What had happened, as we were told later, is that the enemy had come up on Hill 7 intending to take the road past it on its right, lookin’ from our side, and go after the native villages we was there to protect. They fanned out and ran into us, but the colonel had drawn us up to our left of Hill 7 and the road. So a third or a half of the enemy force was facin’ nothing. That part of the enemy swung around toward Hill 7, which they could see was our base.
Me and Hooligan and our guys held up the gook right, at the left end of our line—and the colonel and the headquarters detachment flanked us on the left, catching the right end of the enemy line. That is, if there is such a thing as a line in jungle fighting. Meantime, he’d sent all of his reserve tigers and the Ranger battalion on a wider sweep to catch the gooks in the rear, ‘cause they can travel fast. We had the entire enemy right in a three-sided pincer and were crushin’ it.
It all sounds real neat and real good, but you wasn’t there. It was hell, and some of our guys bought it from Smart Bullets, we were so jammed together. I know SBs are supposed to ignore our guys, but in such short range they didn’t have the time to discriminate. Well, it was bloody and awful, but it ended after a time, and it was beginning to get dark, and the tigers were reporting that the enemy had abandoned his right to us and had taken Hill 7.
That was a bad time. Pete was hurting, though we could see he was gonna be okay. But he couldn’t be evacuated with all those gooks around, so we gave ‘im painkillers and bandaged him up, and Hooligan came and purred at him. But she was jittery too. I kept worryin’ we’d lost the hill, and word was that more gooks were comin’ in and would be on us by morning.
Colonel passed the word we’d done well, and we took time to check out all the wounded. Some of our worst wounded were scorpion-stung or spider-bit. Everybody was covered with leeches, of course. There weren’t no wounded enemy, they were all dead, except one or two that’d had an arm or leg blown off and was gonna die of shock and internal hemorrhages. Colonel said to make them comfortable, too, and it seemed funny we was trying to kill ‘em earlier, and now we was lightin’ cigarettes for them. But I was glad we had done it, later, even if they all died.
That’s it for this one, who’s turn is it now?
Soon as we had all rested a bit and all of our guys was accounted for, Colonel put us in motion. We circled Hill 7 same way the gooks had gone, passing around the foot of it and to the right side, onto that road. I don’t think the gooks expected us to pull such a maneuver—think they expected us to storm the damn hill or somethin’. They had a few pickets out watchin’ it, but Rangers and war tigers went ahead and quietly took them out. Before the gooks knew it, we was on the back side of the hill, between them and the native villages we was there to protect—and out of between them and the army that was comin’ up to support them.
We found this abandoned village which would be a good place to set up camp, and got off into the jungle beside it. Pretty soon the gooks got some artillery up and immediately dropped some shells into the village, so Rangers went in and set fire to the hootches so’s to give ‘em something to aim at and make ’em feel they was doin’ something, and we got a good rest.
I was pretty tired, we’d tramped through a lot of stinking, muggy jungle, helping the wounded along, too tired and too sick to be very hungry. I made myself eat. But the Rangers was somethin’ else. They were full of the fighting cocktail, hyper as a bunch of speed freaks, leapin’ and bouncin’ around and braggin’ about how they’d saved our asses and how any of them could whip any three other guys, whoever they was. I didn’t feel like disputin’ it, but it made me mad to hear it. We’d stood up to the enemy head to head, and they’d only taken ’em in the rear.
And I didn’t like to hear them call the gooks “gooks.” I didn’t like the way they said it. It was the way I was sayin’ it that morning, but I was ignorant that morning and didn’t know. I was sayin’ “gook” in a different way now, because I could respect those little guys with their pajamas and bare eyes and old-fashioned guns and all their gutsiness. I didn’t think it was funny that those guys had gotten blown up by an explosive bullet shot at them by a man who could see him but who he couldn’t see to shoot back at.
And I really didn’t like to hear these assholes brag about how they’d done the same thing, shootin’ ’em in the back.
Yeah, I know, they were full of cocktails and not responsible. The stuff makes ’em crazy, and that makes them good soldiers. Bullshit. They were crazy before or they would never have volunteered for that shit.
