A Long Time Until Now - eARC

by Michael Z. Williamson

  “We’ll have a laundry detail using water and possibly homemade soap. The latrine is designated, no pissing or crapping around the camp. I know some of you use drink bottles to urinate in at night. That’s fine, but keep them well-separated and save them. We can’t spare any. And I haven’t seen nearly enough tooth brushing. I talked to Lieutenant Elliott. You will all brush your teeth for two minutes at formation.” There were giggles and chuckles, but he kept on. “We will time this. You will brush your teeth for two minutes after each meal and thirty seconds after each snack. I have almost no facilities to fix teeth, and dental caries can kill you. It is not a joking matter.

  “I’ve treated two of you for blisters and one for splinters. We have gloves. Use them until they wear out and your hands toughen, and we’ll need to try to make more. We need your hands. Wear your gloves, the sex life you save may be your own.” Devereaux smiled and pointed as if it was a commercial.

  He chuckled, and hoped no one got offended, but who the hell were they going to complain to?

  A moment later, the rest laughed, too. Good.

  The medic continued, “If you get injured, see me as soon as you can. Every blister, splinter, hangnail, I need to put eyes on, just in case. Don’t wake me for minor stuff, but do see me at sick call in the morning. It won’t be formal, but I’ll be here. And we will have PT.”

  There were some groans as he said that.

  Sean said, “Yeah, I feel it, too. We don’t know when or if we can get home. We’re just hoping whatever happened sorts itself out. Depression is possible, anxiety, whatever. No, not whatever, I mean other issues, I don’t want to minimize them. And we’ll have more as we go. Talk to each other if you need to. And talk to me.” He took a deep breath. “UCMJ remains in effect, but any problems we can resolve here will stay here, and I will keep the communication privileged. Assuming we get back, I’ll be reporting on events, not thoughts or comments. Consider me the chaplain in that regard. There has to be one. I’m not very religious, but I take your welfare seriously. I’ll say again—anything that doesn’t need to be shared, I’ll keep as privileged. We can’t have a lot of secrets here, and the environment means our ROE has to change.”

  He pointed through the purple dusk. “Charlie Eight vehicle is designated a private area for now. Each of us gets one day or night to use it for sleeping, meditation, music, whatever, undisturbed. We’re a small group. We all need privacy and escape. The only reason anyone should knock and go in is if there’s a life or death emergency. We need the safety valve.”

  That had been Spencer’s idea, and it made sense, once he thought about it.

  “And with that, Sergeant Devereaux is going to lead us in brushing our teeth.”

  It took a couple of minutes for everyone to dig their kits out. He was about to make a snarky comment about Caswell having an electric brush, very Air Force, when Doc pulled one out, too, saving him from making an ass of himself. No one had expected to be here, and he’d heard they cleaned better. He’d make do with his old reliable. He had a well-worn spare, and there were a dozen or so in the care box, so they could manage a few years.

  There was something ridiculous about standing in a circle, brushing. It was almost childish. But, he knew it was easy for troops in the field to neglect it, and it was critical. He brushed vigorously and well.

  Half a minute in, he realized Barker was humming the Jeopardy theme. Within seconds, they all were, and stifling giggles.

  “That’s two minutes,” Devereaux said. “Honor system for other meals, but don’t neglect it. All I can do for bad teeth is pull them.”

  Spencer said, “Well, you might manage a temporary filling with hot pine pitch. It’ll need replaced every month or so.”

  That was creepy, and didn’t cause anyone to laugh.

  Every time Elliott thought things were as primitive as they could get, something like that came about and shocked him again.

  Armand felt better with a morning sick call instituted. It let him do his job. Most of the stuff was minor, but fixing minor stuff prevented major issues.

  This morning, Alexander had a tick on her ass, rather close to the perineum. Easy enough to guess it jumped aboard while she was relieving herself.

  She was bent over the seats in the back of Charlie Eight, facing the ramp to offer what privacy there was, though most of them had relaxed about body modesty. And this was not a bad view, but he was working.

