One Step Forward (The Gentlemen’s War)

A thin whistle through the streets out of place with the ambience of the battle. Hemp Turk screened his surroundings for its source, taking his eyes off the building across the road. The hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention promptly, but the twenty-five year old Haitian-Izael calmed himself. That wasn’t artillery. Someone had taken it upon themselves to give away the platoon’s position with a little ditty.

Turk turned to the man behind him. “Damnit, shut that fool up.” He waved to where he thought the offender was. The soldier nodded and slunk past the others lined up by the wall. A light breeze carried the stink of weapon discharge through the city. The crack of a rifle refocused Turk. He inched towards the corner of the building.

“Sergeant,” hissed a man from the lineup. Corporal Levi Armstrong ran up next to him. “Come on, sergeant. Let’s just go up through the alley.” Armstrong suggested between labored breaths. Turk didn’t look at him, instead anxiously searching the windows ahead of them as he inched closer to the edge. No movement. Nothing. Not even a monitor spying on them.

“You think they aren’t watching that approach?” Turk warily asked. He held his M4 low and ready. A part of him hoped the squad didn’t see how much the barrel was shaking. “They’ve had gunners every fuckin’ block so far.”

“I mean, yeah,” Armstrong tried. The younger man seemed unsure, picking his words at a halting pace. “But we’ve made it this far.”

“We’re down three. Did Hodges and Kelp make it back from the medics yet?”

“Dunno, sergeant. I can’t raise them. Dover was a heavy one, though. They’re probably still dragging him.”

“Well, try again, will ya?” Turk lowered his rifle and leaned against the wall. “Crying out loud, get me some good news.” He wiped at the sweat collecting over his brow. His glove was stained with blood, but at least that was starting to dry. Another look at the abandoned office building gave him nothing. He could have almost been home. A stray thought of the streets of Chadash bubbled up from the consciousness Turk’s hypervigilence suppressed. The pavement, street signs, even the kabob cart parked outside the empty bank seemed to have been pulled directly from home. Shit, they even scattered around newspapers. Talk about realism. Turk cut his mental tangent short; he couldn’t afford rest.

Turk met Armstrong’s eye. Turk couldn’t tell if it was fatigue or worry that creased the man’s lips. “Tell you what: get me the mortar section. They hafta be ready again.”

The corporal nodded again and motioned behind him for the radio. Turk leaned over his shoulder and signaled for two other soldiers. Telly slowly huffed his way up to them, flanked by the summoned riflemen. Turk checked his chrono while Armstrong started the dial-out. Seventeen more minutes. The battle was dragging out. Their Lord would have words, no doubt.

“Sergeant,” acknowledged the first of the two men who crouched before him. Sweat wore away streaks of the camouflage grease on their cheeks. Exhaustion oozed out of every pore.

“Right. That building,” Turk highlighted with a knife hand the bank lobby that waited beyond the ten meters of road. “Get in and set me up an overwatch. Signal when it’s clear.”

The two soldiers didn’t hide the skeptical looks they shared with each other. “Yes, sergeant,” they both replied. Turk stepped back to give them space.

“I’ll take lead,” one told the other, lifting his rifle. His junior nodded. The two soldiers crept to the building’s corner. Turk squatted next to Armstrong, watching the corporal listen to headquarters’ response. Armstrong’s expression didn’t change. Telly gazed at the ground with lost eyes. Everyone else behind them shared the same look. A few stole sips from their bladder bags. Some messed with the pieces of their kit, adjusting this and that as if it’d make a difference.

“Here we go.” Turk heard a whisper behind him. He didn’t turn. Instead, Armstrong’s face had set into a glower. Turk questioned it silently. Setting the receiver back on the boxpack, Armstrong hefted up his rifle and turned to the sergeant.

“Central denies. Cavalry has a req-” A burst of an RPK overrode whatever Armstrong was saying. The entire lineup tensed. Turk spun around to see one of the riflemen jerking backwards a few feet from the corner.

“Jesus Christ!” The man’s partner grabbed at him.

“Machine gun, east fifty!” Called Armstrong. Turk ran to the corner, helping the rifleman with the body. They both pulled on his arm as he garbled a mouth of blood. Holes riddled the front of his vest. Others were echoing the corporal’s call. Turk strained with the weight of the warfighter and barely pulled him back into safety just as another string of lead ate away at the concrete. The effort drained him yet again.

“Lifesaver!” Turk ordered. He kneeled above the wounded man. His hands searched for the buckles of his vest. The other rifleman was unbuttoning the casualty’s instant aid kit. Blood began to seep through the canvas webbing. “Lifesaver, damnit!” Turk shouted again. He looked over his shoulder, searching for the squad lifesaver. A man was sprinting up the line. Armstrong was headed back to the others. “Corporal,” Turk called. “Take a team and-” Turk waved to the alleyway next to them when Armstrong nodded. Satisfied by Armstrong’s urgency, he turned back to the casualty.

“Pull him back more,” ordered Turk. He grabbed the man’s legs and together the two soldiers drug him into the shade further. The combat lifesaver knelt next him. Off came the vest, falling into pieces with a pull of its wound wire.

