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In The Shadow of Charlie: The Phantom Chronicles
- Thread starter Roughneck
- Start date
Roughneck
Stick with Freeones
The minutes stretched to hours. The hours dragged onto days. We were in constant contact with Legion HQ but there was no sign nor word on what we were supposed to do. “Sit tight and hang on” was the order of the day – as it had been for the past couple days.
A part of me was beginning to grow a little uneasy – combat troops instructed to expect action don’t do too well sitting around with their thumbs up their collective asses. It affects morale and troop cohesiveness. Men who are strung up and keyed up to expect hell need an outlet; and if the Legion didn’t do something soon, I was looking at a serious morale and discipline problem. Already two privates had been reprimanded for fighting – nothing serious, just a couple of boys venting their frustration and taking it out on each other. But it was a telling and (if Graves was to be believed, an) ominous sign.
But a different part of me was quite relieved that there was no action. Much rather deal with unruly troops with nothing to do than deal with a fire fight.
Combat is quite unlike the BS portrayed to the masses back home. Words like ‘honor’, ‘glory’ and ‘courage’ take on an altogether different meaning. The speeches from the generals and politicians seem like some dark humor. Soldiers often make fun of those statements. We laugh about death, not because we are ‘fearless’ but because we are so familiar with it. To many, death is a cathartic. A release from the oppressive life of a front line trooper. To those men who have particularly resigned themselves to their imminent deaths, survival is often seen as misfortune. Having consigned their fate to death, they are incapable of functioning normally amongst “the living”.
We are barely old enough to know the world, but we know enough to blow it to pieces.
And we’d do it with precision.
I shook my head to clear my thoughts. We were here to hold ground … and hold it we will. Just as I finished that thought, word came through that we’d been re-supplied. I got off my can to supervise. I approached the NCO of the battalion re-supply as he exited his vehicle – my men were busy unloading.
“Stf. Sgt. Troy reporting with battalion re-supply column Sierra 6”.
Re-supply column? All I see is two damn trucks!
“Column?! Staff Sergeant, all I see is two trucks! Are you expecting more?”
The man shook his head, slowly. “We were ambushed – repeatedly – by the enemy. These two trucks are all that survived of a 10 vehicle column. There’s a lot of dead grunts back that road”.
Splendid! We sit here singing Looney Tunes to amuse ourselves while the enemy ambushes our supply at will.
My mind raged.
Gently, I told the supply sergeant, “Sgt. Troy, you’re to be commended for making it through to us. It was a difficult mission.”
I laid a hand on his shoulder. He looked up with vacant eyes. Eyes that had seen horror too impossible to comprehend.
“You’ve lost good men, Sergeant. It was a vital mission. My men as do I personally thank you and your men for your valiant efforts. Draw what rations and supplies you need from us. I’m temporarily conscripting your unit into mine”.
It was pointless and dangerous to send them back the way they came. The man nodded glumly and silently walked away towards the trucks.
So the enemy was gunning for our supply columns instead of meeting us in battle. Big fucking surprise! Except they have the advantage – instead of using bombers to hit little bastards on bicycles, they send squads out to lob RPGs at point blank range onto un-armored trucks before melting back into the fucking jungle.
“This is fucking insane”, I muttered.
Graves answered, in that slow-as-molasses tone of his, “Sir, you’ve already addressed this issue with command and with your own troops. Stewing on it any more won’t do you any bit of good”.
So, Corporal Graves, are you a mind reader now?!
I turned to him, “It may not have any impact Graves, but that doesn’t mean I have to fucking like it and keep taking it like it means nothing to me!”
I stomped off the scene, swatting the gazillion insects as I went. Angry at the losses we’d suffered. Angry at the inactivity my command had been facing. Angry at Graves (because he was right). Angry at myself because I was powerless to do anything about it.
I decided to walk around the perimeter to take stock of the situation and to distract my mind from the re-supply fiasco.
I came upon a trio from Bravo digging a foxhole. They all stopped the minute I appeared.
“Evening boys. How’s ‘home’ coming along? You boys need anything?”
The men grinned. “Digs here is better than where we was 4 days ago Sir”, said Pvt. Alvarez. “We could use some more belts for the ’60 and some grenades though”.
Alvarez was from my home town. I liked him.
“Well Alvarez, don’t think it’s the Williamsburg Mansion, y’hear?”
He let out a chuckle. The Williamsburg Mansion was one of the most ornate residential properties in our home town. For years, it signified wealth and opulence. Now of course, it was used as a State institution for the mentally ill.
“Keep your eyes and ears peeled now,” I continued, “Re-supply truck just made it from battalion. Send a man to get your regs.”
Then I turned my attention and addressed a trooper in particular, “You doin’ ok Puke?”
“Hanging in there Sir. Hanging in there” answered Puke/Puker.
