Isolation & Fear (Damned of the 2/19th Book Seven)

The Pieces

Magazine Platoons Operation and Command Tent
Grafenwöhr
US Army Training Area
Training Site 22
2/19th Company Area
West Germany
01 December, 1988
1100 Hours

The tent was warm when I pushed my way inside, Brubaker sitting next to the stove reading a FM concerning field sanitation. She looked up, jumped to her feet, keeping the field manual in her left hand, as she stood at attention.

"At ease," I waved at her. She sat back down, opening the manual back up and returning to reading.

Behind me a gaggle of God knew what kind of officers followed me into the tent. Three Captains, six lieutenants, and three Chief Warrant Officers. The revised TO&E that Colonel Henry had briefed us on put the captains in charge of the platoons, a lieutenant in charge of every two squads, and a warrant officer to act as my liaison to each platoon.

I sat down and motioned at the folding chairs leaning against the insulated wall of the tent. Each officer got his own and sitting down. Three Master Sergeants and six Sergeants First Class followed.

My little tent was full of people. The SFC's stood against the wall at parade rest. The Chief Warrants joined them, allowing the MSG's to sit.

"Specialist Brubaker, go eat lunch," I ordered.

She looked at me, startled.

"You aren't cleared for this information. You're a SOG spy, beat it," I snapped.

Brubaker glared at me for outing her in front of everyone, but she grabbed her gear and left in a huff.

"Is that common, Mister Henley?" Master Sergeant Wickers asked.

"We often work with Special Operations Group," I told him, sighing. I lit a cigarette, then winced as shifting made my chest hurt. I had horrific heartburn since the Colonel had performed a mass arrest the likes of which I had never heard of before. They had loaded the officers and NCO's aboard buses in chains.

The Colonel had offered them all the option to be reduced to E-1, Private, and remain in the unit.

None had taken him up on his offer.

"Are you all right, Chief?" Sergeant First Class Hamilton asked.

I shook my head. "I was shot not too long ago, still healing up. I'm fit for duty," I told them. I'd been wearing my helmet too long, just shaking my head made my neck hurt. I took my helmet off and rubbed my shoulder.

"We're in charge of the Magazine Platoons," I told them, flicking my ashes into an empty Fresca can. "That puts us in charge of sixteen squads that work at the FSTS sites, and three squads that cover everything from people who's blood levels are bad, on profile, or whatever. Right now those three squads are mainly for the pregnant soldiers in each platoon."

They all just nodded.

"Eight of those sites are 'cold sites', which means there are no NBC weapons at those sites," I said. "Those sites are largely boring, mostly some ammunition restocking and a lot of inventory. The 'hot sites' are where the NBC weapons are, and for the most part, those are just as boring."

They sat silently while I rolled my shoulder to try to get a cramp out of it. I'd spent too much time writing reportings and wearing my LBE. I briefed them on the location, squad makeup, ammunition loadout, supported units, and site data.

Once that was done, I stood up, hoping that would ease the acid burn, and walked over to my map board. "There are two exceptions, although once in a while another site goes live, but that's usually a temporary thing."

"Perseus and Atlas," One of them said.

"Correct. FSTS-317 and FSTS-322," I said, sighing. "However, our biggest problem right now involves FSTS-317."