"Twenty-eight thousand six hundred and twenty," Lewis mumbled to herself, using the Skilcraft pen attached to the inventory pad to write the number down. She marked down "D544-32A1" for the Department of Defense Identification Code and the Lot Number.
"Damn, this took forever," The Marine said, shaking his head. Creeley took off his helmet, wiped his dark brow with his sleeve, then put his helmet back on. He looked around at the massive bunker, full of 8" artillery shells, all of them FASCAM rounds. (FAmily of SCAtterable Mines) Half was APERS (Anti-PERSonell) and the other half were ANAR (ANti-ARmor) rounds.
"I didn't know there was this many artillery rounds in the world," Creeley said.
Lewis nodded, putting the clipboard with the inventory sheets back on the wall hanger. They'd counted over a half-million artillery shells over the last hour. Silent two foot tall, eight inch thick rounds. Spray painted green with yellow letters marking the type of round. The inside of the bunker was chilly, silent, and dim.
"What time is it?" Creeley asked.
Lewis looked at her watch. "Seventeen fifteen," She told him. Lewis shook her head. "I can't believe we finished all six bunkers today."
"Sergeant Stillwater wasn't sure if we'd finish all the bunkers this week," Creeley said, shrugging. Together they started walking over toward the forklift.
"One hundred fifty-three bunkers," Lewis said. "At least we weren't the ones trying to inventory the NBC bunkers in those suits."
"Stillwater was in a foul mood last night," Creeley said, shaking his head. "I would be too if I had to spend ten hours in one of those suits," he snickered.
Lewis nodded, climbing into the driver's seat of the forklift. Creeley went around to the other side, sitting down on the flat space beside the seat but behind the fork controls. Lewis turned the key glued int the ignition and started the forklift. It clanked for a few seconds, then the little diesel engine smoothed out. Lewis cranked the wheel and started to head uprange.
The road was smooth, level, the tarmac still the deep black only new tarmac had. According to everyone the road had been replaced in March. Both of them were silent as Lewis drove the forklift uprange. Three miles up the middle road, a half mile to the road to uprange, then uprange, four miles total at fifteen miles an hour, taking them nearly 20 minutes.
"This place is goddamn huge. Never heard of anything this size during training," Creeley said halfway there.
Lewis shrugged. "Nothing about 2/19th is like anything I ever heard of," She said. "I mean, we carry loaded weapons out here, the CQ carries loaded weapons back in the barracks, and we've both been almost blown up once and engaged in combat another time."
Creeley shook his head. "That shit was intense. How's your butt?"
Lewis shrugged. "Hurts now and then."
"How do you think Roberts is?" Creeley asked. "I mean, I went through AIT with you guys, but I'm Marines, you guys were all Army."
Lewis shook her head. "Don't know. I mean, he and I, we didn't get along in AIT. He was kind of an asshole."
Creeley shook his head. "He had it when it mattered."
"Yeah, he did," Lewis said softly, remembering the way Roberts's face went slack and blood drooled from his mouth while they were laying on the bed of the Gypsy Wagon.
"Think it's going to be like that often?" Creeley asked.
Lewis thought for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah. You've seen the others without their clothes. They're covered in scars, and I don't think they came here with them."
YOU ARE READING
Third Person - Complete
Historical FictionPFC James Roberts just wanted to serve his country, like his father and grandfather. He left his middle class life to join the military with the hope of making his family proud. Graduating top of his class in Basic Training, attending Advanced Indiv...
