The Blood Major puts his mask on.
‘Special Report, Carnage Captain, you’re with me.’ And nods to the Special Report half-track. I nod to Sergeant Baps and she jumps in with her baby.
‘Johnson! Cock! Where’s Alf Laden?’ The Blood Sergeant is looking about.
‘Bought it, sir.’
‘Fuck and Jesus!’ He’s looking in the half-track. ‘Was that McManus?’ ‘Sir!’
‘Johnson, you cock, get another driver!’
‘Sir!’ I nod to Jr. Lt. Jr. and he jumps in eager, pushes the smashed McManus to the ground, eating rations in his lifeless hand, nude spine shows rude. He kicks out the busted front screen, the fierce frown now with empty eyes. Jr. Lt. Jr, rosy cheeks glow redder with excitement. The diesel rumbles loud then is lost in the roar around us. Exhaust blurts visible in the mist.
‘…Special Report coming soon…the same team that brought us Washington…’ the anchor says over the PA. McManus and Alf Laden were with us at Washington, reporting like Gods own wrath. The screens now showing clips from the famous Washington report split with McManus bursting in the half-track. The Blood Major gets on his shoulder radio and Alf Laden appears on the screen too. They are both decorated and mourned. A shot of Alf Laden, a Jr. Lt. then, crouching in the ruins of Pennsylvania Avenue, smoke and wind whipping his dusty green figure.
Air thick with metal murder we keep our heads low, fire long bursts into Dickeys ranks as we move out away from Frontline, taking friendly hits and the other. Heading north from our position by the Human Shield and the Pancho Villa Silo Master, west of the Thatcher. Dickey beneath us spreading out from the tree line like ants from boiling water. White explosions hit heavy and shake the ground like creation was on again and now. Dirt rains down and Soldiers scream their commitment, using our half-track for brief cover as they advance. Skull eyes fierce, bodies in baggy green with packs and full clips and cull grenades weighing them down and keeping them going. Some bearded; all dirty and cut with uneven teeth showing in grimaces like forced smiles. And Dickey pays with black and white one sentence justice while 101st Fodder die as they should; in combat and on camera spent in gory glory, hoping for classic status and re-runs.
‘Let rip hell fire, my squad.’ I yell. And we do taking hits all the time from Frontline.
White columns shot up from the mortar bombs as Dickey gets the range right turning jeeps and Minor Command Tanks into molten flashes. Squinting back I see the Custer and the Mongol Hoard limping on a collision course burning deeply as room is made for their crash low Choppers keeping close. Meat melds with metal and murder in the heat of chemical force behind us. Controls the population. Duty, job and work. Silly Dickey resisting liberation through ignorance.
‘Special Report on Bridge 7. We’re breaking the line.’ The Blood Major says, gives Jr. Lt. Jr. the bearings. ‘Drive like my mother, cock!’
‘Fuck and Jesus, yes sir!’ The back of the Jr. Lt.’s neck runs with the sweat of exhilaration and exertion as he forces the half-track over craters and corpses crunching and crumbling under our weight. Bullets heavy rain on all sides; no favours on a Special Report. The life-free mess of Gods finished creatures spent and home now mashed into the Earth’s sore bruises. Bovine remains out there calm and smoking under tracer fire. A close hit rolls us once but Jr. Lt. Jr. drives like the Blood Majors mother and we are righted and finding cover from Frontline.
‘Planes coming in.’ The Blood Major looks at the sky with his thousand-yard stare. Tense without action. We lumber fast and wide out from the Frontline. Special Report a chance for high-octane antics, fast promotion and prominent liberation. I reload again, the war rifle warm to the touch smells of good job and carnage. I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t holding this rifle; like a blind mans cane, it is my eyes since Washington. The screen in the half-track shows two silver planes leaving the carriers off the coast fully loaded with depleted uranium bombs and shells of microphones and small blank eyes for great pictures. The pilots profile comes up at the bottom of the screen scrolling in the banner. Both of them flying their last Death From Above Sorties before joining the Divine Wind Air Arm. Those fly boys!
‘Where would we be without warm blood, eh soldier?’ The Blood Major stands, looks out the back of the half-track, stares at our line of Command Tanks and ranks of Fodder Infantry as they advance slow and violent over the ridge. Brimming with red flashes, the air singing lethal metal song, mortars landing among them. The Custer and the Mongol Hoard locked together now, top stories disintegrating, scorching the land ploughing on with massive momentum. Missiles and larger projectiles come from the craft in the rear; a whole city united in Gods terminal task acting as one and acting constantly. The Blood Major shakes his head in wonder.
‘Look at that Johnson, you cock. Don’t that make you proud?’
‘Sir!’ The Frontline awesome viewed from in front; a wall of war steel that even mountains cannot slow. Generals buzzing like feeding flies on their Jetpacks between the Thatcher and the Manhattan, between the Kashmir and the Lee. The Mongol Hoard dragging the Custer down now huge walls of debris in their wake. A Light Entertainment Unit caught in the way burns up giving magic feed.
There is more dead out here than living; Dickey Enemy flushed out at expected expense. We are ahead of the line now; Special Report. I wipe down my discreet lenses. My squad smaller than ever before.
‘Deaths warm blood gets my blood flowing, soldier.’ The Blood Major isn’t looking at me; his thousand-yard stare occupied. No one makes eye contact any more; only the discreet plastic eyes get those intimate shots.
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