“Fuckin’ shit...” the lifesaver snatched up the aid kit and began pulling supplies out of it. Blood pooled and poured over the casualty’s chest. Turk motioned for the rest of the squad. Automatic fire erupted from up the alley. Their own weapons, Turk’s ears judged.

He moved back from the gathering soldiers and entered it, running past the dumpsters, hopping over strewn trash, and meeting up with Armstrong.

Armstrong’s team had lined up behind a groundcar. All three of them fired in sweeps upwards. Armstrong himself had posted at the mouth of the alley and pulled something from his kit. Turk took a knee next to him and tapped the corporal’s leg.

Armstrong, not pausing, swiveled his head and nodded. “They got at least a squad up in that fuckin’ hotel. We can--” a trail of smoke whizzed overhead of the fireteam and ended in an echoing explosion some distance behind them. All five soldiers ducked. As soon as he heard the rocket’s report, Turk hopped back up and helped Armstrong to his feet.

“Fuck it,” Turk shook his head. “I’m getting a drone. We’re not gonna play this shoot and scoot game anymore.”

“We can’t get mortars, you think the Lord’s gonna dish out air support?”

More explosions rattled windows, doors, and Turk’s insides. This time, the reverbs came behind him. The boys. “Whatever, just plaster the bastards.” He turned and sprinted back down the alleyway. The last reverberations of the enemy volley rippled up through the concrete and Turk’s boots. He spun the corner to find more carnage. A few soldiers had crossed the street, firing bursts into the hotel. Turk stepped over a severed arm and ran to the livesaver, who now focused on a new patient. The original casualty lay motionless where Turk had left him. The lifesaver packed gauze frantically into the wound of a moaning rifleman. A few other bodies were scattered around new craters.

“They got rockets, ser’ent,” The lifesaver noticed Turk. The boy’s arms visibly trembled as he tried to put all his weight on the white fluff he had pushed into his patient. The dark red stains climbed his sleeves, right up to the elbows.

“I noticed. Where’s Telly?”

The lifesaver beckoned over to a shifting body by the street corner.

“Fuck!” Turk flipped on his short-range, only to slap it off again when ear-piercing static met him. He waited until he heard the tinny pops of M4s to run to the radioman. The intersection transformed into chaos. A quick glance at the hotel showed barrels pointed at his men from the second floor. Adrenaline reared within Turk as he picked up the radioman by the legs and dragged him back to the lifesaver. Telly didn’t even seem to register his squad leader’s presence. Glazed eyes meandered about, as if pretending to work.

On a knee, Turk grabbed the receiver from its place on the radio and keyed it. More static bit back at him. He dropped the receiver, ignoring Telly’s anguished twitching. Leaving the radioman behind, Turk returned to the building corner.

Too many noises, smells, sensations overrode Turk’s thoughts. His lungs smoldered with each heaving gasp. Three campaigns had already taken their toll on his body; the battlefield’s miasma didn’t do his scarred lungs any favors. Something in the back of Turk’s mind wore at him, clawed at him, pulled him towards the ground. Tendrils of exhaustion taunted him. Turk glanced around anxiously. All around him the familiar sights and sounds had suddenly transformed into hellscape.

Two wounded soldiers, despite the direct fire, tried crawling back into cover towards Turk. Bloody trails darkened the pavement behind them. A rifleman missing both legs propped his weapon up by a gouged out crater of asphalt; the boy wasn’t even looking up anymore, just firing the rifle every few seconds towards their transgressors. The lifesaver shakily rose from his current patient and ran out towards another in the intersection. Turk numbly watched as the air rippled around the young soldier and sanguine puffs erupted from his body. The lifesaver made it two more steps before collapsing in convulsions.

“Shit...” started Turk. He wanted to say something, to somebody, whoever that may be. Never asked for this. Desperation sputtered in his mind. Just ’cause Sergeant Langley died in Opening Hostilities don’t mean I was cut out for his job.

Turk spun around and ran back to Telly’s body. Two other riflemen ran past the young gladiator as Turk knelt over the radioman and lifted him onto his side. A rocket slammed into the asphalt of the intersection, flecking debris across everyone. Turk gave a brief glance to it and saw a new floundering body in the street now.

Turning his attention back to the radio, Turk keyed it. Cradling his rifle in his arms, he held the receiver up to one ear and clamped a hand over his other ear.

“Central from Puma Actual, come in Central.” He spoke loudly, ignoring the static in the receiver. Another burst from the phantom machinegun beyond them and someone in the alleyway screamed for a medic. “Central! Puma Actual!” Turk attempted again.

A calm voice cut through the static. “Go for Central.”

“Central, Puma Platoon has heavy contact in Northern city block. Requesting smoke barrage, grid to follow.”

“Puma, request denied. All assets engaged. Current orders to advance and recon still stand.”

