The Blood Major slaps Jr. Lt. Jr. on the helmet and the half-track stops. The Blood Major jumps to the muddy ground his war rifle swinging on his back. I follow, killing gun at the ready more cautious and indicate to Baps and Jr. Lt. Jr. to spread out splashing, keen eyes on the dark trees, search the dead dripping jungle gloom.
Numb of downtime in my heart brings me down, bewildered, lost and waiting I let off the rest of my clip into the trees unable not to, frayed in the small unfamiliar peace, and reload, green Go light on. Standard procedure, Captains privilege. ‘Clear.’ I say.
‘We are between the river, held by the enemy, and the enemy, being de-existed by Frontline as I speak, you cocks, so strays may come back this way despite Johnson’s liberal use of uranium. Special Report from behind enemy lines; Dickey country.’ The Blood Major speaks to us but keeps glancing to the plastic lens on the half-track. We face the jungle ready as Jesus on the cross. He paces and spits, I feel high explosions rumble low through the ground.
‘Sir!’
‘Baps, you find high ground, cull any strays heading back this way.’
‘High ground, sir!’ Baps buttons her battle blouse, slings her baby on her back, locked and loaded, Nokia Lady Blaster holstered she takes a pack of bombs.
‘Jr. you patrol half a square klick; everything dies. Keep an eye on each other, you can die later.’
‘Everything dies, sir!’ Jr. keen, itching to get going on his first Special Report. His cheeks glow like happy apples.
‘Baps, take cull bombs.’
‘Got them, sir!’
‘Jr. take the flamer. The half-track is base. We RV back here so keep your looking eyes peeled and get down here when we get back. Keep your lenses clean.’
He paces, nods, squints, then spits on the ground. A brutal bang and we are all on the ground, rifles swinging where we are looking, and Jr. Lt. Jr.’s eager proof of youth is now just a dirty red smear on the half-track.
‘Mines. I think there are mines.’ Says Baps. We freeze.
‘No mines.’ Says the Blood Major. He takes a piece of wire from the mess on the half-track. ‘Jr.’s camera shorted; set off one of his own grenades.’
‘Fuckin’ NBCBN.’ Spits Baps, eyes blank.
‘Baps, the high ground. You take the flamer.’ I say and she is off into the trees encumbered with deathware.
‘Carnage Captain Johnson?’
‘Sir!’
‘Get the extra pack, there.’
‘Sir.’
‘Keep my back covered, you cock, until we get to the ridge. Then we’ll kill them all, yes Johnson?’
‘Sir.’
‘Don’t short out near me, Johnson.’
‘No sir!’
‘Questions?’
‘No sir!’
‘You want to know why just two of us are going in?’
‘Special Report, sir!’
‘Yes; don’t you love it? Screw the odds, Dickeys a cock! You do want to die soldier? Die and kill?’
‘Good cock, son!’ He is off down a thin trail. I follow wading through mud too red with too many bones and too many flies. Great damp leaves wipe my face as I pass. Walking downtime destroys me with itchy fingers so I smoke through my gas mask and keep my looking eyes peeled, hope for a glimpse of Dickey in the undergrowth I can murder, shoot full of metal in the blind present, keep my thoughts at bay with rage and Gods clean action. Get some fresh red colour in this black jungle. POX Sky Choppers thud and whop-whop overhead, carry wailing wounded off, getting sky feeds, following the Special Report. The Blood Major gets on his shoulder radio.
A shot behind me, a high crack and whistle coming our way and I turn swiftly, action and relief and a welcome blood-rush. Dickey Enemy splashes down on us his legs flickering with fire, barging through the thick jungle; his gun and blank lenses point his way. I squeeze off two from the hip, calm and cool, blows a hole in his chest I could have put my head through. He stops and falls broken ribs naked point at heaven. Dead and over, everything as it should be, great feed but I had no screen to see his face peaceful and naked in liberation.
‘Good cock, Johnson! You will have to die one day.’
‘I know it sir.’
‘Quote me, you cock!’
‘I will have to die one day, sir!’
Still gunfire from behind us but no on else comes through, Baps covers us well from the high ground, and we walk on, past a silver Media Jet crashed and massive sinking in the red mud of skulls. We stop at the edge of the jungle high above the river.
‘Smell their fucking cooking from here, Johnson. Jesus!’
Small storage huts cluster on the bank with small lazy figures and trails of cooking smoke curl upward in the still air. An ammo dump strung with green netting on the dirty beach, temporary and prefabricated. Blinkered life scraping a life resisting our offered freedom. Living on the run; we live on the charge. Liberation is at hand now; Frontline export. Screens show their front line action, their own screaming heroes and dead citations. The bridge, huge and sweeping across the great river, built of iron like guns from the labours of static society. Harshly broken in the middle girders showing. The tail fin of a silver Sky Jet shows up from the shallow river underneath. River is busy with boats, bristling with machine straight eyes and killing guns. The water is thick with heavy bobbing sinking mines spiked like dangerous fruit.
‘Spread out and murder, Johnson.’
‘Sir.’
‘Quote me you cock!’
‘Spread out and murder, sir!’
‘Kill life’s warm blood soldier.’
‘Sir!’
‘Hold fire till I open up, soldier.’
‘Sir!’
Spread out on the wooded ridge, the rattle of Baps shooting rifle faint in my ears with the rumble of Frontline in the earth, the numbness of horrible downtime lifts in righteous anticipation. I lay down flat in the mud and sight through my optic, scan the steel sheds, look for unprotected windows where Dickey sits thinking all wrong. I choose a window where I could see a large number of un-killed Dickey seated, negligent and eating, with Dickey women and children. I prepare to de-personify; my eager finger takes up the small slack. A POX Sky Chopper whop-whops up the river ready for Special Report pictures.
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