by Leigh Kimmel
The Indowy's face wrinkled. The expression could have been anything but Cartright was sure that it was a shit eating grin. "All creation is of the individual. People are here, each to do the daily ritual. The ritual on your... weapon is of no consequence."
"Okay, that explains a lot," Cartright said, shaking his head. "not. Hey, next time, instead of a puny little SAW, can I get me a BFG?"
"A 'BFG?' I don't understand." The alien replied.
"Yeah, a BFG, a Big Fucking Gun. Maybe one of those electric gatling guns? Those things friggin' rock. Or maybe a plasma gun like those Posleen got?"
The Indowy continued to grin, but said nothing.
"Anyway, if you are going to stay with us, you need a name. I can't just keep saying 'hey you' all of the time."
The Indowy sat in his lap and made himself comfortable. The thing seemed to have a slightly higher body temperature than a human. It was real cozy when the driver raised the ramp.
0805 Hours May 19th, 2002
Phase Line "Katana"
Lieutenant Pfeil handed the headspace and timing gauge back to Private Koch and stepped back from the .50 caliber machinegun. "Okay, do you guys understand how to do this now?"
Private Koch and Sergeant Billings both nodded in understanding, after receiving quick instruction on how to operate the unfamiliar weapon system. Sergeant Billings still had a few questions though.
"Sir, at what point do you disconnect the weapon from that thing there?"
Lieutenant Pfeil took a deep breath in order to control his frustration. He had been at this all morning, trying to teach his soldiers how to use crew-served weapons, how to fill out range cards, primary directions of fire, signals, and other minutia. He kept reminding himself that they were truck drivers, mechanics, and fuel handlers, and that he should remain patient. After all, they were trying their best to learn under the circumstances.
"That 'thing' is the Traverse and Elevation mechanism. Don't disconnect it unless it's absolutely necessary. Use your T&E just like I taught you, or else you won't be able to hit shit with this weapon. It's not like in the movies, you can't just 'free gun' and blow all the bad guys away. What else? Any other questions before I take off?"
"Yes sir, I think we got it." Billings sounded less than confident in his response.
Pfeil looked them both over and felt almost guilty leaving them there to fend for themselves. The two of them were wheeled mechanics and they were obviously frightened, standing there wearing their olive drab cotton coveralls, smeared in grease and grime.
Koch looked especially pathetic. He was eighteen years old, five foot four inches tall and weighed 110 pounds soaking wet. His Kevlar helmet was cocked back on his head exposing his entire forehead. His filthy uniform hung off of him like a shroud, and his load bearing vest didn't fit correctly. He had rolled up his sleeves to just below the elbow, and his greasy hands shook each time brought a cigarette to his lips.
Pfeil did his best to sound confident in order to reassure them.
"Listen, if you guys need anything, just call me on the ICOM. Okay?"
"Yes sir." Billings said.
Lieutenant Pfeil moved out quickly. There many more positions to check, and lots of inexperienced troopers on the line.
When he emerged into the sunlight, he surveyed the scene quickly and was somewhat encouraged by what he saw. They area swarmed with combat engineers and Indowy working on obstacles in the valley floor, and fighting positions along the high ground. The activity reminded him of an anthill that had just been kicked over. The obstacles were fairly standard concertina wire and landmine setups, but the bunkers were another animal altogether. The Indowy were constructing them out of some composite material, that resembled concrete in some ways, but set infinitely quicker after being poured, and was a whole lot stronger too.
The Indowy were running around pushing carts that floated just off the ground loaded with strange equipment, and operating other bits of machinery. They worked in a frenzied manner. They seemed to be very aware of the approaching danger. By the way they moved, he guessed that that danger had to be close.
He was now the HHC commander after Captain Fontaine had been placed in command of the battalion. He inherited the defense of "Hill 353," which was one of a series of hills that ran roughly north-south along what had been recently named "Phase Line Katana." He had taken the Manchu Field Trains personnel and a platoon of engineers from Bravo Company, 44th Engineers, and told to hold at all costs. That roughly translated into a "Die In Place" mission.
