by Lundy, W. J.
They would be shouted back to their feet, then forced to run forward for hundreds of meters to avoid a pretend artillery attack. Again, dropped and formed into a hasty ambush, they waited behind their rifles for an invisible enemy to approach from the road. As they patrolled on, phrases became more and more familiar to them. They learned their part in every battle drill. Jacob’s motions became clear; just as in his former life as an engineer when he knew how to break down and assemble a production line, he now knew what to do when attacking or under attack.
They drilled until their bodies ached and their blistered feet bled. They were fully immersed in the training, stopping at the side of the road to eat and hydrate before again moving out on the trail. Masterson called out battle drills, and the platoon reacted.
“Near ambush!”
The men at the front screamed and ran through the kill zone yelling pew, pew, pew—firing imaginary weapons as the men at the back of the patrol dove for cover before laying heavy suppressive fire, covering their teammates as they assaulted through and destroyed the enemy.
“Far ambush!”
Soldiers in the kill zone took cover and provided suppressive fire while those at the rear of the formation maneuvered around and destroyed the enemy.
They learned to break contact, to initiate contact; different patrols and traveling formations; when to ambush and when to hide; how to react to chance contacts and how to pursue and run down the enemy. After a particularly difficult round of chaotic drills, Jacob overheard Jesse laughing with the other men. “This is just like football practice.” Jacob could see that the big man was loving it, memorizing plays like it was all a game. Meanwhile, Jacob felt his own tired body breaking down… and it was only the first day.
The patrol finally ended at a long gravel road. They were halted and moved back into a formation. Jacob’s pants were covered with dirt and grass stains, the elbow of his shirt torn, and the toes of his boots scraped, the raw leather showing through. Masterson range walked back to the front of the formation and faced them to the right, marching them to a grassy field where the pickup truck and supply sergeant were waiting.
The supply sergeant was standing behind the truck with the tailgate down. Cans of ammo were stacked in the back with more soldiers positioned over them. Masterson fell them out and they formed a training circle around the back of the truck. The supply sergeant stepped forward and removed his hat, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.
“Okay, Privates, you will form into three lines and draw ammo.” He pointed to three tables just behind him with soldiers standing over them. “Little guns, big guns, and bigger guns. If your weapon fires non-belt-fed 5.56 go to the first table.”
Men with the M4s and M16s fell out and ran to the first table. Jacob waited for instructions and moved to the 7.62 table with four other men while Jesse and the other machine gunners moved to the third. Jacob stood looking at the others; other than all holding scoped rifles—M14s as the supply sergeant had called them—he couldn’t find anything in common with the group he found himself in.
A man wearing a dark-red ball cap with a yellow badge paced behind Jacob’s table, picked up a clipboard, and then wended around it. Without introducing himself, he ordered the five men into a line, standing shoulder to shoulder. He tossed the clipboard back to the table before walking up and down the line. He ordered them to hold their weapons out then, one at a time, inspected each recruit’s rifle. As he walked down the line, he stopped to ask them questions while he looked over their weapons. He stopped in front of Jacob and snatched away his rifle. Expertly, he opened the bolt and inspected the chamber.
“You a veteran? Done time in the military?” he asked without looking away from the weapon.
“No, Sergeant.”
“A hunter?” he asked.
“No, Sergeant. I’m an engineer.”
“Then why are you in my designated marksman group?”
Jacob dropped his head, subconsciously moving away from the table, embarrassed. The instructor pushed the rifle back into Jacob’s chest then reached back for the clipboard. He flipped through pages then stopped. “Jacob Anderson,” he said as his finger traced the lines of text. “Says here you were in Chicago—at the Battle of Museum Park.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Then that is why you are here. With only fourteen days to train up recruits, we are forced to pull some troops ahead in their training to go over advanced skills.”
“But, Sergeant, seriously, I… I don’t know shit,” Jacob stammered.
“Don’t matter, you will soon enough; I can promise you that.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Hey, you awake?”
Jacob forced open his weary eyes, blinking to clear his senses, and found himself staring into the darkness of the room. The furnace blower was once again roaring, mixed with the snores of exhausted men. “I am now,” he whispered into the dark.
“So, what do you think?”
“Damn, Jesse, what time is it?” Jacob said.
“Seriously, do you think we made a mistake?” Jesse asked, rolling in the bed so that his head hung over the top bunk, looking down at Jacob.
“Hell, man. I don’t know. It isn’t like we had a choice—not really, anyway.”
“I was just wondering, you know, is it worth it? I mean, the camp was rough but at least those things were far away from us. They're going to push us right into the fight, you know. We won’t be sitting safe being gate guards or something,” Jesse said. “They're planning to put us right in the middle of it.”
“No use worrying about it now; it’s done, right?” Jacob said.
“Yeah, guess you’re right. I won’t go back to the refugee camp, and no way could I go back to Detroit again.”
“Detroit? That where you’re from?” Jacob asked. “Chicago myself.”
“Yup… worked in the Ford plant. Good job too. Wish I had saved some of that money for a rainy day. Maybe I would have gotten farther. When the shit hit the fan, I was dead broke from a weekend at the casino. Then the plant halted production after the attacks started. I was stuck at home with no paycheck and no money in the bank… those kinda odds won’t get ya far.”
