Primal Gambit

Chapter 2: Doerrman's Barracks

Doerrman rustled under the sheet on the decrepit cot. The barracks' room was lined with them, men tucked away but ever-restless. The distanced clapping of gunfire became a metronome to each man trying to sleep. Living quarters and conditions were under standards, but government officials knew that any reporter who opted to travel across the world to one of the most dangerous countries on the planet was not going to spend their precious minutes recording marine downtime. A bleeding pen and scribbled page in hand, Doerrman wrote a letter to Valerie. Ink spilled thoughts scattered across the off-white canvas and the soldier cringed – attempting to regain focus. The younger draftees in his troop were impossible to ignore. Creatures of a different breed, a different generation, speaking in a language he did not understand. Funding was low and there were not enough time or resources to build separate rooms for the officers. For now, he had to put up with the incessant ramblings of shallow Privates:

"Spud did you make it to Como Varro last April? 130 bands, shit must've been nuts." A grunt no older than eighteen wheezed through cigarette drags.

"Nah I stayed in San Diego for Rave-Way 2076. Last one before the sea completely claims the venue. I heard over 40 people died in the pits at Varro, though – wish I could have made it." The grunt Spud responded in between jerks of self-satisfaction. An old magazine rested on his chest.

"Aren't you nineteen? How did you avoid the draft – claim addiction?" The kid tossed his cigarette.

"If you try to claim addiction they strap you down and forcefully rehabilitate you. Best thing to do is claim disability. That shit's permanent, and there's no way they can use you then. I tried but only made it dodging in the States for a year." Spud was scum, Doerrman could tell by the sound of his voice. He was the epitome of a dirty culture trained to abuse everything around it.

As the two used the living quarters as if it belonged only to them, other Privates joining in on the conversation – Doerrman rolled over, trying to focus on the one important aspect of his life. He gazed at the top bunk, fading away – wondering if Valerie had received any of the letters he had sent. Was there some furnace locked away in a snow-capped mountain range between Siberia and America where a lone soldier's letters were sent en masse and burned to cinders? Was the urge to write home simply a mechanism designed to keep heads in check?

The two men that made up Doerrman's scout team of three slept both above and to the right of him. After years of operating together, the three men understood that time in the living quarters was time intended for personal space. It was the one period where the illusion of being separated from a squad could be induced. They knew it and utilized it, becoming a stronger unit because of it. Doerrman sought reconciliation, however, and saw abusing the unspoken rule as the only means of attaining it. He leaned toward the cot to the right and addressed his spotter:

"Hey, Renault, you awake?" He whispered thoughtfully.

"How could I not be?" The wheezing veteran grimaced, sneering toward the grunts. Doerrman chuckled, putting the pen and letter down for a moment.

"How are you and Ellie doing? How's Grace?" Doerrman needed to feel home. Renault delivered:

"Ellie's good last I heard. She's still at Pacers, barely scraping by. Breaks my heart to see her work so hard to support a child alone – I wish I could be there." The bearded Renault, a man with a heart of gold grunted at the marksman before continuing, "Grace is about the same, crying and shitting her pants all the time. I miss her though. I miss'em both." Doerrman nodded.

Before the conversation could continue the man in the bunk above roared. He was at the top of the food chain – a grizzly Siberian by the name of Vikhr who had been assigned as a support role to Doerrman and Renault. Through thick foreign tongue he addressed the grunts:

"If you apes don't calm down I'm going to get out of this bed and gut every single one of you. Shut – the fuck – up." The room became eerily quiet apart from the culled laughter between Doerrman and Renault and the grumbling that Vikhr emitted – a bear trying to sleep. The rhythmic pounding of high caliber cannons and lumbering engines resounded within the men – faraway AC560s paved way for the oncoming "Operation Altai" which would begin the next morning. Renault continued:

"We'd better get some rest. Briefing on Altai starts at 0430." The spotter rolled over. Doerrman did the same, tucking the letter away for another night.