  “Semi-professional question,” he asked.

  “Laser hair removal. Worked very well,” she replied, anticipating the question.

  “Okay. Well, that will help prevent sweat rash and make parasites easier to locate.” The tick was middling fat. He pulled her skin taut, grabbed a lighter and said, “Heat coming, hold still.”

  A flare of flame and it twitched, crackled and popped. He swapped lighter for tweezers and started gently working the mandibles loose.

  “That was part of my thinking, not just social,” she said. “I’ve also had tubal ligation and endometrial ablation, so I won’t be having any issues with pregnancy or periods.”

  “Understood,” he said. He wasn’t going to say “Lucky you” because he didn’t know the background. He made a tiny incision over the bite and applied a suction cup for a few seconds. She hissed and said, “Ouch.”

  “Not safe for me to have more kids,” she said. “And my hormones are bad enough with my thyroid issues.”

  “How are you doing with those?” he asked as he swabbed the site with a precious drop of alcohol. Spencer and Barker insisted they could have a still going in a few months, but . . .

  She hissed in pain and flexed her ass, and damn, that looked pretty good.

  She said, “Running out of medication, then I’ll start having problems with mental acuity, sleep, memory, and weight.”

  “I’ll see what I can come up with,” he said reassuringly, but he had no idea what to do about that.

  “All I have would be eating the thyroids of animals, and trying to find stuff with zinc in it. It might help. I read something about it somewhere, but I have no idea how reliable it was.”

  “Yeah. I don’t know, really. We’ll do what we can. It’s clean. It might itch. Try not to scratch it.”

  “Roger. Thanks.”

  She straightened her uniform while standing.

  From Charlie Nine’s gun turret, Caswell called, “Approaching party!”

  They both scrambled for weapons and down the ramp.

  It was a local hunting party, coming up from the north, waving and calling. They carried meat, and one of them limped painfully between two friends.

  Elliott shouted, “Oglesby!” uphill toward the stream, where more trees were being cut.

  Caswell stayed up top, covering them with her rifle. Everyone else had gotten armed, and the tree party had a good crossing fire zone.

  As they got closer, Armand could see the injured man had been gored by something with a horn.

  “Tell them to bring him in. Get a poncho down for me to work on.” He ran back inside to grab his pack.

  Barker had a poncho from the tepee fast. At Oglesby’s direction, they laid the casualty on it. Armand moved in and started assessment. It was cramped between the seats, but he preferred overhead cover to open sky.

  The man was a tall, lanky bastard. Armand was 6’2”, and this guy was almost a foot taller, with long, lean muscles and little fat. He was mostly tall in the limbs, but his torso wasn’t short, either.

  He had thoracic damage, probable pneumothorax from the weezing and gurgling sounds. Seeping, wet wound. Probable broken ribs. Cuts and abrasions all over, including a nasty hematoma and a superficial scalp wound.

  Elliott was alongside, and said, “I’m a combat lifesaver, can I assist?”

  “Yes, keep him calm, look at the minor stuff and get it clean. Oglesby, tell him this will hurt, but I can heal him.”

  “I’ll try.”

  Spencer said, “If the spirits favor him.”

 
“Oh, right,” Oglesby said and continued in Paleo.

  He took vitals, and listened to the chest. Yes, traumatic pneumothorax, and possible lung damage. Not good.

  Elliott asked, “Not to be a dick, but how much of our resources will this take?”

  “Not much.”

  “Good. It’s neighborly and I want to help, but there are limits.”

  “I know.” Yeah, he knew. Once he ran out of stuff here, that was it. Cleaning, bandaging and suturing would be all that was left.

  The locals jabbered to each other, and to the patient. They brought out some weed that they lit from the fire and made pronouncements to the sky, and anointed what he presumed was the man’s spear with animal blood.

  “If you can, please explain to them I need some distance.”

  Spencer said, “Tell them the healing spirits need room to approach.”

  Oglesby said something. They backed off, but started moaning and crying in sequence, to appeal to the spirits, he supposed.