I suppressed a smile. Puker’s real name was “Pipper”. Back in basic, he made the mistake of confessing this tale about his high school prom and how right when he and his date were about to kiss, he ended up puking and ruining the whole night – I say mistake because he chose none other than Cpl. Lance to confess this to … who promptly shared and spread this story throughout the entire battalion. “Puker” became his nick name and it stuck. But don’t let the name distract you – Puker had already won the Bronze Star and had his name up at HQ with a recommendation for Silver Star. If the chips were done, there ain’t many a troop better than Pukey to have at your side.
“That’s good to hear fellas. Dig in good. Lemme know if y’all need something”.
“Roger that Sir”.
And they went back to their diggin’.
I got off my haunches to go check on the others…
A part of me was beginning to grow a little uneasy – combat troops instructed to expect action don’t do too well sitting around with their thumbs up their collective asses. It affects morale and troop cohesiveness. Men who are strung up and keyed up to expect hell need an outlet; and if the Legion didn’t do something soon, I was looking at a serious morale and discipline problem. Already two privates had been reprimanded for fighting – nothing serious, just a couple of boys venting their frustration and taking it out on each other. But it was a telling and (if Graves was to be believed, an) ominous sign.
But a different part of me was quite relieved that there was no action. Much rather deal with unruly troops with nothing to do than deal with a fire fight.
Combat is quite unlike the BS portrayed to the masses back home. Words like ‘honor’, ‘glory’ and ‘courage’ take on an altogether different meaning. The speeches from the generals and politicians seem like some dark humor. Soldiers often make fun of those statements. We laugh about death, not because we are ‘fearless’ but because we are so familiar with it. To many, death is a cathartic. A release from the oppressive life of a front line trooper. To those men who have particularly resigned themselves to their imminent deaths, survival is often seen as misfortune. Having consigned their fate to death, they are incapable of functioning normally amongst “the living”.
We are barely old enough to know the world, but we know enough to blow it to pieces.
And we’d do it with precision.
I shook my head to clear my thoughts. We were here to hold ground … and hold it we will. Just as I finished that thought, word came through that we’d been re-supplied. I got off my can to supervise. I approached the NCO of the battalion re-supply as he exited his vehicle – my men were busy unloading.
“Stf. Sgt. Troy reporting with battalion re-supply column Sierra 6”.
Re-supply column? All I see is two damn trucks!
“Column?! Staff Sergeant, all I see is two trucks! Are you expecting more?”
The man shook his head, slowly. “We were ambushed – repeatedly – by the enemy. These two trucks are all that survived of a 10 vehicle column. There’s a lot of dead grunts back that road”.
Splendid! We sit here singing Looney Tunes to amuse ourselves while the enemy ambushes our supply at will.
My mind raged.
Gently, I told the supply sergeant, “Sgt. Troy, you’re to be commended for making it through to us. It was a difficult mission.”
I laid a hand on his shoulder. He looked up with vacant eyes. Eyes that had seen horror too impossible to comprehend.
“You’ve lost good men, Sergeant. It was a vital mission. My men as do I personally thank you and your men for your valiant efforts. Draw what rations and supplies you need from us. I’m temporarily conscripting your unit into mine”.
It was pointless and dangerous to send them back the way they came. The man nodded glumly and silently walked away towards the trucks.
So the enemy was gunning for our supply columns instead of meeting us in battle. Big fucking surprise! Except they have the advantage – instead of using bombers to hit little bastards on bicycles, they send squads out to lob RPGs at point blank range onto un-armored trucks before melting back into the fucking jungle.
“This is fucking insane”, I muttered.
Graves answered, in that slow-as-molasses tone of his, “Sir, you’ve already addressed this issue with command and with your own troops. Stewing on it any more won’t do you any bit of good”.
So, Corporal Graves, are you a mind reader now?!
I turned to him, “It may not have any impact Graves, but that doesn’t mean I have to fucking like it and keep taking it like it means nothing to me!”
I stomped off the scene, swatting the gazillion insects as I went. Angry at the losses we’d suffered. Angry at the inactivity my command had been facing. Angry at Graves (because he was right). Angry at myself because I was powerless to do anything about it.
I decided to walk around the perimeter to take stock of the situation and to distract my mind from the re-supply fiasco.
I came upon a trio from Bravo digging a foxhole. They all stopped the minute I appeared.
“Evening boys. How’s ‘home’ coming along? You boys need anything?”
The men grinned. “Digs here is better than where we was 4 days ago Sir”, said Pvt. Alvarez. “We could use some more belts for the ’60 and some grenades though”.
Alvarez was from my home town. I liked him.
“Well Alvarez, don’t think it’s the Williamsburg Mansion, y’hear?”
