"Melissa get the Fifty to the treeline. Move! Move! Move!"
"Echo-2, we're engaging! Sending rounds downrange!"
"Line Eagle! Line Eagle! Banner 2-1 Come in! T-90s right on top of our trenches! They're burying us! They're burying us!"
"Echo-2, all tanks knocked out. Repeat all friendly tanks knocked out."
"Where the hell is air supp-"
I can barely stand to listen to it. But I do. Closely. I hear them die slowly one by one. I commit each one to the depths of my memory as even their static ceases.
"Come on… work with me," I bang the malfunctioning radio phone against the wooden table in frustration, sending pencils flying and papers fluttering. At last, I hear whispers fighting their way through the static on the other end. "Banner 1-2 to Chaos. Chaos, do you read me? This is 1st Division. Taking extreme casualties. Down to three percent combat strength. Reporting an entire Armoured Corps assaulting position! Need the 7th Regiment moved to cover retreat at grid position- what? I just spoke to Diorio and he said the pass was open wider than his boyfriend's cheeks!"
"Sir we have to move," I feel a hand on my shoulder and look back to see one of my men. His face was smeared with soot and blood that wasn't his. The plate carrier was all torn up and his right arm was in a sling. By his side was his nearly empty rifle on a sling. He couldn't have been older than my son. "They're almost on us. Orders?"
I release a line of expletives so vulgar I'm sure Ma would climb out of her grave to shove a soap bar into my mouth. "You go first with the rest, son, I'll be right behind you."
"Sir-"
"You wanted an order didn't you, private? I just gave you one! Get yourself on the truck. I need to make sure those Ruskies don't get a hold of our signal codes."
He fights his reluctance and with a nod begins to run to the other side of the command tent. I return to my radio. "Listen here you no good-son-of-a-bitch, Mattis, I don't care what you have to do to get Harrison to keep moving forward, whip him or light a fire under his blue marine ass. We have a Broken Arrow on our hands! Use a fucking tactical nuke if you have to-"
I can hear shellfire and ammo depots going critical. Wheels squeal. Screams and shouts of men panicking. My men.
"It's been an honor."
I switch off the radio and pick up the jerry can again, dousing the entire table and nearby comms station with petrol until the can empties. The repugnant odor burns my nostrils. I shouldn't be doing this but I insisted on being the last one out. Be damned if I willingly left any of my boys behind.
I can hear gunfire. Getting closer. Fuck, they've already overrun the perimeter?
The first Spetsnaz rushing through the tent flap gets a .45 ACP as a welcome gift courtesy of John Browning. The back of his head ceases to exist. His crumpling body gives several seconds of pause to his comrades outside. Enough time for me to dash to the other side of the tent before they gain the courage. Doesn't stop them from spraying blindly into the tent on full-auto. I feel the air around me shiver as bullets fly all around me.
Use my boot knife to slash a side in the tent. Through the gap, I see we still have one more transport truck starting to pull away through the base's back gate as my men fire desperately in all directions. I hadn't even managed to step through the gap I slashed before machine gun fire ripping through the muddy ground in front of me drove me back into the tent. There's no way I'm making it across that stretch.
I see the private. He sees me. His mouth moves as he shouts for me to make a run for it. A run I know I can't make.
"Go!" I order. "Go! Go!"
Whoever is behind the truck's wheel must've put the pedal to the metal as it slams through the back gate. Several of the enemy attempt to follow and fire on my escaping troops. I apply suppressive fire at those firing at the truck, not going to hit ass but if I can throw off their aim for just a moment.
The hammer falls on an empty chamber.
A few seconds and they're gone. Safe.
"Least someone got out of this mess. Keep running boys and send 'em packing when you come back." I mutter and feel an agonizing pain in my gut. I look down to find my dark khaki tunic getting even darker around my stomach area. Must have caught a round at some point.
My legs give way and I fall, dragging down one of the tables with me. I splash down in the pool of gasoline I poured. I'm covered in it. Not that it matters anyway from the way I'm bleeding like a skewered pig. Shit, I probably don't even have a minute.