  “Somebody hold him down. This is going to hurt.”

  “Anesthetic?” Elliott asked.

  “I’d rather save it for us. He’s already getting antiseptics I can’t replace, and I figure he’s more used to pain than we are.”

  “True.”

  “And barely conscious as is. The ribs broke clean, but in two directions.” He pulled on gloves. He had fewer than five hundred pairs, but he didn’t know what germs this guy had, and there was no need to spread any of his. Hopefully they’d not need them that often.

  He manipulated the ribs into rough position. They’d heal, and be ugly, but shouldn’t get in the way of the pleural sac.

  He wiped down the wound area and applied a Hyfin Chest Seal. Then he wrapped the chest with Ace bandages, moving them carefully under the man to minimize movement.

  “He will need to stay here a couple of days, and not be moved a lot. I’ll need to use a magic needle to treat the lung every few minutes.”

  They seemed to accept that, after lots of back and forth, and gestures.

  Spencer asked, “Can we haul him into the tepee?”

  “If we’re careful, yes. How many caretakers can they leave, LT?”

  Elliott’s face moved as he thought, and replied, “One.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll need to stay with him and monitor.”

  “Okay. We can handle one up and one injured.”

  Oglesby said, “Sir, they’re offering to bring us food or help in some other way. I took the liberty of explaining the treatment a bit.”

  Elliott asked, “What did you say?”

  “That the horn had damaged his lung, and it was necessary to get the lung back to shape so it could heal.”

  “They got that?”

  Oglesby said, “Sure. They’ve killed enough animals to know what lungs are. They just aren’t clear on how they work exactly, or what to do when damaged.”

  “Ah. Well, tell them we’d welcome food. Do they need help with the kill?”

  “Yes, they’d like to leave meat here, and go for the rest. Then they’ll send a runner to their village.”

  Spencer said, “Allright. Everyone remain armed in Condition Two, and keep control of your stuff. Oglesby, stress to them the tepee is a spirit place, and no possessions can be removed or borrowed inside.”

  The bleeding was controlled; it looked as if the man’s breathing would recover, and he’d live, though he was moaning in pain as he regained full consciousness. There was no feeling like that of saving another man’s life. Armand smiled.

  “Okay,” he said. “Four people, roll the poncho as an emergency stretcher, and carefully take him inside.”

  The next morning Oglan, the hunter, was much improved. He nibbled on some meat and drank a little broth. He coughed a few times and writhed in pain when he did, but smiled afterward.

  The Paleos looked very confused as the soldiers brushed teeth. They understood there were so many gadgets, but really had no clue what most were, nor even about their bases. They didn’t recognize the vehicles as anything other than odd huts, but kept staring at them.

  Spencer wondered if they could keep the natives around a bit longer. They were happy to haul logs, raise them up and help set them. They figured out a shovel in short order, and understood axes, as a much larger version of their own clubs and hand axes. In an afternoon, another fifteen feet of palisade went up.

  “This thing keeps lions and wolves out?” one had asked through Oglesby.

  “Yes.” It would also keep people away, but he wasn’t going to say that.

  “You should give us the stick that chops trees.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t. We need both of them.”

  “Will Arman Healer heal others?”

  “Yes. But not everyone can be helped. It also takes the support of the spirits.”

  “You should know the best spirits, with all the fine things you have developed.”

  Dalton said, “We do. Our God can do all, but He does what is best for all, which isn’t always best for one.”

  Oglesby had translated it automatically before Martin could say anything. He felt a buzz of worry.

  He said, “Careful, son. The no proselytizing rule applies here, too.”

  “Hey, they asked, Sergeant. I can only witness what I know.”

  “Yeah, and if the Oglan guy dies, you’ve just told them that our super spirits don’t care about them. Not an auspicious start to the church you want to build.” The man meant well, but there were political and diplomatic things to consider, and he was too damned eager to talk about his god.

  Dalton twisted his mouth. “Okay, I’ll wait until he’s better.”

