Cole told Sheridan that arriving at a new unit was like going through a sausage machine. A person gets jammed in at one end, and after a time, he passed out the other end ready to go, or at least, that was the theory. After being met by the regiment’s personnel officer, a tired-looking man who chain-smoked several cigarettes while he filled out the necessary paperwork, Sheridan was told that they were to report to the unit’s second battalion. Moving through the rubble of a destroyed warehouse, Sheridan led his people to the battalion’s tactical operations center located in the basement of the burnt-out building. Here they were greeted by the battalion’s executive officer, a harried and disheveled major, who was devastated to see that there were only five people reporting in. He had asked for thirty replacements to make up for those killed or wounded during last night’s bombardment.
After a cursory glance at his files, the major told them to report to Alpha Company. Sheridan asked for directions and then saluted the major, who disinterestedly returned the compliment. Five minutes later, Sheridan and Cole stood at attention in front of their new company commander’s desk.
Captain Rolleston was a broad-chested Maori, who had thick black hair and powerful arms that strained at the fabric of his uniform shirt. Intricate tattoos covered his face. “So, Mister Sheridan, I hear that you and your people made it through the Kurgan lines. Tell me, is it true that they are using humans against us?”
“Yes, sir, it is true,” replied Sheridan.
“I’d hoped the rumors were just that. It seems unbelievable that humans would fight for the Kurgs.”
“Sir, these people are Kurgan citizens. They don’t see us as equals; in fact, they look down on you and I as being below them.”
A gunnery sergeant walked into the room and grinned. “Well, look what the cat just dragged in. If it ain’t Staff Sergeant Alan Cole. I thought you were back home.”
“I was for a while, Gunny, but I asked for a new assignment,” replied Cole.
“You two know each other?” asked Rolleston.
“Yes, sir, we served in the First Division a couple of years back. Staff Sergeant Cole is a solid NCO, if he keeps away from the bottle,” said the gunnery sergeant.
“Gunny, I’m clean and sober going on two years now,” responded Cole uncomfortably.
Rolleston eyed Cole for a few seconds before reading their transfer orders. “Okay, gents, you have Three Platoon. Their officer and platoon sergeant were killed two days ago by a Kurgan drone. Sergeant James has been commanding the platoon ever since. Gunny Wilson will take you there so you can get settled in. I’ll be around later today to see how things are going.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Sheridan, coming to attention to salute his superior officer.
“Mister Sheridan, no more saluting. I don’t want to end up with my brains spread all over the wall like strawberry jam because some Kurg sniper saw you saluting me. You’re not at the academy anymore.”
Sheridan instantly felt like an amateur. He remembered his first introduction to Cole back on the Churchill where he said saluting was for the parade grounds and not a war zone.
“Come on, I’ll show you to your new home,” announced Gunny Wilson.
With Garcia, Obermman, and Agnar trailing behind, they made their way through row after row of demolished buildings. With one eye on the sky looking for drones, they rarely stepped outside for more than a couple of seconds.
Gunny Wilson explained that Alpha Company was set out like a triangle with two platoons up and one back. Platoon strongpoints had been established with clear fields of fire that dominated the open ground and the approaches into the city. Sheridan’s platoon was the left forward platoon. On his right flank was Two Platoon, commanded by a dour-looking officer who had a two-word vocabulary. Gunny Wilson said that the man didn’t say much, but seemed to know his job. Sheridan’s left was anchored by a platoon from the regiment’s first battalion.
A lone dog barked at something on the street. Sheridan watched as a Marine sprinted out from cover, grabbed the dog by the collar and then ran back under cover. A split second later, a missile struck the ground in front of the house, sending wood and rock flying up into the air.
“Damned fool,” muttered Gunny Wilson. “Every platoon has one. Yours is a kid named Roberts. That was him rushing out into the street to save his dog.”
“I’ll have words with him,” replied Cole.
The smell of burnt wood filled Sheridan’s nostrils as he stepped inside a half-demolished home. Dust covered everything. Papers and empty ration boxes littered the ground. A couple of disinterested Marines sat there looking up at the new arrivals. Before the gunnery sergeant could open his mouth, Cole launched into the two soldiers. Swearing up a blue streak, he gave them two minutes to get the platoon headquarters cleaned up and the squad leaders assembled or they would live to regret it.
Gunny Wilson shook Cole’s hand and wished them luck before leaving.
A couple of seconds later, Sergeant James ran into the room. He was a short, slender man who looked like he had been on his feet for the past week. “Sorry for the mess,” said James, his accent Irish. “I’ve been too busy doing the platoon leader’s job to keep an eye on the little things.”
“That’s alright, Sergeant, Second Lieutenant Sheridan and I are here to take that burden off your back,” Cole said, feeling somewhat sorry for the man. “Do you have a platoon nominal roll? Mister Sheridan and I would like to review it before making any decisions where to place the three Marines we brought with us?”
“Only three,” muttered James.
“Is that a problem, Sergeant?” queried Sheridan.
“Sir, we were hit pretty hard the day we lost Mister Folly and Sergeant O’Neal. You should have a full platoon of forty-six men. Instead, you only have twenty-eight healthy Marines. This morning four soldiers reported that they were sick and were sent back to the unit aid station. They’re combat stress casualties. I doubt they’ll ever come back to us. Another two were pulled from us this afternoon to top up One Platoon. They got it worse than us last night.”
Cole let out a low whistle. “How are you set up?”
“I have the platoon split into three squads of eight men each. One is commanded by
a corporal, the other two by lance corporals,” explained James. “The remainder of your people are in the platoon headquarters.”