Even that minute might be cut short. I hear Russian voices gathering outside my tent. They're about to storm in at any moment.
My pistol's dry. Not enough time to reload. I reach inside my breast pocket.
What a hell of a way to go.
I really, really, wanted to die in my own bed. Maybe after a Jambalaya with a nice side of Mississippi mud pie. Call my son and listen to how his day was before telling him I love him. Leave the fireplace roaring. Kiss the bedside picture of Emma one more time, tell her goodnight, and that I still miss her every day. Then finally climb under the sheets and sleep like I've never slept since I was a little boy.
But above all... I just… wish I could have served this country… just a little… bit… more…
They come in through the tent flap.
"Drop your weapons! Drop it!" they surround me. They don't notice they're standing in gasoline.
I oblige and let go of the lit lighter in my hand, a shit-eating grin on my face as I tell them:
"God bless the United States of-"
"Where the hell am I?" I say to nobody for the umpteenth time as I trudge down the dirt path. My blood-soaked tunic coat is hanging off my shoulder though despite the massive red patch on my white dress shirt underneath, there's no wound. Checked it twice and gave myself a good slap on the face to make sure I wasn't dreaming. Not that I've dreamed at all in the past few decades.
As to where the hell I am, I'm surrounded by thick woods and beech trees so crowded together that the only path is forward. Strangely, I didn't think trees like this grew in the Fulda Gap. More so it had been fall but the fact that the leaves are still a vibrant green and the humid temperature tells me that I am actually in the middle of one of the hottest German summers on record.
I barely spy the ascent of the sun through the gaps in the trees. It tells me I'm heading West. Good, I should make it back to our lines in a day or two even given these strange woods and weather. Once I make it out of this forest I'll try to find a road and commandeer a vehicle.
Of course, the entire time I walk the elephant in my brain is stomping around. I should have died. A gut shot and being burnt Kentucky Fried Crispy should have been the end of old Douglas Boy. Yet here I am in mockery of the grim reaper sweating my ass off. I can figure all of this out later, first things first: need to get back to my men.
I push it to the back of my mind.
An hour passes before there's finally a break in the trees and I emerge onto a verdant green field with rolling hills. It's beautiful. I order myself to take a deep breath. Feels like the weight on my chest was just taken off. A weight I didn't know I had.
It's a good open view.
Still doesn't give me a rat's ass of a hint where I am. I don't recognize any of these features.
I see a thin pillar of black smoke coming from just behind one of the hills. Way the smoke's rising tells me it's a fireplace.
Civilization.
Well as civilized as you can get. Rounding the corner I see the epitome of rustic nature and not in a good way. Thatched roof made from straw. Some sturdy logs smeared with hardened dirt made up the walls with ivy vines crawling all over them. A crooked stone chimney is the culprit of the smoke.
My God, the French were more backward than I feared.
Beside this basically medieval hut was a field of tilled soil with crops growing. I helped on my Uncle's Farm upstate during the summers when I was a wee boy. Built character and built sores on my palms but I came to know a thing or two about everything that grew from soil. I can tell you right now what was growing in that tilled soil was nothing that I'd ever seen.
Swollen peppers the size of my thigh colored bloody purple like a bad bruise. Stalks of wheat seemed to shimmer like moonlight if I looked at it from a different angle. And for God's sake a Banana tree growing in this climate!?
Once this war was over I knew where I would pay my first visit.
But first.
Three raps on the wooden door.
"United States Army," I call out in English. Best to use it since everyone knows at least a word or several.
Man answers. I'm a giant to him. The top of his balding head barely reaches my shoulder. His skin is a deep brown and he has frankly massive eyebrows. With the state of his teeth, he could eat corn through a picket fence.
"Lieutenant General Douglas Kolasheski. Need to get in contact back with the US Army. You got a landline or at least a sat-phone?" I say as I take off my hat.
The man gave me a look of utter confusion. Though nothing compared to mine when his wife came in from the back door. Now normally I would have made my gentlemen's greeting and continued to explain my situation to them.
Save for one complication.
She had a pair of feline ears sitting on top of her head and a cat's tail coming out the back of her trousers.
"What in Sam Hill?"