What’s in the cocktails? Well, they say there’s super and secret drugs that make ’em stronger, faster, tougher, and so on, but no, not really. There are drugs that’ll do some of those things, though not as much stronger, faster, and so on, as people think. Not enough to make a Ranger out of an untrained grunt. See? I mean, Rangers have to be trained. And most such drugs wipe out the brain, so what good’s your training? And the side effects are bad, you never get over some of them. It ain’t economic to waste good men with bad drugs.
No, they tell us the cocktails contain a little alcohol—awful-tasting stuff, but it lowers inhibition—Dutch courage, it used to be called. And it contains caffeine, a lot of caffeine, and nicotine, which is a mood-enhancer but deadly poisonous. It also contains a very little speed, or sometimes coke. Nothing magical, but nothing you can’t get off from—and nothing that hampers your thinking processes if you don’t overdo it.
Even so, if you’re half crazy to start with, it can send you over the edge.
One of these bastards was leapin’ around and blowin’ about how he’d taken ten gooks apart with his bare hands, and maybe he did kill a couple. He was a big guy, and they’re small. This guy’s name was Jones, and he kept going on about what a great fighter he was, and we was all ignorin’ him best we could. Colonel would look up curiously from time to time, and the Ranger captain would shrug and kind of grin back at him. Finally Jones got to yellin’ that he could take on any man or tiger in the unit.
Most of us paid him no mind even then, but Hooligan growled a little and swung her big head around, looking at us all and especially at the tigers. Maybe she communicated to them on her radio; anyway none of the others moved when she stood up and strolled out under the trees to where Jones was takin’ a drink of water. He looked up and there she was, facing him.
At first he was startled, then he grinned—I saw his white teeth in the pale glow of the lanterns. He turned and set the cup down real slow, still lookin’ at Hooligan, then stood up and stepped toward her. Hooligan backed up till they were at a wider space—we weren’t in a clearing or anything the gooks could get a fix on, but right in deep jungle and there were trees all around. They moved to a fairly wide spot, maybe ten meters one way by fifteen another. Close quarters to fight a tiger.
The guys got up and came over, and I helped Pete over though he tried to shrug me off, and a couple of guys spaced the lanterns a little better. They gave off a faint yellow glow that wouldn’t leak far through the jungle, but we could see pretty well. The colonel and the captain looked on, stopping talking about the map, and just watched.
Jones stood in a crouch, looking at Hooligan. She didn’t crouch or anything. Suddenly he leaped to one side and in and swung at her head, then leaped away. Hooligan swung her head and dodged, but I could see his strategy. A war beast has to have a brain as big as a human being’s to be as smart as us, so the head is oversized. He probably figured her skull must be thin. Well, that don’t follow; the guys who did the gene splicing thought of that too. Also, if he could batter around her ears enough, her implant control computers and radios might cause her pain.
He went rocking around, leaping in and out, crouching, trying to draw her into an attack. So she obliged him: a blinding fast pounce without a windup. Instantly Jones flung himself aside, turning on his back and lashing out with his feet. He caught her in the ribs and I heard her grunt. But you got no idea how fast a tiger can stop; Hooligan swapped
ends before Jones could bounce up and was in full pounce again.
Jones was fast, I never saw a man move like that. Halfway up, he seen her flyin’ at him again and dropped back so’s he could swing his joined fists up under her chin. But Hooligan stopped short again—nobody could’ve foreseen that, or adjusted to it, there wasn’t time. A real fight ain’t a bit like a comic book. Jones swung and missed ’cause she stopped short, and Hooligan unleashed a haymaker that sent Jones spinning across the ring.
Again Hooligan pounced, and again Jones showed just how damned fast a Ranger full of cocktails can be. He rolled with the blow, fetched up against a tree, and sprang back ready to hit or kick. But this time Hooligan wasn’t pouncing, she was running, and she could swerve. She streaked past him and swung at him as she did. Jones dodged it but fell over, and Hooligan dug in her claws and swapped ends—the guys on that side of the ring fell over backward to get away from her.
