The Living Will Envy The Dead (40 page)

Why?  An army that doesn’t care, even slightly, for its wounded is an army that is going to have a serious morale problem.  Soldiers can face death bravely, but the prospect of being horrifyingly maimed is far worse, even for me.  The army would have to take the wounded back to their medics, if they had medics, and do what they could for them, while the unwounded men would see the wounded victims and lose all heart for the battle.  Parading some of the wounded ex-insurgents from Iraq in communities that could have gone either way hadn’t been an American idea, but it had been surprisingly effective.  But then, most of the Iraqis who had been killed hadn’t been hardcore insurgents, just desperate young men out to make what money they could.

“They’re not breaking,” Mac said, grimly.  I watched in disbelief as the Warriors charged over the bodies of their moaning comrades and kept coming, bringing their heavier weapons to bear on our positions.  They shouldn’t have been able to keep coming, not after that, but as far as I could tell, they hadn’t even hesitated.  Their minds were just as cracked up as the Zombies, I realised with a thrill of horror; their comrades, and their pain and suffering, no longer existed in their world.  They were probably ensuring their deaths by leaving them to bleed out and die, but they didn’t care.  They just wanted to get to us.  “Ed, we’ll have to use the machine guns on them.”

I keyed my radio.  “Section Four” – the machine gunners – “prepare to open fire on my command.”

The problem with machine guns is that you can shoot them dry very quickly.  Any normal pre-war FOB, or patrol base, would have had – quite literally – millions of rounds in stock for use.  We didn’t have anything like enough rounds for the machine guns, so I’d given orders to hold them back as long as possible, just in case they weren't going to be needed.  This was turning into one of those situations where you needed a fire hose-like stream of bullets to stop the enemy, which was fine by me…as long as the bullets held out.  If they didn’t hold out, we would be in serious trouble when the Warriors broke through.

“They’re coming,” Mac said.  I nodded.  The machine guns would hit them before they hit the second minefield.  If we were lucky, they might even convince them to break off, but I was starting to suspect that the battle was going to be won by the side that killed the other side off first.  How many fanatics did the Warriors have, after all, and how many could they spend?  “Ed…”

“Yeah,” I said, feeling cold horror spreading through my soul.  I keyed my radio.  “Section Four, fire at will.”

The chattering of the machine guns almost deafened me, but the effect on the Warriors in the lead was nothing short of spectacular.  A standard machine gun pumps out hundreds of rounds a minute and each of the Warriors was hit by dozens of bullets, most of which went through their flesh, came out the other side, and ran into the next line of Warriors.  Some of their bodies literally disintegrated, sending other Warriors tumbling to the ground, tripping over their former comrades, creating a domino effect that brought others down.  It reminded me, chillingly, of a tale told by an Iraqi officer I’d met once, who’d been on a visit to Mecca during one of the riots.  The crowd had stumbled over one another and dozens had been crushed to death as they collapsed to the ground.  I wondered, briefly, what had happened to him.  He’d had grand plans to invade Saudi Arabia one day and recover the Holy City.  He might even have had a chance to do just that in the chaos caused by the Final War.

“They’re stumbling back,” Mac announced, with delight.  For the first time, we saw the Warriors hesitate, their line wavering backwards and forwards as the machine guns played their deadly trade.  They fell out of line, seeking what cover they could, a handful even breaking down and weeping.  They’d been shocked out of their trance, I realised, even though we couldn’t risk trying to take them prisoner.  They’d be lucky if they managed to crawl out of the battlefield before the warriors regrouped.  Their former comrades would probably treat them as heretics.  “Ed, we can break them…”

“Maybe,” I said, unconvinced.  The fire they were directing at us was unabated.  We hadn’t taken many casualties, but we’d certainly lost a handful of men…and we couldn’t afford to lose many of them.  The mines might have been more effective than I had dared to hope, but the outer minefield had been expended and we couldn’t hope to replace it while under enemy fire.  I had considered sending a team out to do what they could, but it would have been suicidal.  The Warrior snipers might not have been as good as Patty or Stacy, but they were enthusiastic.  “Here they come again…”

They appeared out of the haze like black ninjas, wearing poser outfits that made me smile…and carrying long tubes that wiped the smile off my face.  A basic mortar can be set up and used easily by two men – hell, there are some mortars that can be used by a man operating on his own – and they provided considerable firepower to the attackers.  Patty and Stacy acted without orders – good girls – and shot down four of the enemy mortar team before they got into position, but once they were in position, they were effectively safe.  A withering hail of fire swept our positions whenever we tried to slip someone down to deal with them.

“Get our own mortars up,” I snapped, into the radio.  We’d pre-registered them to engage the Warriors when the terrain funnelled them into a killing zone, but we didn’t have any other weapons that could engage their mortars.  I would have loved a radar system that could have tracked the shells and a long-range multi-barrelled artillery weapon, but we didn’t have any of them.  It wouldn’t have been
that
useful.  We knew where the Warriors were, after all, but we didn’t have a weapon that could hit them, apart from our own mortars.

The dull CRUMP, CRUMP, CRUMP of the mortars issued out over the battlefield as they launched the first shells into our position.  They didn’t have any idea of just what to shoot at, I saw with some relief, and there was a distantly random tinge to their firing, but sooner or later they would hit something through sheer luck.  Some of our positions might have been able to survive a direct hit, but most of them weren't
that
well prepared.  One of the shells came down in the middle of a small lake the original owner had used as a fishpond – and we had promptly turned into a R&R facility – and sent water flying everywhere, another came down on top of a reserve position.  Given time, and luck, they’d take us apart.

