On the screens and in the flesh I have seen soldiers shoot themselves in the horror of downtime unable to not use their guns, unable to not be killing, their instant feeds replayed with citations of dedication and posthumous decorations.
Downtime; wait for action after action, wait for Dickey, wait for NBCBN. Any downtime is too much downtime. Sitting here for minutes minds begin to cloud and stray…INCOMING…comes the crackle cry from the PA and I open up at the tree line, thrilled relief floods my nodes.
‘Set guns to liberate, Fodder!’ Murder Major Singh says into the PA. high up in the Thatcher. ‘Back on line. Hammer Fucking Time!’ His raises both fists in the air.
‘Squad! Have it!’ I yell and Hans La Feu is shot, falling, Bennett’s squad truly dead. Jr. Lt. Ramirez too is lying small and still. Captain Clarke riding his half-track down the slope loses a track in a white explosion and runs down the three of his squad, his half-track flipping and rolling a lethal dance.
Dickey visible down there, big in our optics, crouches as white light blows away chunks of jungle, Earth’s punished flesh tears. We fire blind at first, a deadly hail of warning suppression, keep Dickeys head down.
Then I pick my targets, de-existifying a squad on a whistle stop ride to nowhere with an easy spray. Dickey advances with his mortars, trying to get more set up in range, forced and eager to leave the cover of the trees to perpetuate the duty and good work.
Gods time to die; time to exchange deaths warm blood with victories hot metal. Everything as it should be, downtime forgotten I thrill with excessive purpose, blood rushing hot to my primal back brain. The screens show my dedication and duty from the muzzle feed and closer; every tenth round a small lens. Taking us all closer to the action in short fast clips for the cripples to slow and show split screen while the anchor enthuses and the soldier blood-rushes.
‘Close up, squad. With me!’ I yell ready to move on down there...use Clarke’s half-track as cover first…The Blood Major indicates to me to stay put so I raise my fist. ‘Hold!’ This used to be the Blood Majors squad back in Washington. What’s left of us. I open fire where I am.
Blood Sergeant Baps McFadden puts her milking breast away into her battle blouse. Her baby slung on her back in his green baby-gro, his small pack of spare ammo strapped securely to him as he hangs there quiet and learning a lite-cam on his soft head. She opens fire laid flat, calm veil comes down over anxious eyes; downtime forgotten.
The air full of bullets, fast metal murder like steel bees hot as the sun. A Mk 8 Workhorse on my right explodes in white, hurtles backwards into a squad of Fodder
Infantry fresh from their transport crushes them with heat and weight. I felt the heat and the wicked rush of wind as the starved air rushes to fill the sudden vacuum.
‘Liberate Dickey down! War to Fuck and Jesus!’ Blood Major Andy McNesbit shouts. ‘Set guns to murder! Today is a media day to die.’ His cameras, extra eyes on his helmet, look without blinking. He speaks into his shoulder radio, voice crackles from the PA. Idling engines shift into gear and the front line moves out on the shallow down slope again. Dickey out in the open now and the Blood Major fires into the advancing lines taking no cover. His Nokia Master Blaster with a discreet eye of its own barks his purpose north. This is the way it goes; to plan.
Bullets hit the half-track and Driving Captain McManus burst with the windscreen. We murder a squad of advancing instigators as they creep round the cover of Clarke’s half-track. Dickey evil and unlawful getting his to Fuck and Jesus. Large and dancing into pieces in our optics as fast metal mocks his efforts. I reload another clip of three hundred, brain tense and frozen in the tiny time waiting for the green Go light. The Blood Major taps me on the shoulder. Glass from a blown screen on the Zulu Silo Master tinkles around us catches the dull light and shines red. The blown screen shown on another screen, the huge image exploding over and over and the anchor enthuses. I see Skull Sergeant Alf Laden too far out too soon giving some good but getting some too much and he disappears in a red man mist. The Blood Major puts his mask on.
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