Chapter 147
Chapter 147
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 147
Chapter Title: Side Story: Boiled Life (1)
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“What? A rookie?”
“Yeah, they’re sending us a rookie.”
“Another rookie?”
Late evening. John, who’d just come back from standing guard at the makeshift outpost until his eyes were about to pop out, wondered if our Lt. Colonel had finally lost it to a fever.
“Listen, Colonel. Don’t take this the wrong way, but like I’ve said a million times, what we need isn’t more trash. We’re full-grown adults burning nearly twice or three times the energy of normal folks in this godforsaken hellhole, and we can’t even hit the daily calorie intake? Does that make any sense? Why is it every time we beg for supplies, ammo, gear, they send us another rookie instead? Ah, is that bastard the supply now? We just eat him up? Better be a sturdy one with a nice fat gut. Meat for gnawing, fat for boiling soup.”
“Calm down, John. They’ve got their reasons over there. Everyone’s at war, right?”
“That’s exactly why we’re screaming it—we’re in the thickest of it, and look at us!”
His attitude screamed like he’d jump up any second, but John moved with extreme caution. In his hand was a can of beans still steaming hot from being warmed up. Spill it, and he’d either desert or off himself on the spot.
“When was the last one? Hey Wally, wasn’t that punk in your squad? The cocky Chinese guy.”
“Chinese? Oh, One Way?”
“Yeah, Wang Wei. Dumbass. At least memorize your squad’s names.”
“Memorization’s maxed out on my rifle serial and dinner menu. And that guy wasn’t worth remembering. Got dragged here after going AWOL, and true to his name One Way, he tried deserting again and ate it. Dug one straight tunnel to hell without a detour—name checked out.”
“Deserted? When?”
“Week ago. Remember that mine blast at dawn, lights out and scramble? Figured he looked like a slant-eye. Enemy’s got North Koreans and Chinese at the core—makes no sense having a Chinese guy here.”
“You say that in another unit, you’re up on charges. Chinese are everywhere, you know? Chinese-Americans, Chinese-Nepalis, Chinese-Africans. Hell, probably Chinese Neanderthals too.”
John Abrams—the guy his close buddies called “Shepherd”—dropped his spoon as Wally yapped away, cackling about the dead rookie with Lewil.
“The mine at C-2 outpost?! So the bastard who chewed through all the barbed wire I laid crawling like a swamp monster was one of ours?”
“Whoa, black, filthy, huge, and shiny John. Terrifying sight.”
“Shut it, Lewil! You vanished when it was time to help, left me solo! Holed up squeezing a glass of morning pleasure milk?”
“Why? Want some? Mix it in your coffee—solid breakfast.”
“Enough, John Abrams, Lewil Bartos. Ruining a fine dinner with that appetizer. You know I keep rounds in my pistol just for you two.”
John slammed down the spoon he’d been about to shovel in, slamming the brakes on their escalating dirty talk. Experience told him leaving them to it meant a fight breaking out.
“If that round’s yours on top of mine, I’ll take it smiling.”
“...If we had one more decent squad leader, I’d have shot you both ages ago.”
“What? Saying we’re only half a man each?”
“Skill-wise, each 1.5 portions. Together? Negative four. Total: minus one.”
Slurp—
Lt. Colonel Chester King, platoon leader of the 14th Special Annihilation Task Force, stared sadly at his roasted barley “coffee” before popping the lid on the bubbling can of beans. Lt. Colonel leading a platoon? Sounded like a bad joke, but the original company-sized 14th had taken heavy losses lately. Top brass refused supplies, just shoved promotions at them instead. John, a sergeant major before, now sported captain’s bars.
‘Said I’d return all the useless medals and promotions if they’d just let me eat some damn bread.’
Even the dog-food-like, suspiciously bloated canned beans were nearly gone. Maybe—just maybe—the “Reclaim Allied Command” plan born from blind rage at dumb orders was about to shine.
‘...Better have at least one more meat shield, then.’
The colonel suppressed the coup fantasies creeping up, keeping a straight face as he addressed his “trustworthy” squad leaders.
“First rookie in three months. Anyone want him?”
As the colonel force-fed himself the faintly off-smelling baked beans, the three squad leaders sitting with him clamped their mouths shut in unison.
“Wally. Your squad’s short after Wang Wei bit it?”
“No thanks. Know how many have come, shit themselves, and bailed? One Way at least offed himself AWOL-style. But the chicken-shit who panicked and sprayed bullets mid-op after sweet-talking? The mafia wannabe who turned his gun on friendlies after a beating? I’ve done my time as guinea pig for rookies. Got my own to watch—pass this one to Shepherd.”
“Got it. John?”
“Lend me that pistol you carry. I’ll do His Majesty the honor.”
“Oh, sweet. If I die, you take the rookie?”
“Suicide gun, punk. Colonel likes you more—your bullet’s gotta be on top.”
“Shut up before I shoot you both. Fine... Lewil?”
“Shepherd’s got three fewer squadmates than me.”
“Hey, asshole!”
The colonel’s head throbbed at their words. Short-staffed yet overstaffed. The 14th’s chronic plague.
Orders from above were suicidally risky, every op chewed through men, leaving them perpetually understrength.
But the replacements? All problem cases.
AWOLs, insubordinates, uniform violators, trigger-happy psychos. “Trash” troopers.
Take John Abrams—Shepherd. Gouged out a squadmate’s eye with a spoon for calling him a nigger, got shipped here.
Shepherd’s squad: 11. Wally’s: 13. Lewil’s: 14. Total 38.
Too few for missions, too many lunatics for a lone colonel.
So every rookie drop, he prayed. Not for sane—just someone who could talk.
“What’s his deal? What’d this one screw up?”