Turk looked up at the disarray around him. With who? “Central, Puma pulling back. Too many casualties. Radioman down. This will be the last transmission until back in shortwave range.” Fuck it. Central was beginning to reply, but Turk dropped the box set radio and stepped away from it. He stood and leaned against the building. One hand searched his plate carrier pouches and produced a smoke grenade. Turk gripped it tightly and wrenched the pin out of it, keeping his fingers over the spoon.

“Puma, fall back!” He called into the chaos. “Puma!”

Someone echoed his call over the din. And then a few other voices joined in the call to retreat. Thank stars. Turk tossed the smoke grenade underhand into the intersection, the spoon whipping off it with a metallic ping. One man behind a car in the intersection did the same, rolling a smoke grenade into the clear. The RPK began firing longer bursts into the billowing smoke. Turk turned and looked up the alleyway. One infantryman dragged another one away from the alley’s other opening.

“Fuck,” muttered Turk as he broke into a quick run to the pair. Wordlessly, he joined the rescuer in grabbing the casualty’s plate carrier straps and pulling. Eternity passed as they crossed the length of the alley. They were met by only one other man at the end of it.

“Anyone else?” Turk called over the increased weapons fire. Clearly their assailants hoped to catch a few more of them in the smoke cover. Turk grimaced as no one appeared behind the lone man waiting for them. “Fuck it, let’s get out. You two swap. Cover our ass,” He nodded between the two able riflemen. The men changed places, one taking up the casualty and the other readying his rifle towards the intersection. Turk grunted as they began dragging the weight of the wounded man between them.

Turk’s pulse pounded in his temples, the sound of his heart overwhelming his ears. Each footstep became a chore as they came closer to the next street crossing. Turk nodded to the corner, helping the other man prop up their comrade against the concrete building. “See to him,” Turk ordered as he leaned against the wall and quickly stuck his head out. After one glance over, he looked back to the others.

“Nothing,” Turk shook his head. He grabbed his bladder bag’s straw and took a pull from it, the warm water just now reminding him of how parched he had been. He took a longer drink after the new sensation and then let it go. After a few gasping breaths, he looked down at the casualty. The rifleman trying to help had opened the perforated plate carrier only to reveal a gruesome mangle of torn uniform and gore. The boy knelt by the body of his comrade staring blankly. Turk and their third teammate also stared. Nothing to be said, Turk rolled his shoulders back and looked back up the street. A hyperson monitor floated down it towards them.

“We got a babysitter coming,” Turk muttered to the other two. He patted his pockets and found a crumpled packet of cigarillos stuffed in one. Turk proffered them to the others, waiting as both men drew their own. They struck the match ends on various surfaces, letting the nicotine sticks sputter to life. All three quietly puffed on the sticks. Echoes of explosions and gunfire bounced across the city’s various buildings and walls. Turk kept an eye on the intersection of their ambush, though he felt certain they wouldn’t be followed.

The monitor turned the corner and scanned them with a brief, blue line. It muttered into their ears. Orders Stand: Recon elements to continue to advance and reconnoiter Warehouse Districts.

All three soldiers eyed the monitor warily. The ubiquitous machine just hovered there. Their ears tickled again with the hypersonic transmission. One soldier spat on the ground. Turk considered his options. He cocked his head at the other two.

“We aren’t going to be effective with just us. There’s no point.” He shook his head.

“Yeah, well, they could consider us disobedient.”

“We’re protected now that fighting has started. Just counts as a rout on the scoreboard.” Turk took another drag from his cigarillo and then removed it with two fingers. “No point in wasting ourselves over three meters of ground.”

The hyperson monitor’s holographic display changed from blue to red. Inactivity detected. Orders Stand: Recon elements to continue to advance and reconnoiter Warehouse Districts. Inactivity is fineable under the League Accords.

“Yeah, yeah, wouldn’t want to make bad television for you.” Turk dropped the cigarillo and let it smolder on the sidewalk. He looked up at the monitor and waved his arm until it turned to him. He cupped a hand over his mouth and slowly said “Rout. We’re retreating.” Turk motioned for the others. “Let’s go, boys.”

Rout registered. Notifying Lord Baxterly’s Control.

The three riflemen began their slow withdrawal from the city. More explosions and bursts of weapons fire echoed off the gargantuan dome above. The unmistakable beatings of gyrocopter blades roared, followed by the shrieks of missiles. Somewhere behind them, someone was making ground.

“They’ll find a way to dock our pay for this.” Someone spoke after a few minutes.

“Fuck it. Contest the ruling if the money means that much to you,” came the reply.

The outskirts of the city came into view as they rounded a corner. Before they could finish their jog out of the city, the End Game sounded. Exhaustion overtook the men more than it had before. One stopped in his tracks and immediately vomited. Another collapsed to his knees, shuddering. Whatever mental gymnastics used to persevere through the battle evaporated within an instant. Their bodys’ forced them to feel every ache and pain as the adrenaline withdrew from their veins, replaced with a mantle of fatigue. Above them, the Dome projected a holographic ticker tape across the sky with the game’s result.

“After all that? What the fuck are we here for?” The quiet lament disappeared into the city, unnoticed and unimportant.