He let out a chuckle. The Williamsburg Mansion was one of the most ornate residential properties in our home town. For years, it signified wealth and opulence. Now of course, it was used as a State institution for the mentally ill.
“Keep your eyes and ears peeled now,” I continued, “Re-supply truck just made it from battalion. Send a man to get your regs.”
Then I turned my attention and addressed a trooper in particular, “You doin’ ok Puke?”
“Hanging in there Sir. Hanging in there” answered Puke/Puker.
I suppressed a smile. Puker’s real name was “Pipper”. Back in basic, he made the mistake of confessing this tale about his high school prom and how right when he and his date were about to kiss, he ended up puking and ruining the whole night – I say mistake because he chose none other than Cpl. Lance to confess this to … who promptly shared and spread this story throughout the entire battalion. “Puker” became his nick name and it stuck. But don’t let the name distract you – Puker had already won the Bronze Star and had his name up at HQ with a recommendation for Silver Star. If the chips were done, there ain’t many a troop better than Pukey to have at your side.
“That’s good to hear fellas. Dig in good. Lemme know if y’all need something”.
“Roger that Sir”.
And they went back to their diggin’.
I got off my haunches to go check on the others…
gunslingingbird
I'm too lazy to set a usertitle.
Yes! I've been waiting over 2 years for another installment! I just wish I'd seen this earlier.
Facetious
Moderated
Roughneck
Stick with Freeones
Satisfied with my tour and having inspected the positions the boys were in, I started making my way back to my post. I needed to prepare a report and update the idiots in command of our situation. The rain had let up some but for the the ever-present mist from the river. It was both a blessing and a curse - it concealed our own positions while also obscuring the enemy. I lapsed into a trance...
The river. Ahhh the river! Cayuga. Hot summer day. Beautiful Allie and her warm lips. Impish smile and an infectious laugh. Enchanting eyes and pert nipples.
Making love under the ash tree ...
I stopped involuntarily. Lost in my thoughts. Memories. A better place...
I felt a hand on my arm. I jerked my head suddenly towards it. A face distilled into my vision.
It was St.Sgt. Troy. The re-supply mission. And it's attended horrors.
"Sir? Sir?! You alright?", he asks.
I looked at him.
"Are you alright?" he asks. "Are you alright?" Incredible! The man is either blind, in shock or one of those idiots who thinks all this insanity is a worthwhile effort!! "Are you alright?" he asks. From a man who has lost the better part of his unit on a suicide mission to support men who are also on a suicide mission - and he asks "Are you alright?" I mean, what the fuck do I say to that?! What the fuck does he expect me to say?! 'Carry on, everything is according to plan' or some bullshit like that? I mean, what the fuck!!!
"I'm fine Staff Sergeant. Everything is going according to plan."
A pregnant pause, during which we avoided each others eyes and swatted at bugs. "Have you drawn your rations yet? Has Cpl. Graves found a spot for you and your," I paused; "men?"
Troy was silent for what seemed an eternity but what was actually mere seconds. "I'm... we're fine Sir" he said; his eyes avoiding mine, as mine were avoiding his. This proud man. This proud soldier. This proud - and scared - soldier. A part of me wanted to feel sorry for him - but pity wasn't a luxury I could afford.
Not now anyways...
"Good. Let me know if you or your men need anything" I said, without much conviction. Even if he or his men needed anything, what could be done at this point?
"Yes Sir. Thank you Sir" he responded, seemingly reading my mind.
We exchanged nods and parted ways. Each lost in our own thoughts. Each wondering if we'd meet again...
I reached my "hole" and sank wearily to my knees. As I opened my canteen to take a drink I calculated that I was exactly one month, 6 days and 14 hours behind on sleep. I swore to myself.
If I ever get out of this mission alive, I'll sleep straight for a month. Fuck battalion. Fuck command. And fuck the goddamned fucking Army. I'm done. Throwing me in the pen would be a fucking vacation compared to this shit.
Well who was the genius who 'volunteered' for this mission? Who was the genius who signed up for additional tours in Vietnam, Republic Of? You coul...
You again? Goddamnit! What the fuck do you want from me?!
Nothing. Just trying to point out that YOU chose this poison. YOU chose to come back. You coul...
I could've what? Gone home to an empty house? An estranged wife? Gone home to people who despise me for who I am and what I've done? Who despise me despite the fact that THEY sent me here? Is that what I should've done? Stayed home and endure that abuse without an ounce worth of support?
Well, it would've kept you away from 'this shit' as you like to cal...
FUCK YOU! Fuck you and stay the fuck away from me!
I keep telling you Roy. We're one and the same. You keep pushing me away. Denying me. Denying yourself...
Something stirred in my peripheral vision. Sgt. Graves approaching me. Despite my body screaming for respite, I managed to pull myself upright.
"What's the news FSgt.?"