He had a completely jacked up commo setup to control his element with. He had a dismounted PRC-119 radio to talk on battalion push, an ICOM hand held radio to talk with support platoon, a civilian Motorola walkie-talkie to communicate with the maintenance team, and a TA-1 field phone to talk to the engineers. His RTO, PFC Weyland carried the PRC-119, and with the exception of the field phone, he carried the rest. Not an ideal set-up, but it functioned.
Pfeil had assembled his group earlier that morning, established a quick down and dirty chain of command, and briefed the defensive plan all inside of ten minutes. He then got his men, as many crew-served weapons as he could scrounge, and loaded them on support platoon's trucks. Once up on Hill 353 Pfeil personally placed each two-man buddy team into their newly constructed bunkers. After they had been emplaced, he, the first sergeant, and the support platoon leader went into each bunker and established sectors of fire, talked through the fires plan, signals, and gave classes on how to operate unfamiliar weapons.
He felt like some German officer on the Eastern Front at the end of the Second World War, hastily given the task of rounding up a bunch of stragglers and forming them into an ad hoc unit, to be desperately thrown into battle to beat back some enormous Soviet attack.
"Now I know how Grandpa Wilhelm must have felt." Pfeil said to himself.
He raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes to check on the progress of the obstacles. His attached engineer platoon was to continue work down in the valley floor up until the last possible second, and then pull back to occupy their battle position. Working with them had been about as fun as eating broken glass. Their platoon leader was a prima donna pain in the balls who believed he was God's gift to the Army. The kid was a competent officer who was convinced that his shit didn't stink. Bill entertained the idea of having a private conversation with the smart-ass later on and knocking some sense into his thick skull, but that would have to wait.
"Weyland, have the OP's checked in?" Pfeil was responsible for manning two observation posts about a kilometer forward of Hill 353. Because of a lack of radios, among other things, they were communicating directly with the S-1 at the Combat Trains. The S-1 had been made the battle captain/battalion XO, and the Combat Trains was now acting as the TOC for the battalion.
Weyland shifted the weight of the rucksuck that carried the dismount radio, along with some other gear. "Yes sir, they called in a few minutes ago and reported everything as still quiet out there."
"Good. Did they ever locate any maps back in the BSA?" Another problem that plagued them was a shortage of maps for the area that they were currently operating in. The observation posts, and key leaders throughout the battalion didn't have enough, and therefore would have difficulty sending detailed reports, and calling for artillery. It was a major concern for all of them.
"No sir. They can't seem to find anymore right now. I guess some people are still looking, but they're not having any luck."
Bill sighed. "Alright then. Let's get over to the company CP bunker and talk to the first sergeant. We need to get some more ammo cached up here."
"So did you figure out a name for him yet?" Smigelski watched all of the activity down in the valley, and then looked to the north at Hill 353.
Cartright finished taking a drink of water from one of his canteens before answering. "I'm going to name him 'Gunga Din."
Smigelski was exhausted, and his swollen eye throbbed.
"What kind of name is 'Gunga
Din?' I don't get it."
"Don't you ever read books man?" Cartright screwed the cap back on his canteen, and put it back in its pouch on his left hip.
Smigelski yawned. "No. I spend my free time getting laid. Not wasting it up in my room reading."
"Getting laid? You haven't been doing much of that lately."
"I didn't mean here on Diess genius. I meant back home."
Cartright smirked a little. "Anybody can get laid in Toko-Ri. All you need is fifty bucks and forty available minutes."
"I can tell you didn't get out much. A 'Short Time' costs sixty bucks, not fifty." Smigelski removed his Kevlar helmet and looked inside to ensure that his casualty feeder card was still taped in there.
"Whatever, at least I didn't have to go see the doc to get 'The Swab' and 'The Silver Bullet.'"
Smigelski set the Kevlar down next to his rifle. "I didn't get that case of chlamydia from any of the girls working in the Olympus Club, I got it from that female MP I was banging."
"Oh. My bad. You got a cigarette?"
