Chapter 209
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 209
Chapter Title: Survivors (12)
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The rescued survivors tossed and turned all night long.
“Give us ammo. Ammo. I can’t sleep without ammo. Please…….”
It was the common plea from those who woke up in the middle of the night searching for the duty officer. Even during Winter’s watch, two of them came by. Their bloodshot eyes and gasping breaths were pitiful to behold. But Captain Langford’s policy was an absolute no. He feared accidents.
“Even the best sniper of the Iraq War died that way. After discharge, sure, but still.”
Those were the captain’s words during their one-on-one meeting that morning.
“You mean Sergeant Chris Kyle.”
Winter had heard about this famous incident several times. The perpetrator was Eddie Ray Routh, a former Marine and Iraq War veteran. Routh had never even gone outside the wire into the dangerous battlefield, yet he was diagnosed with severe PTSD anyway.
The ones rescued last night didn’t even need mentioning.
The captain nodded affirmatively, running his fingers through his hair.
“It’s also true that we’re short on ammo. Handing it out might just backfire.”
A notepad lay open on the table, scribbled with dates and numbers across several lines. It was the company’s ammo inventory. Rifle rounds had dropped from 4,847 yesterday and today to 4,703. They’d burned through 144 rounds overnight. It still looked plentiful in numbers, but they couldn’t fill two magazines per soldier anymore. In reality, each soldier now held just forty-nine rounds.
They’d held back about 800 rounds during redistribution. That was the spare needed at the company level.
‘It’s not like evenly dividing it up solves everything.’
Not every soldier engaged at once very often. For instance, when holding a defensive line, if the enemy concentrated on one sector, you had to rush ammo there immediately. Forty-nine rounds was what a panicking soldier could burn through in ten seconds. Magazine changes included.
That was why commanders always prepared spares, whether troops or ammo.
“We walked an extra two rounds each to fill the ammo cache. Everyone looked like they were about to drop dead.”
Winter managed a wry smile at Captain Langford’s joke. The ammo cache he mentioned was two duffel bags hanging on the control room wall. They were filled with contributions from the company every time combat broke out. A portable ammo depot carried by an individual—what a marvel.
“Let’s review yesterday’s fight first. We killed way more mutants than the rounds we expended. At this rate, we could handle thirty more battles.”
Another cynical quip.
He pulled up last night’s combat logs on the computer. Sourced from the mobile team’s helmet cams. Winter’s feed was included too, borrowed from another soldier for recon and intel gathering.
The old computer, once used for lodging logs and records, struggled with high-def video. The small monitor bore burn-in ghosts. But it wasn’t enough to hinder analysis.
The captain wanted to precisely gauge Winter’s breakthrough capability.
“Fights like this were nowhere in the manuals. We need to know how thin the enemy density has to be for you to punch through. That way, we can provide proper fire support.”
Winter agreed. Penetrating charges were far more efficient than chipping away from outside. Better for hunting the smart ones lurking in the rear too. In the dawn battle, quickly dropping the ghoul had thrown the horde even more into disarray.
It was actually pretty dangerous. Winter always had to race ahead of the soldiers’ lines of fire.
They exchanged opinions for about half an hour. Avoiding combat remained the best option. They had the capability for it too. At least on open plains, spot and evade first was feasible. The mobile team that spotted a mutant group first could lure it off in a wrong direction. Once the team’s skills improved, Winter planned to teach horseback prone-and-pop techniques. Mind the wind, and even in a reed bed, a horde could pass close without detecting them.
The problem was unavoidable fights for rescues.
“Even saying all this, honestly, we’re in no position to save other units.”
Captain Langford let out a long sigh. His hairline wasn’t improving anytime soon.
“But we can’t just ignore them and pass by. The company would be wracked with guilt. They’re already awkward with each other from different original units…… If their consciences weigh too heavy, the whole outfit might fall apart. That worries me.”
Winter’s observation. Guilt bred combat fatigue too.
‘They might even desert in squads or platoons.’
Could you even call that desertion? Refusing unlawful orders was a soldier’s duty and right. Especially since Langford wasn’t even their direct CO. Faith in Winter would erode too. The U.S. military didn’t abandon comrades. Time to recall how much contempt Captain Markert faced from the troops after Paso Robles.
Knock knock.
Someone rapped on the door. In came Lieutenant Escamilla.
“Captain. The funeral preparations are complete.”
They’d built coffins matching the number of fallen and dug the graves. Her platoon had sweated in the carpenter’s shop since early morning. Winter worried about the psychological state of the soldiers involved. Escamilla would manage, though. Langford nodded.
“……Good work. Let’s go right away. Tell everyone except the guard detail: anyone who wants to attend, gear up and be at the church by 08:00.”
“Understood.”
Lieutenant Escamilla saluted and left. Captain Langford muttered. Wouldn’t it be great to have even a chaplain’s assistant, if not a full chaplain.
The dog tags recovered from the fallen bore religious symbols. All but one atheist were some flavor of Christian. Catholics were unavoidable, but Protestants—where every man’s a priest—could handle a service led by an assistant.
For now, they’d just read a simple prayer. A ceremony to comfort the troops. Langford pocketed a sheet of paper he’d written and rewritten all dawn. A Bible beside it bristled with bookmarks.