“Heavy weapons?” asked Sheridan.
“We have a .50 cal. It’s not automated, sir. In fact, the damn thing really belongs in a museum. The soldiers in the headquarters are responsible for operating it in the event of an attack.”
“With an attack perhaps only hours away, the machine gun has to be manned twenty-four and seven from now on,” said Sheridan. “I’ll let Sergeant Cole decide how we’re going to do that.”
The sound of combat boots coming down the stairs made Sheridan turn his head. In walked the squad leaders. James introduced them. Corporal Lanihan, a man with a loud voice and permanent smile on his dirty face commanded the first squad. Lance Corporal D’Amato had the second. She had dark brown, almost black, eyes and a confident air about her. The last squad was led by Lance Corporal Singh. The man dwarfed everyone in the room.
Sheridan looked over at his first command and tried to remember all of the things Cole had told him to avoid saying. He decided to keep things short. “Alright, Marines, my name is Second Lieutenant Sheridan. We’re going to be hit hard sometime tonight or in the early morning. I want you to make sure that you and all of your people are ready for the fight of their lives. I’ll be coming around in a couple of minutes to orient myself to your squad positions. Save your breath pointing out that you don’t have enough men because what we’ve got is what we’re going into battle with.”
“Damn,” said Lanihan. “So much for all the crap we heard about reinforcements being on their way.”
“Corporal, you’re looking at it,” Cole said. “Get used to the rumor mill churning out worthless tidbits like that on a daily basis. Unless
you hear it from me or Mister Sheridan, you and your men are to ignore it.”
Singh cleared his throat. “Sir, is it true that the enemy are humans like you and me?”
Sheridan could see the unease in the man’s eyes. Obviously, the thought of killing Kurgans was easier than shooting at fellow human beings. “Yes, it’s true. They are called the Chosen, and they won’t hesitate to kill you and all of your men to achieve their goals. I’ve seen what they can do, and trust me, they may look human, but they’re not. They’re Kurgan soldiers whose job is to kill you, so don’t let them. Do your job and you’ll all come out of this alive.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Singh, nodding.
“That’s all for now. I’ll be coming around shortly with Sergeants Cole and James, starting with first squad.”
“You’ll find us shipshape,” announced Lanihan.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” replied Cole.
Two hours later, with his head still spinning, Sheridan took a seat in his headquarters, removed his helmet and ran a hand through his hair. Cole had decided to have Agnar, Obermman, and one of the older soldiers operate the heavy machine gun while Garcia was brought into the headquarters as the platoon’s medic until a trained corpsman arrived to relieve her.
“So what do you think of the platoon layout?” Sheridan asked Cole.
“Not bad. They’ve clearly done the best they could with the ground they were assigned to hold.”
A Marine walked over and handed a couple of warmed up ration packs to them and then left the room, leaving them alone.
Sheridan got up, walked over to the door and closed it. He took his seat and looked over at Cole. “Sergeant, what was all that stuff about being an alcoholic? You seem to have a bit of a reputation with Gunnery Sergeant Wilson.”
Cole took a deep breath. “Sir, I’d rather not talk about it. It’s old news.”
“Staff Sergeant, we’re about to go into combat. I need to know that the man I rely on for advice and guidance is not going to have a relapse when I need him the most.”
Cole shook his head. “Sir, I won’t have a relapse, and I’m not one to talk about personal matters.”
Sheridan wasn’t about to let the matter drop. “Okay, then I’ll go first. My father is an admiral who had more time for his ships than he ever had for his children while they were growing up. My mother is a racist and an alcoholic who wrapped her car around a tree, killing my sister and nearly killing me when I was ten years old. The police buried the fact that she was drunk so it wouldn’t affect my father’s career. There wasn’t a flag officer on base that she didn’t sleep with while my father was away, which I might add was nearly all the time. So I became an over-achiever in everything I did to compensate for the attention I never got at home.”
Sheridan took a sip of water from his canteen and continued. “The family name was all that mattered when I was growing up. A Sheridan was the first man to do this, the first man to do that. It was more like being in a cult than a family. And I stupidly went along with it right until I woke up one morning and realized that the only good thing in my life was gone because my mother objected to her being black. So there, that’s the Michael Sheridan family closet laid bare.”
Cole placed his ration bag down and looked into Sheridan’s eyes. No man had ever opened up to him like that. His father was a man who hid his feelings and thoughts and he had grown up to be a man just like his father. “Sir, my wife, Ariel, left me while I was on a yearlong assignment far from home. She took our daughter, Violeta, and moved back to Earth. Violeta now calls a salesman daddy. I can’t blame my wife; I was never around.”
Cole paused for a second. “It was about a month after she left that I started drinking. I even drank to begin the day. I had booze hidden all over the place. It got to be that I could do my job drunk. Gunny Wilson found me passed out one day on the john. He was the one who recommended that I be sent back home for a few years to dry out and to get my life back in order. It was the best thing I ever did. I’ve been clean and sober for nearly two years now.”
“Sergeant, if the Corps didn't think you were worth saving, they would have kicked you out years ago. I, for one, am glad that they chose to keep you. I don’t know what I would have done without you after we landed here.”
Cole patted Sheridan on the back. “You did okay, sir, you did okay.”
“Just okay?”
“Come on, sir, a Boy Scout could have found his way here.”
“Well, as I recall there wasn’t one around to help.”
There was a knock on the door. Cole opened the door. It was Garcia. “Sir, a runner just came from company headquarters. The CO will be doing a line tour in thirty minutes.”
Sheridan thanked her and then said, “Well, Sergeant, it looks like it’s show time.”
17