Smigelski retrieved the pack from his pocket and pulled out two. "This is my last pack, so we gotta take it easy. The rest of my cartons are in my 'B Bag.' So where is this 'Gunga Din' anyway? He took off a while ago."
"Beats me. Maybe he's down in the valley there helping the others put in those obstacles."
Just then the back door of the bunker opened up, and Gunga Din stood there smiling.
"I brought something for you Cartright." The Indowy was up to something and Cartright knew it.
"If it's not a hot meal and a bed with clean sheets, I'm not interested." The novelty of having this intelligent, hairy little creature hadn't worn off yet. It was like having a big puppy dog following you around, except that it walked on two legs, spoke English, and fixed broken shit.
"Come with me and I'll show you."
Smigelski slowly exhaled some cigarette smoke. "You go. I'll stay here. I'm too fuckin' tired to move."
Cartright grabbed his shiny new SAW, folded in the bipod, slung it across his back, and followed Gunga Din out the door. The bunker was recessed into the ground with only the top sticking out, but the backside had a paved ramp leading down to the back door. The two of them walked up the ramp to find one of the Indowy "carts" with a large crate and a couple dozen ammo cans stacked on it.
"What's this?" Cartright asked.
The Indowy grabbed a small tool and popped the top of the crate off so that Cartright could look inside.
"Ski! You gotta see this!"
"What?" Smigelski sounded annoyed.
"Just get your ass up here!"
"Fuck me." Smigelski mumbled as he came up the entrance ramp.
When he came to the surface he saw his buddy staring into a crate with an animated look on his face. He approached, mildly curious, and mildly agitated, until he saw what was inside of the box.
"Holy shit man! That's a fuckin' mini-gun!"
Cartright looked at Gunga Din. "Where'd you get this thing? Is this for us?"
"Yes, it is for you. I will help you assemble it in your bunker and show you how to use it." The little Indowy replied.
"Ski, go get Sergeant Holmes and the rest of the squad. We're going to need a little help hauling this heavy bitch into the bunker. Man, is he going to be surprised!"
0841 Hours May 19th, 2002
Phase Line "Katana"
Fontaine tried to spit over the side of the turret but could only manage a couple drops of saliva and a few flecks of Copenhagen. His mouth was dry and his head hurt. He was getting dehydrated and he knew it.
"Hey Colburn, you got any water on board?"
The gunner was fast asleep, his head resting on the brow-pad that was affixed just above the optics at the gunner's station.
Fontaine had his Bradley in turret defilade, sitting in the bottom of a brand new fighting position that had just been finished only a few minutes prior. The combat engineer who had recently dug the hole, was driving his D7 dozer off to another hill to dig more holes. He had the machine going as fast as it could drive, at a whopping three miles per hour.
Fontaine keyed the CVC again. "COLBURN! WAKE UP!"
Staff Sergeant Colburn snapped his head back, suddenly very awake.
"Whu? What do you need sir?"
"I asked you if there was any water on the track, but you were out cold." Fontaine replied.
"Uh, yes sir. There's some in the back. Do you want me to get you some?"
"No, I'll get it. When I get back up in the turret, I want you to go in the back and get some sleep. I'll wake you up when I need you. You look tired as hell."
"I'm fine sir. I'll be okay. I'll go in the back and make some coffee for us."
Colburn pulled off his CVC and gently placed it in the stowage space just behind his head. As he turned to open the turret shield door he felt the familiar sensation of pins and needles all over his legs. They had fallen asleep while he was dozing in the cramped and uncomfortable gunner's position. He opened the door and willed his unresponsive legs into motion.
"You want me to get any chow for you while I'm back here? There's half a case of MRE's left."
Rick thought about it for a minute. "No thanks, I'm good. Not very hungry right now."
When Sergeant Colburn turned on the light in the back of the track he found gear scattered everywhere in total disarray. Nothing had been lashed down or put away according to load plan prior to going into action, and as a result, equipment was piled in the middle of the troop compartment. Tools mixed with clothing, ammunition, weapons, batteries, bags, rucksacks, trash, and other junk. It reminded him of his three-year-old son's bedroom after he had just dumped the contents of his toy box onto the floor. After rummaging through it all, he finally found a small propane stove and a jerry can with some water still left in it.
