Gust Front

«No, but you're going to give it to me anyway, aren't you?»

Keren gri

«And that is supposed to inspire the troops?» The lieutenant gave a tired smile.

«No, but it's better than watching you run to the latrine every fifteen minutes, sir,» the specialist quipped. «Yeah, the newbies and, hell, even the sergeants are looking kind of light around the gills and they could use the example and some work to take their minds off what's coming up the road. Act like it's just another exercise, a nice, cold day in the country.»

«Good suggestions, Specialist. So, why in the hell are you just a specialist?»

«You didn't hear that, sir?»

«No.»

«I told my last platoon leader his mother was a whore with AIDS who squirted him out in a public toilet and forgot to flush, sir.» He looked momentarily chagrined. «I was kinda drunk at the time. But he really was an asshole,» he finished, as if that completely explained the incident.

«I'll bet.»

* * *

«Roger, out.»

Captain Robert Brantley carefully hung the microphone back on its clip, settled his Kevlar on his head, adjusted the chinstrap just so, picked up the squad automatic weapon he had appropriated, checked the chamber to ensure it was clear and climbed over the cases of ammunition in the Bradley fighting vehicle and out the troop door. Descending to the loam of the forest floor he caught the eye of his first sergeant and made a circular motion with his arm signaling «rally on me.»

As the sergeant ambled over, the commander took the time to observe the company digging in. At least he watched the few members of the Second platoon who were in view. The order had been clear and, for once, unquestioned. Two-man fighting positions, interlocking fields of fire, M-60E machine gun positions with extra cover, sand-bagged front parapets, everything rikky-tik. Except for a few small points that it was no one's job but the company commander's to consider.

«How's it going?» he asked the first sergeant when he arrived. The first sergeant was a transfer, a large NCO with a beer gut that a few years before would have had him out of the Army. The company commander could have accepted that without qualm—armies had functioned for ages without professional ru

The first sergeant was a nice, quiet simpleton who had apparently risen to his present rank through a series of superiors who were okay with having a nice, quiet simpleton as an NCO. How that had happened in the pre-Posleen Army, Captain Brantley was unsure. The Army he'd left ten years before generally shuffled material like this out by around staff sergeant rank.

«Uh, okay, sir,» the first sergeant said and saluted sloppily. He pulled his BDU blouse down to straighten out the wrinkles and tried to buckle his equipment belt. The maneuver only served to heighten the effect of the beer gut. «Umm, First platoon has most of their people now, but we still ain't heard from Third. An' we still ain't seen any sign of Bravo, so Second doesn't have anybody out there on their left.»

«How very good. Well, the mortars are finally up and ready to support but they only have two guns. How are the positions coming? And do we have any word on hot chow?»

«Well, we're not as far along over in First platoon as we are here. And I can't get the XO on the horn, so I don't know about chow.»

Captain Brantley refrained from sighing. He remembered his first sergeant in the company he commanded during his last hitch. An NCO who was one of the last with service in Vietnam, he could track a mess section down no matter how «lost» they got and if he did not find the mess section he would get pizza delivered. By helicopter if necessary. Since the time of Wellington, at least, if not Gustavus Adolphus, the importance of a prepared meal before a battle had been highly emphasized. Brantley was not particularly happy going into battle with two-thirds of his company, nobody on his left flank and soldiers who were subsisting on MREs and junk food they had packed along.

«Okay, take the command Hummer. There's a McDonald's up at the interstate. Get a hundred and twenty hamburgers and thirty cheeseburgers.» He pulled out his wallet and handed the first sergeant enough cash to cover the purchase. «If they'll take it, try to give them a chit for the food. If they're closed, get the makings out of the building. Take Specialist Forrier with you.» He gestured with his chin at the RTO lounging on the troop ramp of the command Bradley. The kid got into enough trouble that he would probably jump at the chance to do a little authorized scrounging.

«If you can't find any hot food there, keep looking, find a deli, a restaurant, anything. Got it?»

«Yes, sir.» The first sergeant looked hangdog. «I don't want to leave you, Captain. We don't know when they'll get here.»

«Just make sure you're back with some real chow before they do. And make sure you have communications in place; I want to be able to get ahold of you if I need you back here.»

«Yes, sir. Maybe the XO will turn up with some chow.»

«Maybe. Get going, First Sergeant.»

The NCO saluted again and headed for the command Humvee. Give him his due; if you gave him clear instructions he carried them out to the best of his ability. As that headache was placed under control, Captain Brantley saw the Hummer of the battalion commander rolling in through the pine forest.

A tall heavy-bodied officer hopped out of the Humvee before it came to a full stop and strode rapidly towards the waiting company commander. Although he looked about twenty-two, Lieutenant Colonel Hartman was nearly sixty, having retired as a battalion commander in the First Infantry Division in the early '80s. A solid professional officer, he had taken command of the battalion only four months before and had worked steadily to bring it up to a highly trained level he could be proud of. Unfortunately, the Posleen did not seem to be in favor of giving him the time to correct the unit's multitude of deficiencies.

As he approached his Alpha Company commander—the only commander he had he considered worth the spit to insult them with—he was rehearsing how to break all the bad news.

«Captain Brantley.»

«Colonel,» the officer said with a nod. «I would offer you a hot cup of coffee, but we seem to have misplaced the mess section.»

«That's not all we've misplaced,» the battalion commander alleged with a patently false grin. «Let's take a walk.»

When the officers were far enough away from the unit that they could not be overheard, the colonel maneuvered to place Brantley's back to the soldiers in view. That way they would not be able to see his face when he heard the news.

«Okay,» the colonel said without preamble, «there is no good news. None. The bad news is as follows. I know you don't have Bravo on your left. That's because there is, effectively, no Bravo Company. There are enough tracks to make up a platoon in Bravo Company's area of operation. All the others are either lost or hiding. We may be able to find a few more that are simply lost, but most of them are on the run to avoid the battle. They ran, it's as simple as that. Before the damn battle was even joined.»

He shook his head but did not let the overwhelming sense of shame and anger cloud his features. Even from here he could see the occasional glance from the soldiers digging in and he was not about to let them know how badly they had been screwed.