  “At least.”

  A man named Isria, asked, “Will this stop !Katchathaynu?”

  Oglesby looked as confused as Spencer.

  “What is that?” Oglesby asked for them.

  The man held a hand in front of his nose, another in front of his forehead, with first finger extended.

  “Woolly rhinos,” Martin said. “Yes, it should stop Kachat-hainew. They will think it’s a cliff and go around.”

  He hoped Oglesby was learning from this. Lots of talking was going on.

  A five minute attempt at chopping brush into firewood ended when one of the natives gashed himself with a machete. The man wrapped a leather strip around it, and Martin helped him limp into the tepee, so Devereaux could stitch him up.

  “Yeah, a couple of sutures to hold it and I’ll wash it clean with water.” Spencer sent Dalton to get water boiled from the fire, though the water in the mountain brook was surprisingly clear and clean.

  “How’s the other guy?”

  “Lucky. The horn was blunt and didn’t pierce his lung. Though the pneumothorax would likely have killed him, or at least crippled him.”

  “Glad he’s going to make it.”

  “Yeah, well, I expect they’ll want sick call now.”

  “As long as they exchange labor, I think we can work out a deal.”

  “We should teach them how to make soap.”

  “They know that ash and fat cleans the crud off their hands, and they wash in the river in summer.”

  “I’d like them to use more of it.”

  Martin figured where that was going.

  “Especially the women?”

  “PREEcisely.” Devereaux grinned.

  Martin said, “That’s probably coming eventually.”

  “Yeah. Life with two chicks you can’t touch is not much of a life.” Devereaux rolled his eyes.

  “Seeing as I’m missing my wife, my sons and my daughter, I’m all sympathy, dude.”

  “Yeah. Sorry about that, Sergeant.” Doc did look genuinely sad on his behalf.

  He grabbed a stick and heaved it at the horizon, watched it spin, tumble and drop.

  “Hell, it’s not your fault. But . . . I mean, they’re not missing me, because they haven’t been born yet. Except I’m not going home. So they’ll think I’m dead in a blast, or wo
rse, MIA. I’ll never know what happens to them, except it hasn’t happened yet. And I promised Andrew I’d teach him to drive next year. So much for that.”

  Then he was tense and flushed again. It had been a month, and that wasn’t long enough to come to terms with something that was worse than death in many ways.

  “Well, I miss Mama. My father and I were never close, and he left after they split. We talk now and then, but he’s not significant. I guess that makes me the lucky one here. But my mother’s going to need a caretaker eventually, and it won’t be me.”

  His patient winced and hissed as he pulled a suture tight.

  “Sorry. Okay, let me clean it and we’ll be done.”

  The native man certainly didn’t understand the words, but the tone and the washing carried the message. He smiled as Devereaux bound the leather strip back around his leg.

  “Tell Oglesby I’ll need to pull those sutures in a week. And could someone bring me a bite? Even goat?”

  “Can do. And you’re in luck. They had chunks of cow. So we’re having steak. They also brought some salt.”

  “Who’s cooking?”

  “Barker and Caswell.”

  “I think I love them. In a fraternal fashion.”

  They were both thinking a lot more than fraternally about Caswell, and she was a problem.

  Martin helped the man out the doorway, and he walked gingerly but steadily. It wasn’t a crippling gash, but fairly deep, and he’d better keep it clean. He reeked of sweat, but seemed fairly kempt otherwise. His hair was tied back in a ponytail and had obviously been brushed.

  Devereaux said, “Oglesby, tell him we need to take the sutures out in a week, and to change the bandage for a clean one twice a day. Stress it has to be well rinsed and dried between uses. The bandage, I mean.”

  “Got it.”

  He wandered to the outside fire, where, judging by the smell, Barker and Caswell had herbs and salt and something else and meat.

  “Hey, Devereaux would like a snack.”

  “Of course,” Barker said, and peeled off a thin piece of tough but juicy looking steak. “But you keep your hands off until dinner.”