It wasn't long before the coffees were ready, and Colburn handed one off to their driver Specialist Cummings through the "Hell Hole," before carefully bringing two steaming canteen cups up into the turret.
Fontaine happily took possession of his coffee and blew on it to cool the hot liquid a bit before taking his first sip.
"MANCHU SIX, THIS IS OP FOUR, OVER!"
Fontaine figured that by the tone of the transmission, he wasn't going to get to enjoy his coffee after all. "OP Four, this is Manchu Six, let me guess, you've got eyes on the enemy, over."
"Roger sir, I got Posleen coming my way!"
"OP Four, Manchu Six, can you give me a better report?" Fontaine swallowed. His mouth suddenly filled with cotton. "I need numbers and a specific location, over."
"Sorry sir, there're more than I can count, and they are down in the bowl in front of me, over."
"OP Four, Manchu Six, do you have a map? Can you give me a grid location so that I can put some artillery on them, over."
"That's a negative Manchu Six, I got no map. There's just lot's of them coming our way!"
Rick looked down at his own map. OP Four's position was clearly marked on it about 1500 meters forward of Phase Line Katana, just in front of Hill 353. Assuming the two guys manning OP Four were in the correct position according to his map, he could make this work.
"Okay OP Four listen up, I'm going to put some artillery in the open bowl in front of your position. The first round is going to be a marking round. If it does not hit in the right spot, you give me the corrections and I will shoot another. When the marking rounds are in the right place we'll fire for effect and hammer 'em. Do you understand? Over."
"Manchu Six, this is OP Four, roger, we understand. We'll be standing by for the first marking rounds to fall, over."
"OP Four, Manchu Six, standby. I'll get you some fires shortly, out."
"Manchu Six, this is Manchu Steel, I monitored your last transmission with OP Four. I'm shacking a grid time now, over."
Sergeant Colburn stood up in the gunner's hatch right next to Rick's commander's position. They both looked out at the open valley in front of them. Colburn took sip
of instant coffee before toggling the intercom transmit key. "Let the games begin."
Fontaine picked up the binoculars and raised them to his eyes. "Yeah. No shit."
Colonel Smith clenched the handmike in his fist while he stared at the huge map that was suspended from the tent frame in front of him. The brigade S-4, Major Nixon was the acting brigade XO and stood next to him.
Smith turned to Nixon and then to the brigade Signal Officer, Captain Buchanan. "Okay, so now explain to me again why we can't raise anyone from Division."
"Sir, we can't transmit very far in this terrain because of the hills. FM just bounces off of the mountains here making it difficult at best to maintain contact with anyone." The SIGO's response was very condescending. It sounded as if he were lecturing a total idiot. This did nothing to improve the colonel's good mood.
"What about retrans? We've got the assets to set up retrans right?"
"Sir, we do have the assets available, but even FM retransmission has limits to its range. I'm afraid that we're just too far away to talk to anyone."
The colonel was getting angry. "So what do you propose SIGO? Just sit on our hands and do nothing? Why don't you offer me some solutions here instead of telling me that nothing can be done?"
Captain Buchanan's skin flushed. He didn't know how to respond to Colonel Smith. He just didn't know of any way that they could extend the range of their radios and get in touch with someone outside of the brigade.
"Sir, I'm doing the best that I can."
Colonel Smith just turned away from him in disgust. The radio traffic was starting to pour in. The Posleen were attacking again and he wasn't sure that he was going to be able to do much about it.
* * *
The God Kings pushed their oolts as hard as they could drive them. The oolt'os intermixed with each other as they herded through the valley. The dust was so thick that normals could see nothing except for the other centaurs immediately surrounding them. They ran forward at a full gallop, their lungs burning and filled with dust, driven on by their Kessentai. Occasionally one would trip and fall, to be trampled and crushed into the dirt by the thousands of oolt'os that followed.