“The mortar team is ready to engage,” my radio buzzed.  “Do we have clearance to fire?”

“Granted,” I said, quickly.  The enemy were spreading out – one of them had lost an arm to a shot from Patty, or perhaps Stacy – and soon it would be harder to suppress their fire.  “Take the bastards out!”

The two mortar units duelled for a long moment, both sides trying to knock the other out before they were knocked out themselves, but my attention was distracted by a sight in the distance.  The dead bodies – and the remaining wounded, moaning piteously to themselves as they lay on the ground, bleeding their lives away – had left the ground covered with blood and torn up by explosions until it was damn near unrecognisable.  It wasn't that that distracted me, even though I imagined that some battles in the Civil War had looked like that afterwards, but the sight of the Warriors regrouping, further away.  They were evidently organising themselves for another charge.

“Dutch,” I said, keying my radio, “give me a roll call.  How many have we lost?”

Another explosion from the mortar duel interrupted his words.  “Fourteen down, sir,” Dutch said.  “Seven have been badly wounded and need urgent treatment; nineteen have been lightly wounded and are refusing to leave their posts.”

My lips quirked.  We hadn’t bred cowards, after all, although depending on their wounds, some of them might not have been the smartest cookies in the pack.  Dutch would see to that, in any case.  If they were too badly wounded to fight effectively, they would have to be sent to the hospital tent after all, no matter how determined they were to fight.  I didn’t want to be served by fanatics.  They always tend to think more about winning the battle rather than winning the war.

But there was another problem.  I had been brought up never to lead a man behind – or a comrade’s body.  If we held the FOB, we could have the dead buried properly, but if we were driven out, we would be abandoning their bodies.  It may sound silly to worry about that at the time, when we were in danger of being overrun when the Warriors returned to the battle, but I cared about their bodies.  I didn’t want them to be desecrated by the Warriors if they captured them.  Some of our enemies had taken an unholy delight in such atrocities and had used them as weapons.

It’s not as if we can cut and run from this engagement
, I thought, with a sudden flash of rage that surprised even me.  I had always hated how our political leaders had seemed to waver to and fro on every issue, leaving the outside world to decide that Uncle Sam was a coward at heart, but now…now, we couldn’t escape the war.  The Warriors would be defeated, or they would defeat us.  Compromise would be impossible.  The very nature of their regime would see to that.

“Ed,” Mac said, suddenly, “it’s starting.”

I heard the roar of engines in the distance and peered towards them through my binoculars…and swore.

“Shit,” I said, horrified.  “Mac,
look
!”

The Warriors had pulled a new trick out of their sleeves…and this one might just stop us from shooting back at them.  I don’t know why it surprised me so much.  Perhaps I had expected better from Americans, even half-mad religious fanatics.  This was right out of the terrorist handbook…

The bastards were using human shields.

C'est magnifique, mais ce n'est pas la guerre.  C'est de la folie.

(It is magnificent, but it is not war.  It is madness.)

- French Marshal Pierre Bosquet

“My God,” Ed breathed.  “Those disgusting bastards…”

The first wave of human shields were black men, their faces an unhealthy grey pallor as they were pushed forwards towards our defences.  They were naked, without even the dignity of a loincloth or underpants, their bodies marked and scarred with signs of regular beatings.  Their hands were tied behind their backs and their legs were shackled, forcing them to stumble forwards, unable to run or even to fight.  They had no choice, but to walk towards our lines…

It wasn't the slaves who held my attention.  That was reserved for the girls.  They were naked, too, and secured firmly to the sides of various vehicles, or forced to stumble along behind the first wave of human shields.  None of them could have been older than eighteen, but they were all terrified, shaking as they stumbled forward.  One of them fell to the ground and a Warrior brought a club down on her head, killing her instantly.  Her naked body was left there to bleed into the ground, adding her blood to that of the hundreds of Warriors who had been killed in the fighting.  The Warrior who’d killed her fell to the ground as a shot rang out; Patty or Stacy – or both – had killed him.  I hoped it had hurt when the bullet passed through his brain.

“Shit, Ed,” Mac said.  He knew the most likely outcome of any battle as well as I did.  The human shields, male and female alike, would be torn apart in the crossfire.  We’d managed to save hundreds of human shields in Iraq during the war, but that had been with highly-trained and experienced troops…and we’d still lost hundreds of others.  They weren't religious at all, I decided; the antichrist they so feared lay in their hearts, forcing them to commit evil acts in the name of God.  “We can’t fire without killing the poor bastards.”

“I know,” I said, knowing that we would have no choice.  The human shields might have been advancing with all the enthusiasm of a boy who knows his father intends to blister his behind when he arrives home, but they couldn’t stay back forever.  A single sweep with our machine guns could have killed them all, but they would have soaked up fire that should have been expended on the Warriors.  Those miserable bastards had pulled our claws.  How many of my soldiers, unused to such an environment, would obey an order to fire on the Warriors, knowing that someone innocent would be caught in the crossfire and die?

“Christina,” someone shouted, from the ramparts.  “Christina,
Christina
!”

I swore, again.  That hadn’t occurred to me, but we did have people from Summersville in the force.  If some of them had sweethearts or lovers in the town, and logically some of them would have such connections, then…they might see their friends advancing towards them, expecting to be killed at any moment by their own side.  One of them, clearly, had seen his girlfriend among the naked girls, stripped of her dignity and left to die by her captors.