“Things happened fast in Chicago too,” Jacob whispered. “By the time we realized what was going on, it was too late.”
“Detroit was a nightmare, bro. I thought I could make do, hold out in the city. Yeah, that was a bad idea—real bad. I watched them from my apartment, watched them attack the police. I didn’t know what to think of it. I just wanted to get away. People said up north was safe, so I crossed the river into Canada and just kept moving.”
“Come on, man, shut up,” a soldier shouted from up the bay, silencing Jesse.
Jacob lay back; he raised the green wool blanket to his chest, listening absently as Jesse continued to tell his story. He turned his head to the side and looked down the row of bunks. They all had a story, all different but still the same. Now they all found themselves here, like soldiers in any war from the past, united against a common enemy.
The man yelled again for them to be quiet.
“Get some sleep, Jesse,” Jacob whispered.
Morning came quick, long before the sun had risen. Skipping the five-mile run, the drill sergeants dragged them from their bunks. They were quickly assembled outside, dressed for combat, and pushed through the same drills, only this time with limited visibility under the cover of darkness.
In the following days, they ran the same routine—starting with being kicked awake at random early hours and dragged from their racks. After insane rounds of questioning out in the street, they were sent back to dress. Finally, they would be out front again for long periods of exercise, followed by patrols and hours on the range or gathered in circles, listening to their marksmanship instructors.
The instructors made the chaos routine, helping the recruits adjust and acclimate to the madness. The men became adept at quickly forming for the patrols a
nd battle drills. They could move from rest to battle positions in a matter of seconds. The drill sergeants added new obstacles to trip them up. The range instructors force-fed the recruits technical details. Soon the men learned to break down, clean, and maintain their rifles.
By the end of the first week, they had advanced to live ammunition and learning to sight in their weapons; training on static, then pop-up targets, and finally progressing to moving targets. By the start of the next week, they were falling into formation according to their weapons assignments and finding their own unique role within the patrol. Exhausted and moving like robots, their bodies functioned on muscle memory.
Jacob learned how to react on battle drills and what was expected of him as a designated marksman. After reaching the ranges, he was yanked out of the larger group with the rest of his long rifle team to learn scouting techniques. Their marksmanship instructor was patient and precise in his instruction. Jacob learned how to use the radio, call for fire, and report enemy movements. Hitting them over and over until they were proficient, all of these tasks were integrated into the morning battle drill marches.
As the end of the week and the final days of training approached, they patrolled like a veteran group—not with precision, but worn down and fatigued. Even though still green, most never having faced the enemy, they were broken and their uniforms soiled and faded. The weapons they carried were cleaner than their bodies. Jacob trekked his position near the rear of the formation, his mind focused on his role. Jesse was ahead of him, now gracefully holding the machine gun, his head swiveling with every step.
When a truck approached from the rear of the column, the men parted to allow it to pass through them and to the front. An excited soldier exited the vehicle and ran to Master Sergeant Masterson. A drill sergeant at the head of the column raised a fist, stopping the column’s movement. Jacob prowled to the shoulder of the road, taking a knee and surveying the surroundings. After a short wait, he dropped to his belly and crawled into the high grass, taking up a security position. The rest of the men did the same thing without being instructed, the halt procedure now deeply ingrained in their subconscious.
Masterson moved past Jacob and stood in the center of the street just behind Jacob’s feet, waving the other sergeants to his position while sounds of distant explosions and gunfire echoed off the heavy cloud cover. Explosions that at one time sounded far away and distant now seemed close, like an advancing thunderstorm. Some of the blasts were close enough that the concussions seemed to rattle the ground. Jacob lifted himself to his elbows, trying to listen in on the drill sergeants’ huddle.
“They ain’t ready,” he caught one of them say.
Masterson grunted and spit on the pavement, using the toe of his boot to scrape at the spot. “We're in the best position to intercept. It’s an opportunity for some of this bunch to get some real trigger time and stop an incursion in the process. This isn’t up for discussion; I’m taking five with me in the truck. Get the rest of the platoon back on their feet and return to the barracks.”
Jacob strained his neck, trying to get a better look and made the mistake of locking eyes with Masterson. The elder drill sergeant pointed a finger at him. “You, and you four; get up and get in the back of the truck. The rest of you prepare to move your asses back to the barracks,” he said, waving his hand to a group of five. He then turned and headed to the cab of the waiting truck.
Jacob pushed himself to his feet and stood, looking confused, not wanting to be the first to step toward the open back of the pickup. He watched as Jesse ran forward and jumped into the truck bed, pulling others in behind him. Jacob felt a shove from behind as one of the drill sergeants pushed him forward. “Get moving. Time to earn your pay, troop,” the sergeant said.
Jacob stepped to the truck, his boots feeling heavy as lead. He placed a foot on the rear bumper and raised his hand. Jesse dragged him in just as the truck moved ahead.
