a long deployment. I won’t apologize.
Anyway it didn’t seem to matter to the Lieutenant.
“Two of your buddies are here with us,” he said as if he was trying to be friendly. “Do you know PFC Dumas or Private Moreno?”
I shook my head. “Moreno joined us three days before the last charge, and I didn’t really work with Dumas. He was one of the few 03s still out there.”
Johnson gave me a nod as if he understood, but wanted me to be their friend anyway. “They might like to hear from one of their brothers. You should go see them.”
I admit I took offense at that. Maybe we was brothers in service, but so was everybody else here. Maybe most of these men and women were Army. Maybe most of them was draftees and didn’t want to be here at all. And maybe most of them was nothing but a bunch of whiners, but truth was we was all in that shithole together. They was my brothers no matter what their story was. Hell, even the Russians was brothers in my eyes.
Eh, but maybe I took it the wrong way. The Marine Corps did create a bond between us we didn’t have with the other branches, just as the injuries inside that shack bonded those men and women in a way I couldn’t understand.
I would have to think on it later because a shrill whistle sounded to bring everything to a halt. The Russian commander, a man named Dimitri, left the instruction to grab our Lieutenant.
“We go get breakfast,” he said, pointing to the gate.
I think it was their way to keep tabs on the senior members of our groups. When the rations showed up, they expected our leader and the Russian leader to pick them up at the fence and distribute them as they saw fit.
The first few days we was there, we often saw the guards on our side of the fence when they came to retrieve prisoners for interrogation. Once they had all the information they wanted though, it stopped. They came over there only when they had to. Our Lieutenant was even supposed to meet them at the gate if we had a man requiring medical attention.
The call to chow, as it was, signaled the end of our PT. While Johnson and Dimitri was away, the rest of us sort of hung around. Behind me I heard an awful lot of sniffling and turned to see where it came from.
Another young woman, maybe fresh out of high school, with a face, bright and stinging red, rubbed her sleeve across her nose. Her nametape read Sheppard and her insignia lacked the chevron of an E-2.
“Getting sick?” I asked her. It was probably selfish of me as much as it was real concern for her. All we needed on top of everything was for someone to get pneumonia or the flu and it would spread like wildfire in our tight arrangement.
“Naw,” she said none too convincing. “I get like this whenever it’s cold. Being from Maine, you’d think I’d be used to the cold, but the air back home is always so moist, my nose doesn’t stay dry.”
I took her reason, but I knew in the back of my soul I should have pushed it. I should have brought it to Sergeant Lewis’ attention, but the thing is a lance corporal ain’t a snitch. Those who are, lose the “lance” and cross to the dark side of the NCO ranks. You would think those of us who bitch about never getting promoted would figure that out, but we don’t. Maybe some of us believe promotion should be earned through honor instead of back-stabbing. All I knew was I would make sure to sleep as far away from her in that pile that night as I could get.