Then she was in front of Jones and Jones was half rising, fists ready, and took a preliminary swipe at her nose. Hooligan snarled like tearing canvas and reared up and boxed with him. Jones was a big fellow, ninety kilos, and she was a small tiger, like I said, only 160 or so. Just no comparison; she went through his guard with her first blow, and knocked him spinning with her second.
Now picture this: this guy’s been knocked three meters twice, had the breath knocked out of him, he’s in shock ’cause he’s outclassed, had three ribs cracked, though he didn’t know it till later. How much fight is left in him? Plenty in one way, he still ain’t convinced, but what can he do? Drugs can only do so much for you; the guy was hurt and exhausted.
He lay there gasping, and I remember the buzzing of the lantern near me and the distant whump-boom of the gook artillery. Jones reared up and started cussing Hooligan, and started to scramble to his feet. He wasn’t moving the way he had been before, and he looked a little ory-eyed from the pounding.
Hooligan snarled disgustedly and sprang forward again, brushed aside his fist, and gripped his shoulder with her teeth, first time she’d used them. She could’ve taken a bite out of him—Yankee Monster. But she didn’t, she just shook him like a rat and backed off. Jones flopped down and lay panting, staring at her. Hooligan looked around at us all and then at me and Pete and John, which was where she belonged. She kind of shrugged, real graceful, and walked back toward us.
She had to walk right over Jones.
Jones cried out something and began to beat and kick at her ribs as she went over him, and Hooligan just ignored him, just like he was a bug or something she was walking over, and came back and took her place with us. We checked her out and she had a bruise on one side where he’d kicked her. I remember she made me nervous till she started purring at us. The medics took Jones away and the Rangers all shut up.
Yeah, that’s the time I was tellin’ you about, when a tiger expressed an opinion of a Ranger, but I didn’t know what it meant till next day. Here—time for a refill on this.
See, next day the reinforced enemy came lookin’ for us; also came out to go after those native villages we were there to defend. They had artillery and some armor and a lot of trucks and things, and had to use the road. We pulled back to where the road went between a couple of hills, not exactly headin’ ’em off at the pass, but near enough. We’d had a supply drop in the night, and was in good shape, though they hadn’t been able to take the wounded off. Pete was up and around and able to do a little—an M-3 Musket don’t take much aiming and doesn’t have a lot of kick.
What? Why not make war beasts with guns built in? Ain’t you been payin’ attention? I just said the Silent Sam is obsolete on account of Smart Bullets—but when does the M-3 become obsolete? Then you’ve got a lot of war beasts outfitted with obsolete guns, and it takes three to five years to bring up the next generation. Don’t interrupt me.
The colonel scattered us by squads between the two hills, with units having armor-piercing capability along the road, which we had also mined. We had a long wait in the murky twilight of the jungle, where you don’t dare touch anything for fear of ants or spiders or some other damn bug. I couldn’t breathe all the time I was there, and to this day muddy water smells will make me gasp for breath. They’d have to come to us in the jungle.
That’s just what they did, fanning out from hill to hill and movin’ slow. We heard mines going off on the road, and knew the enemy was having slow going over there.
We laid low till the word of command, avoiding their elements. Naturally they were all broken up going through the jungle, and with a few scares and some rapid movements we were able to avoid them till they had nearly passed us. Then they were all among us, pretty much unsuspected, though I think some of those gooks had an idea. They were really good.
Anyway—at the radioed word of command all the tigers roared at once and we opened on any gooks in view. They all yelled and took dirt, and we sent our Smart Bullets over their heads—sometimes where the jungle wasn’t so thick you could see the down-curving burns as they dived on the enemy. All around was the yelling and screaming of the gooks, and the rrrrippp, rrrrippp, rrrripppp of the Samkillers cuttin’ leaves over our heads, our guys yelling back, whuffwhuff, whuff-whuffwhuff of the M-3s lobbing SBs, an occasional pump! where an explosive bullet hit a tree or the dirt—hitting flesh was quieter. Tigers were roaring and shooting and sometimes jumping little groups of enemy, the bang and whine of M-80s spraying flechettes here and there—not too many because we were too close to the enemy.