With everyone lips sealed like musical chairs, the colonel welcomed Shepherd’s reluctant opening.
“Good thinking, John. Don’t grill him too hard like last time...”
“No, let’s just see!”
John grumbled at the colonel already pulling forms, snatching the rookie’s file from the top of the binder.
“Let’s see... red stamps, red stamps... Here. [Mutiny, Disobeying Orders, Assaulting Superior]. What? Tossed a chem round into the CO’s office? This guy’s nuts!”
“Mm, tch. Show me. O... Shepherd, congrats? This rookie’s got guts. Pre-trial said motive was just ‘Give and take.’ Mm, no court record though. King, you know the story?”
“Enlisted with his dad. Father-son tossed into enemy chem zone. Only one came back.”
Lewil sighed, eyeing the empty can regretfully at the colonel’s flat tone.
“Ah, figures. Tch. The planner? That general pushing weekly charter flights home for R&R? Shoving men into meatgrinders? Yeah, him.”
“Medici. Lt. Colonel.”
“Oh, he’s dead?”
“In hospital.”
“What a shame! Would’ve praised our rookie big if it was a foul ball instead of a strike!”
Lewil cackled, handing the file back to John. John grimaced at the soup-splattered pages from Lewil’s sloppy eating, passing it to the colonel.
“Tch. How long’ll this one last?”
The stained record showed an innocent-eyed teen: [Professor (17): Korean descent].
****
Ever since my father faded away, sitting dazed by his cold corpse until late-rescue allies pulled me out, I’d dreamed only of this moment.
“Sir! Sergeant Professor reporting. Here on business for ops room.”
“Hm? Your rank... Ah, you’re that guy. The one who jumped two grades...”
“Sergeant! This ain’t a counseling session! What’re you waiting for? Drag him out! How the hell does a grunt get this far...”
Click!
No regrets, no hesitation pulling the pin.
Hiss!
“W-what! Situation!”
“Gas!”
“Gas! CS grenade!”
“Don’t panic—clear it! Windows open! If Professor bolts, shoot to kill!”
“Just shoot the psycho! He attacked command!”
“Don’t shoot! Tie him!”
Realizing as the chem grenade I hurled hit—not the nightmare toxin my dad endured, but tear gas, barely enough to water eyes and stumble out—I regretted it. All I knew of army life: draft notice in three years, pull trigger on heavy rifle, bullets fly. Thought all chem was the same. Situation desperate enough to shove kids like me in trenches.
Stupid, thinking back. No way they’d store real chem—could wipe a zone’s troops—like that. Live rounds double-locked; chem wouldn’t sit in fresh cardboard in the prop warehouse. Later learned: tear gas prepped for troops rushing civvies clinging to fences/airport.
That night, locked in a shed post-chem fiasco, a white guy from ops visited.
Pasty face, no field time. Protruding gut. Huge glasses, nervy foreigner.
Door opened—I knew instantly.
‘That’s him.’
Back from dad’s death, I stormed the CO’s office raging. Who? Who issued this shit order?
Never saw the order, but a friendly admin on restriction whispered the name. Italian warlord clan. Promotion-hungry hack.
Lt. Colonel Lorenzo Medici.
Drunk-faced, he started beating the tied me.
Thud! Thwack!
“Damn Asian monkey dares attack command! Delay my meeting, slow orders, get squads slaughtered—think your worthless life pays that? Huh!”
Steel boot to head rocked my consciousness. Chance coming. Once—just once—see that face twist in pain...
“Lt. Colonel Medici. Private Professor faces court-martial. Private sanctions should stop here—”
“Hah, hah! What? Private sanctions? Stop here?”
Grinding teeth for opportunity, someone blocked the head-hunting kicks. Boot switched to shin of nearby guy.
Crack!
“Hey.”
“...Sergeant Cho Byung-il.”
“Did I hear wrong? Someone just ordered me. So rank-wise,”
Crack!
“No way a sergeant!”
Crack!
“Exists!”
“Urk!”
Thud!
Through swollen-eye slit, saw man clutching leg, collapsing. Panting ended in zipper—warm liquid splashed my face.
“Damn it, these fucks and that one—treat superiors like waterboys. Filthy savage Asian ‘soldiers’... not soldiers. Demoted to manage militia trash. Sacrifice inevitable in war! Lose a few thousand Filipino flea troops and treat me like this? Watch—I’ll grind these Korean grunts into results and go home! Home, I’ll stomp these two worms and every one under my heel!”
Punching air, swearing, Medici frowned, plopping on my recent chair.
“Shit, training bugs blistered me. That idiot didn’t fetch my baton...”
Through puffy vision: bootlace undone, red-hot Medici foot. Urine-hiked pants bared pristine ankle, no hardship scars.
Lesson from chem fail: use what you know, trust.
Luckily, more familiar than K-2 rifle trained a month.
Lifetime tool for ripping, crushing tough stuff.
Crunch!
“Aaagh! Let—let gooo!”
Tasting coppery blood, I clamped harder on his rear ankle. Snap.
“Gaaah! Sp-spare me! Medic! Meeedic!!!’
Writhing, he booted my head off, dragged himself crawling. Last sight before blackout.
Beaten face too swollen for trial, Medici’s strong rec sent me disciplinary to 14th Special Annihilation Task Force.
Troops called it “clean-handed execution yard.” No dropship—their zone; rode neighbor’s transport, 5-min jump school and luck-prayer, tumbled from 3000 meters.
‘Son, love your life.’
Father’s voice amid shredding wind. Knew my waste-drop thoughts.
‘Dad. Is this really living?’
Yanking random handle in surrender.
Unluckily, paratroop 5-min HALO crash course worked too well.
****