Blind Eyes, Black Hearts - A GWOT Story (On Hold)

Chapter 5, Part 3 - Over the Hills and Far Away

When Salvade woke up, he found himself set by a tree near the rest of the wounded. His carbine was not with him, and his helmet, along with his headset, was gone. He didn’t remember anything about how he got unconscious, he just remembered crawling to a ditch where Staff Sergeant Henderson and Sergeant LaHoye were, and suddenly he blacked out. He turned his head to the right and saw around three wounded and combat ineffective soldiers moaning in pain of their wounds. They were all sweating and their bandages were bloody. Rick looked at his body. He checked his vest. Grenade pouches, 40mm launcher rounds, M4 magazines, and finally his pistol and its ammo. He used his hand to check his thigh, where he put his pistol. He felt the metallic handle, and he pulled it out.

The pistol was a remarkable thing, but in many ways Rick preferred a rifle. He didn’t even really like the M4. It simply wasn’t long enough to beat Taliban AKs and G3s in range. He wished he had an M16 instead, which the M4 was based upon.

The pistol was a Vietnam-era Colt M1911 his uncle gave to him, she said that it was his lucky gun. So Rick, not wanting to die, took the gun as a token and here he was, unscratched and a bit dizzy. He tried to move his legs, and with a couple of cold seconds, his legs could move normally. He was good to go. Now that he could stand, who the hell had control of his platoon?

Rifle fire from both the ACU-wearing soldiers and the tracksuit and camo pants wearing insurgents was still heavy. In fact it got worse. His men had formed a makeshift defensive line deeper within the desert tree line, and as Rick assessed the situation, this was for the Rangers and Taliban to have even ground. Whoever put this statement did a great job, Rick thought, and even though these Taliban were good as fuck they wouldn’t ever beat the Rangers on equal ground. His men were approximately 15 meters in front of him, giving out an effective and organized resistance against the Taliban, who, Rick could unclearly see, were now advancing down the hills and into the tree line.

Then somebody called his name. “LT!” It was a voice in pain.

Rick looked around himself and didn’t find the guy who called him. The voice, familiar, called his name again. “LT!” followed by a grunt.

Now Rick could determine where the voice was coming from. It came from behind a tree, so Rick went to that tree to discover who was calling his name. When Rick looked at who was behind that tree, it turned out to be Private First Class Alexander Munro, LaHoye’s SAW Gunner, though his SAW was nowhere to be seen. He could see that his lower leg, a bit under the knee, was bandaged.

“Munro. You okay?”

“Yeah I’m okay. I’m rearguard. Your guys need you, sir. Taliban got us surrounded.”

“Damn, Roger that. Who’s got my mic?”

“Dammo’s got your mic, sir” His voice was tired and worn out. He had a pistol in his hands. Suicide? Hell no. Probably for self-defense if some crazy Taliban straggler came there. Munro was a man with high morale, and suicide was never an option. “And your gun’s with Sergeant LaHoye.”

“Alright. You keep tight there, Private. Just hope that MEDEVAC’s coming in soon.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rick rushed to the firing line, trying to find either Henderson or LaHoye. Luckily, though, before going back and forth in search for his NCOs, heavily-stubbled Henderson noticed him and called out his name. Rick quickly went to Dammo and the two stood low behind a fallen tree while the others kept shooting. The Taliban had began taking cover behind the trees that were Dagger Two’s previous position, and the fighting was getting tense with the Taliban taking heavy casualties.

“Nice job in putting the boys here, Dammo.”

“Don’t need Officer school for that, Rick. Here’s your mic.” He reached into his helmet and pulled Rick’s officer-only and command-access headset off of his head, putting his own back on. Rick put the headset back on his hand, and as if it were a crown, returned to command.