The vehicle cut off the road and turned directly into a high-grass field. The recruits in the back bounced as the truck rolled through uneven terrain. Jacob felt his teeth rattle and struggled to keep his helmet on his head as he was tossed back and forth in the vehicle’s bed. Finally, the truck steered out of the high grass and onto a gravel road. The driver turned right and raced onto the dirt surface, tossing a cloud of dust behind them.
“What’s this all about?” Jesse said, leaning in close to Jacob’s ear.
Jacob turned and looked back. “I don’t know; Masterson said something about an incursion.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Jesse asked.
“No idea, but we’re headed in the direction the explosions have been coming from.”
One of the other soldiers scooted forward. “I thought that was just other training groups, artillery practice and range time.”
Jacob nodded in reply and leaned back so he could see ahead in the direction the truck was moving. He spotted an open gate with two vehicles parked on either side. Jacob’s truck raced past them without slowing then continued down the road and up a long hill, stopping just below its peak. The doors opened, its occupants spilling out.
“I think we just went outside the wire,” a recruit whispered.
“Dismount!” Masterson yelled. “We ain’t got a lot of time so move your asses. I want a skirmish line formed up in that brush over there, overlooking that far tree line,” he ordered, pointing just ahead and to the left of the vehicle.
Jesse jumped from the truck and dropped the tailgate to allow the others to spill out. Jacob moved to the spot indicated then walked slightly beyond it, finding a place of deep cover with good views, the way his instructor had taught him to. He waited for Jesse to find a position farther up and watched as he fixed the bi-pod for his machine gun, then dropped to the prone, with the other men online around him. Masterson stepped toward them, the driver of the truck following close behind. He moved up to the crest of the hill they’d aligned themselves with and dropped to his knees, raising a pair of binoculars to his eyes.
Jacob scanned the distance with his scope, seeing nothing but golden grasslands that butted up to a tall line of deep green pines. They were on a high overlook, the terrain dropping steeply down the far side before moving against a thick forest. He lifted his eye from the scope to see Masterson next to him, consulting a map. “What are we looking for, Drill Sergeant?” Jacob asked, immediately regretting his decision as Masterson shot him a cold glare.
Masterson turned his head to Jacob as he folded the map and passed it to the man behind him. “You’re Anderson, right? The one from Chicago? They say you were at the Battle of Museum Park.”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant. I was there,” Jacob said, trying to avoid the man’s cold stare.
“Well, you survived; not many of us did. Look down at the tree line; see the split tree, blackened like lightning struck it? The trail moving to the left of it?”
Jacob raised the rifle back to his eye and panned the edge of the tree line. Over a thousand meters to his front, he spotted the tree, the top splintered and burnt to a char. “I see it.” Jacob turned and looked back at Masterson. “Were you there?”
“That’s where we expect them to come from,” Masterson said, pointing a finger and ignoring the question.
“How do you know?” Jacob asked.
Masterson looked Jacob in the eye, not used to being questioned. He forced a grin then held up the small handheld radio. “Two-Six made contact with a small group about an hour ago. They knocked down most of ’em, but remnants of the enemy patrol broke off and scattered. They’re pushing them this way.”
The radio squelched, causing Masterson to turn his back. He held the radio to his ear, a look of concentration on his face. He placed it next to his lips and pressed the button. “Roger, we’re in position. Out,” he said before turning back to Jacob. “Okay, get on the glass… won’t be long now.”
Masterson dropped to his belly and crawled up next to Jacob. The driver moved closer to the other me
n, kneeling just behind Jesse’s machine gun.
Jacob put his eye to the scope and focused on the burnt stump. He felt Masterson crawl closer. “How are you on the rifle?” Masterson asked him in a low voice.
“I can hit what I shoot at… most of the time,” Jacob whispered, not taking his eye from the scope.
“We’ll see.”
Five minutes passed before the first of them broke the cover of the trees. They were walking quickly, tightly packed together—not talking, not looking around. They focused to the front as they exited the forest and continued on the trail toward the hilltop road. Jacob counted seven of them, all carrying weapons of some sort and wearing a variety of clothing. He whispered the information to Masterson the way he’d been trained.
“Hold your fire; let them get closer,” Masterson said, loud enough so all could hear him. “Anderson here will drop the point man, and then you all take out the rest. Let none escape.”
Jacob raised the rifle into his shoulder and focused on the leader, a tall lanky man. He was wearing coveralls and carrying a wood-stocked rifle in his arms. It was the first time Jacob had seen one of them since Chicago. He could tell by its movement that he wasn’t human. It was a subtle difference, but once recognized, one a person couldn’t forget—the mechanical motions in the way it moved… the perfect posture… the way it walked without ever looking back to check on its comrades, knowing they would follow.
“Shit,” Masterson said. “Weapons tight, people; don’t fire till Private Anderson initiates contact.”
Jacob took his eye from the rifle, looking at Masterson. “Drill Sergeant?” he said.
Masterson pointed farther down, a second group of nine men emerged from the tree line, moving in the same direction as the first but in their own distinct element. “Get back on the rifle; fire when I give the word. We can’t let them pass. Two-Six is in the woods, moving this way. All we have to do is delay these bastards 'til they get here.”