All of this action stirred up the jungle stink, and the powder smoke added a sharp note to it. We were hot and sweaty just sitting; running around was like swimming. My Integrator kept steaming up and I was scared all through the fight I’d be blind. One thing about it, if you never forgot the heat, at least in action you forgot the bugs.
The gooks were yelling back and forth and had begun to figure out where we were. They concentrated where we weren’t, which was a mistake because we could use flechette grenades better, but we had to get out of the way of these concentrations. A bunch of gooks came runnin’ by and joined up with a squad we were shootin’ at—one jumped out of nowhere and just about cut Randy in half with his Samkiller. A big tiger named Blunderbore shot him with his tiger-pistol M-3, then shot the gook behind him, then holstered his gun—clip empty—and leaped into them.
Hooligan followed Blunderbore and they turned back a rush of gooks and got covered with blood, and I looked around and I saw that Blunderbore’s squad and Hooligan’s squad were the only ones together here, and the enemy was massing not far off. After Randy got hit—and it was all going at once, so I didn’t feel much about it at the time—nobody wanted to raise up to do any real aimin’. More and more gooks came in, jabbering and shooting like crazy.
Another tiger came in from somewhere off to our right, and then all three of the tigers vanished. I looked at John and I knew he was thinking the same I was: they were going to hit ‘em from behind, so we had to hold on. Randy was gone, and Pete wasn’t in good shape, but we had three guys from the other squad. With hand signals we spread out, takin’ all Randy’s Smart Bullets, and one of the other guys, fellow named Listen, picked up a Samkiller and a couple of clips—to confuse ’em I guess.
And damn if that crazy Ranger Jones didn’t show up, looking kind of tired—too many days on the fighting cocktails takes it out of you—but also crazy as ever, with the whites of his eyes showing when he wiped his face.
“What’s up, Doc? Any action here?”
I explained, and he nodded, grinning like a wolf. So we occupied the enemy’s attention while the cats circled.
It gets real lonesome in the jungle when you’re spread out so even with Integrators you can’t see your mates, except maybe one every now and then—‘cause you keep moving around. It’s even lonesomer when the Samkillers are cuttin’ closer and closer. All you can see is leaves and vines and things, and here and there a tree trunk, with blinding sunlight overhead and deep shadows underneath, and you can’t
breathe because it’s too damn hot and you know you’ll never get enough to drink to take the thirst off…
Worst of all is seeing your tigers go strange and wild and run off, covered with blood, snarling for a kill.
Here, refill this.
Then the gooks rushed us. Jesus, I hope I never go through that again. Sometimes I wake up shaking and I know I’ve been dreaming of that attack. They were screaming, some of ‘em in English—“Yankee bastards die!”—like that, and shooting as they came. I first heard this hair-raising noise and the crashing and splashing of all their light shoes in the brush—half rock, half swamp underfoot—and the continual ripping of the Samkiller bullets. Cut leaves rained down in front of me and I started nervously shooting into gaps in the jungle, hopin’ that the bullets would home on something.
Then I ran dry just as they appeared. Sheeyit, man, cusswords fail you at a time like that. I started scramblin’ around for a clip that wasn’t fuckin’ empty, and they was all empty, and I was staring at those faces, still mostly hidden behind leaves and just pale blobs in the Integrators, and coming at a run. I thought I would piss my pants before I got out of the wrong pouch into the one with the loaded clips. I fumbled the clip into the Musket and got ready to squeeze off a round, figuring it’d be my last—they’d see me sure when I shot.
Then the three tigers roared together in their rear and M-80s exploded behind the ones I could see. You never heard fear till you’ve heard tigers roaring in unison. Then the tigers started slapping the ground and crying out in gook talk, so it sounded like they were slapping prisoners around, playing with ’em the way a cat plays with mice.
You got to understand that in the East, dragons are often good guys, and tigers are always bad guys. They hated and feared our tigers the worst, and that was something they just couldn’t ignore. You hear about gooks not taking care of their people, and they often don’t, because they know there’s nothing they can do. But they care about them same as we do.
There Will Be War Volume VII Page 29