For probably the first time since I've known FSgt. Jim Graves, he looked tired. To my tired brain, that was an ominous sign.
"Well Sir", Graves began "HQ sends nothing new. I suspect they're waiting for your report." Graves paused.
I saw the look in his eyes.
"Go on", I said.
FSgt. Graves said nothing. He stood silent as a post.
That's usually not a good sign
"Jim, how long have we known each other?", I said.
"Quite a while Sir", he responded.
"Drop that 'Sir' bullshit will ya? Jim I don't think I've ever seen you this way. Frankly you look like hell. That's not you, Jim. I know I lean on you a great deal and I know that the unit is your weight to carry - but not like this.
So man to man - why don't you tell me what's going on?"
The mist swirled around FSgt. Graves face. It gave his gaunt, tired face an outworldly expression.
The river. Ahhh the river! Cayuga. Hot summer day. Beautiful Allie and her warm lips. Impish smile and an infectious laugh. Enchanting eyes and pert nipples.
Making love under the ash tree ...
I stopped involuntarily. Lost in my thoughts. Memories. A better place...
I felt a hand on my arm. I jerked my head suddenly towards it. A face distilled into my vision.
It was St.Sgt. Troy. The re-supply mission. And it's attended horrors.
"Sir? Sir?! You alright?", he asks.
I looked at him.
"Are you alright?" he asks. "Are you alright?" Incredible! The man is either blind, in shock or one of those idiots who thinks all this insanity is a worthwhile effort!! "Are you alright?" he asks. From a man who has lost the better part of his unit on a suicide mission to support men who are also on a suicide mission - and he asks "Are you alright?" I mean, what the fuck do I say to that?! What the fuck does he expect me to say?! 'Carry on, everything is according to plan' or some bullshit like that? I mean, what the fuck!!!
"I'm fine Staff Sergeant. Everything is going according to plan."
A pregnant pause, during which we avoided each others eyes and swatted at bugs. "Have you drawn your rations yet? Has Cpl. Graves found a spot for you and your," I paused; "men?"
Troy was silent for what seemed an eternity but what was actually mere seconds. "I'm... we're fine Sir" he said; his eyes avoiding mine, as mine were avoiding his. This proud man. This proud soldier. This proud - and scared - soldier. A part of me wanted to feel sorry for him - but pity wasn't a luxury I could afford.
Not now anyways...
"Good. Let me know if you or your men need anything" I said, without much conviction. Even if he or his men needed anything, what could be done at this point?
"Yes Sir. Thank you Sir" he responded, seemingly reading my mind.
We exchanged nods and parted ways. Each lost in our own thoughts. Each wondering if we'd meet again...
I reached my "hole" and sank wearily to my knees. As I opened my canteen to take a drink I calculated that I was exactly one month, 6 days and 14 hours behind on sleep. I swore to myself.
If I ever get out of this mission alive, I'll sleep straight for a month. Fuck battalion. Fuck command. And fuck the goddamned fucking Army. I'm done. Throwing me in the pen would be a fucking vacation compared to this shit.
Well who was the genius who 'volunteered' for this mission? Who was the genius who signed up for additional tours in Vietnam, Republic Of? You coul...
You again? Goddamnit! What the fuck do you want from me?!
Nothing. Just trying to point out that YOU chose this poison. YOU chose to come back. You coul...
I could've what? Gone home to an empty house? An estranged wife? Gone home to people who despise me for who I am and what I've done? Who despise me despite the fact that THEY sent me here? Is that what I should've done? Stayed home and endure that abuse without an ounce worth of support?
Well, it would've kept you away from 'this shit' as you like to cal...
FUCK YOU! Fuck you and stay the fuck away from me!
I keep telling you Roy. We're one and the same. You keep pushing me away. Denying me. Denying yourself...
Something stirred in my peripheral vision. Sgt. Graves approaching me. Despite my body screaming for respite, I managed to pull myself upright.
"What's the news FSgt.?"
For probably the first time since I've known FSgt. Jim Graves, he looked tired. To my tired brain, that was an ominous sign.
"Well Sir", Graves began "HQ sends nothing new. I suspect they're waiting for your report." Graves paused.
I saw the look in his eyes.
"Go on", I said.
FSgt. Graves said nothing. He stood silent as a post.
That's usually not a good sign
"Jim, how long have we known each other?", I said.
"Quite a while Sir", he responded.
"Drop that 'Sir' bullshit will ya? Jim I don't think I've ever seen you this way. Frankly you look like hell. That's not you, Jim. I know I lean on you a great deal and I know that the unit is your weight to carry - but not like this.
So man to man - why don't you tell me what's going on?"
The mist swirled around FSgt. Graves face. It gave his gaunt, tired face an outworldly expression.
Njosnavelin
Banned
Humanoids.
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