Leadership [Short Story] ✅

Part 2

A year has passed since Ranel Fleming was assigned to our troop. At the moment, I haven't got a clue as to which position I am in, or what status I hold for Squad Four. I am definitely not a Commander. I am definitely not just any leader either.

Sergeant Roderick Jackson died during one of our midnight obstacle courses back in winter during the previous year. Nobody witnessed the full incidence, but he got attacked by foxes. Bloody foxes! It had been a fairly long night, and we all traipsed into random buses without bothering where our troops were. I wasn't in the same transport as Sergeant Jackson – not that it was much of a surprise – but he never appeared the following morning for our usual morning drills. Someone assumed that he'd been called by the Commander. However, I got a very bad impulse about it. Sure enough, when I entered Commander Chauser's office, Jackson wasn't even there. In fact, he wasn't anywhere around the barrack. Chauser swore he never called Jackson unless it was something urgent.

That was when I practically drove the truck all the way back to our obstacle station; the forest.

Seeing as it had been winter, and snow was mounted up everywhere, it was easy enough to make out the smears of crimson staining the thick, white carpet of snow as soon as I entered deep into the forest after an hour of searching; blots of red against a white backdrop. My first impression was that there had been a raid, but not when I saw the body of a fox lying on the ground; its blood frozen and sticking on its red fur from where it had been shot through its chest. My dread subdued for a while until I saw Sergeant Jackson's body, along with his M4, lying few feet away from it; his face clawed, his eyes wide open but not seeing, and half of the flesh from his neck had been flayed. I couldn't distinguish his blood-stained uniform from his chest, as it had been gashed in the middle down his stomach. And I'd vomited on the spot before adrenaline kicked in.

Evidently, he had been attacked by a pair of foxes. The other fox had had time to flee when he shot the second fox, but it was too late for him. He died freezing in the cold. And up until now, I still ponder over some possible reasons on how we came to not notice his absence when we returned to the barrack. A valid reason might just be the fact that the troops were deadbeat and too drained to think, much less count their troops. I, on the other hand, still think I am responsible for such case.

It had taken me a month to get over the sorrow of losing Sergeant Jackson. It was quite pathetic, really, seeing as he'd died from assaults caused by a bloody pair of foxes instead of armies. I didn't realise that I'd been looking up to him ever since I was assigned to Squad Four. He was only forty-six years old, and had five children, one of whom was just graduating from university – from what I'd heard anyway. Roderick Jackson was a great man.

Ranel Fleming caught me in my moments of grief once after attending Sergeant Jackson's funeral back in March. I had been standing at the edge of the same forest then, all by myself, shooting at random objects until, running out of bullets, I flung it away and yelled in agony. "You didn't shoot birds around here, did you?" had been the first thing that he said to me, causing me to turn around in surprise. He looked impassive to my actions that had clearly reflected my emotions, which I was certain wasn't something he normally saw – or any of the troops.

"No," I'd snapped at him, turning back around to hide my expression. "And return to the barrack as soon as possible, Private."

"It's Sunday. And on Sundays, I feed birds. You can't command me on Sundays, Colton Squire."

I'd sighed and dropped down on the ground, not in the mood for a row. I never liked yelling at Ranel anyway, not even during his fragile days. Apart from that, Ranel is nearly a foot taller than me, so I don't know what's more pathetic than seeing a short lieutenant stand on tiptoes and throw his head back to yell at a taller private. He didn't talk about anything else back then, rather than offering me some more bread so we could both feed birds. He'd made a good company. Until now, he is always so comfortable to talk to, and I always find myself approaching him instead of Caden Walsh – or any of the troops, really.