‘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.
‘Murder the offensive! Murder to Fuck and Jesus!’ I hear Murder Major Singh shout from the turret of his Media Command Tank, far behind us now his voice carrying thin from the speakers spread over the slope. He looks livid and crazy on the half-tracks screen; his big moustache flutters in the fickle wind of war. I chew on eating rations and light another smoking cigarette, my mask off. Baps breast-feeding again her shooting gun on her knees, the lighter Electrolux Mother Media Gb30 with the two hundred round clip, every tenth round a camera. She was with us at Washington, younger than me we learnt fast and together during that brutal and brief river siege. ‘Johnson, you cock! I’ll take charge of your squad now soldier.’
‘Sir!’
‘What’s left of it.’
‘Sir.’
A rush of NBCBN Sky Jets, silver darts from Gods paw in the east and the sky turns red, like deaths warm blood. Fire rushes hungry over the tree line, cuts off Dickeys retreat now he is flushed out. Flying Choppers come in low, select wounded and drop defoliation in the jungle, get good feed for POX as the trees start to burn cold white. Then it is out of sight to us except for the screen flickering with interference as the jungle closes in and I feel the heat in my lungs pushing out the cool chill of the thin wind out on the slope. I look to the screen the numbing downtime on me, sad replacement for my holy wrath.
The Blood Major is manning the killing gun on the half-track. He fires heavy metal forwards, just in case, and animals scream and scatter in the dripping jungle. He shouts over the rattle, boom and tinkle, his image on the screen in the half-track words unheard. Special Report written on the banner at the base of the screen, the livid tree line ablaze in red and white split with Dickey burning out at sea, a close up of a sailors eyes screaming like his silent mouth over and over.
‘…de-exist the un-killed by the river…full liberation…we’re people down…Baps, you keep an eye on Jr…’ His words intermittent but the task is always the same. ‘…Johnson and me will go in…hold the high ground…life is deaths warm media blood team…special pictures...be like Washington eh, cocks?’ He closes his eyes briefly, knowing nothing could be like Washington again, his trigger finger held to one side still twitching. He turns to me holding myself steady in the lurching half-track. We know the drill; only Jr. Lt. Jr. is on his first Special Report.
‘Johnson.’ I throw out grenades of depleted uranium to cover our advance down the thin trail. I throw them regular left and right deep into the trees, dirt like glass showers us in brittle brown rain.
‘Sir?’
‘Carnage Captain!’
‘Sir!’ Louder, ears ringing.
‘You hear that, soldier?’
‘Most of it sir.’
‘Then quote me, you cock!’
‘De-exist the un-killed, sir.’
‘Yes, yes we must. And…’
‘Life is deaths warm media blood, sir.’
‘Yes, Johnson, yes it is.’
‘Special Report…’
‘Enough, Johnson. Baps and Jr. are going to stay with the half-track, cover the rear and hold the high ground. This is our glory, boy. We must take Bridge 7 and die trying.’ He laughs. ‘Johnson, I am sick of downtime soldier. Sick to Fuck and Jesus.’ He laughs again as rain runs red and heavy from low leaves.
He stares at me, rare eye contact. I stare back.
‘Quote me, you cock!’
‘We must take Bridge 7.’
‘Yes, Johnson, we must. No one survives.’
‘No one survives, sir.’
‘Everyone dies?’
‘Everyone, sir.’
‘You going to die with me soldier?’
‘I will die with you sir!’
‘Enough, Johnson, you cock. You got it.’ He takes some pills. ‘Johnson, make sure everyone has pills. We are people down.’
‘Sir.’ My squad always have pills. I take some pills and motion for Baps to do the same. She is ahead of me and reaches through to Jr. Lt. Jr. making sure he is pepped up too. My squad small and buzzing.
We travel on in the half-track over the rutted jungle floor the Frontline still ringing in my ears, grenades explode in our wake, throw up piles of toxic dirt and huge clumps of black leaves like Satans torn palms. Screams human and animal. Dickey in dirty green limps out onto the trail behind us; cowardly and unclean. Hard to see in the wet gloom, hard to hear over the war and the panic of the rats and bats. The Blood Major mans the half-tracks gun with one hand, swings it around to the rear and lets rip fast metal death over my head.
‘Hell fire cock!’ He shouts cutting Dickey down in red blurts and splashes, massive metal tracer arcs like shooting stars, like arcs of triumph. Dickey staggers about under the hard impact with bleeding ears and much worse.
‘Baps!’ I say to alert her but the Blood Major has it all under control. Baps baby is silent in his mothers arms, her eyes steel balls as she rocks him gently, her Nokia Lady Blaster out of its holster and in her hand ready, getting pictures, her war rifle slung on her back. I offer her another cigarette and lay off with the grenades.
Downtime numbs my mind again as we crunch and slide through a slick carpet of smaller mammals that cover the jungle track with meaty mud and bone.
‘Fucking Cock!’ Shouts the Blood Major. ‘Up in the trees! Fucking Dickeys up in the fucking trees.’
Sergeant Baps fires her Nokia Lady Blaster up into the thin pink rain, her milking breast hangs out pale and swollen. I join her with murderous blasts from my Electrolux Media G50 rifle, shooting war up towards heaven. Dickey falls, surprised and screaming; great pictures. Magic feed. The Blood Major hunched as one with the half-tracks killing gun, a 55 Henrietta reliable as you can get. Points up, sprays the trees, mad yells in his throat. Dickey fell on the half-track with a graceless sticky thud, bloody and mangled, death on his case and in his face. Still fights, filming me; duty and work. I stuck him heart wise, cold murder with my Black Blade.
‘Liberate you!’ I snarl. He understands as the light goes out in his eyes. Shove him off and spit my cigarette away.
Then downtime.
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