Troops assembled at the abandoned church, armed just in case.
A small bell tower and a patch of grass fronted the church. That was the burial ground. Coffins slid into the pits.
“Merciful God. Our Lord who is the Resurrection and the Life. These good soldiers who fought the good fight, finished the race, and kept the faith now knock at the gates of heaven. Blessed are those who die in the Lord, as Your word declares, O Father. We believe that the Righteous Judge will have mercy on the crowned one and all who long for You. To these warriors fallen on the battlefield defending homeland and humanity, grant the places You have prepared. And to us suffering the parting of comrades and the trials of tribulation, bestow Your mercy and consolation…….”
As the prayer deepened, stifled tears flowed here and there.
Not everyone welcomed this funeral. Sergeant Osborne, for one. The dying words of one he’d personally shot were the issue.
‘Send my body to my mother in New York……something like that.’
That twisted the sergeant’s face in agony.
An impossible wish in reality. But in the moment before turning monster, there’d been no time for such thoughts.
As the coffins were covered in dirt, the church bells stayed silent. The lined-up soldiers fired no three-volley salute skyward. The rite was for the living.
“It’ll be hard to leave Aaron here.”
Sergeant Osborne’s bloodshot eyes spoke. Aaron was the one with the last words. Winter soothed the sergeant.
“What changes if you stay? You think Private Aaron wanted you to die too? No. Survive, and you get a chance.”
“Damn it, what chance are you even talking about…….”
“The chance to come back here.”
It was a conversation many could hear. Mindful of the surroundings, Winter spoke firmly.
“Even if the main liberation op failed outright, the blockade lines haven’t collapsed. Nevada’s fortified deserts and mountains won’t break easily either. It’ll take time, but eventually, they’ll retake this far. Survive till then. To take Aaron to New York yourself.”
“…….”
No light promise. In a world where the government had run efficiently for so long, the blockades were thoroughly fortified. Countless bunkers covering each other’s ranges. Packed with rebar concrete even grumbls couldn’t smash easily.
The Pentagon spokesman introducing the blockades had put it this way:
“Whatever, if it’s big enough and tough enough, what’re they gonna do about it?”
Americans cheered the official’s rough talk. Winter thought of Winston Churchill then. Britain’s WWII PM. One of the leaders he’d studied before kicking off the 27th apocalypse. A gangster image helped rally the public. He didn’t curse in speeches, but the vibe was similar.
Winter gripped Osborne’s shoulder.
“At the very least, you have to tell his mother. That her son fought bravely.”
Normally the direct CO’s job. But Osborne’s company commander was likely dead already.
“Chin up.”
At the final words of comfort, the sergeant bowed his head.
Soldiers who’d lingered too close scattered. Plenty of them probably equated the clear failure of the liberation op with a blockade collapse. Had their thinking shifted a bit?
‘If it really breaks through……I won’t last long either.’
After the funeral, Winter led the mobile team out immediately. Primary mission: support searching Point Reyes Station. Secondary: recon as far as possible.
A pickup truck with a trailer hitched followed the team. It carried three teams—fifteen troops total. All pulled from Winter’s platoon.
The town, rowdy last night, was astonishingly quiet now.
First stop: the county sheriff’s office on the village’s west side. Ivy choked the brown brick and wood building. They crowbarred the lock and entered the armory—mostly empty. When the plague hit the West Coast, the sheriffs must’ve rolled out maxed out on gear.
Still, they found two shotguns. Ammo: three small boxes of twenty-five shells each. Plus some pistol rounds swept from the floor—dropped in hasty grabs. Luckily, they matched the company’s pistols.
A solid haul already. Click. Sergeant Morales, checking the abandoned guns for jams, cracked a satisfied smile.
“Perfect for mounted shooting.”
The mobile team couldn’t guarantee accuracy from horseback yet.
Next door to the sheriff’s was the fire station. Wiping dust from the garage’s glass revealed ambulances and fire trucks parked side by side inside. Anticipation lit the soldiers’ faces. Like pickups, these mostly ran diesel.
With large fuel tanks too. Fuel filled to the brim degraded slower than partial loads.
Even if the vehicles wouldn’t start, they could siphon fuel.
‘Though there’s a gas station separate in the town center anyway.’
Winter recalled the dark drive through. No matter the hoarding frenzy, those reserves wouldn’t be totally dry. Like Paso Robles. Other countries, maybe—but America was a top oil producer.
“Handy, a building with solar panels. We’ll tow the vehicles there.”
To try jump-starting the batteries. With Winter’s okay, Sergeant Morales hooked the fire truck’s tow bar to the pickup. Even then, soldiers had to push from behind.
============================ Author's Notes ============================
#Churchill
Type "Churchill" and "Thompson submachine gun" into Google search, and it autocompletes.(...) I’ll upload one of the images to the work settings.
#Q&A
Q. svjk : @Broken Arrow.. Scary tactic. Has it ever been used for real?
A. Less a tactic, more a way to call fire support. Danger Close happens often when enemy and friendlies are super tight, but Broken Arrow is rarer. Still happens, though. Recently, Russian Spetsnaz Lt. Alexander Prokhorenko called it in during the Syrian Civil War and made headlines.
Search "Alexander Prokhorenko" for details. Posthumously awarded Hero of the Russian Federation.