Task Force Smith; Snippet 45
1211 Hours May 19th, 2002
Phase Line “Katana”
The entire area as far as they eye could see resembled a freshly plowed field. The rock solid clay of Diess, was churned and broken up for miles around. Smoke drifted slowly skyward, and a few small fires continued to burn.
Only a few normals remained, leaderless and without direction, they were dispatched with ease by the remaining defenders who descended down upon them like avenging angels. The mortars, artillery, and small arms fire gradually wound down, and then ceased completely as the last of the carnivores were driven away. The only thing that could be heard was the crackling flames from the burning vehicles, the idling engines, the secondary explosions, and the whimpers of the wounded.
Steve stood up in his hatch, disconnected the spaghetti cable on his CVC, and then lifted himself out of the turret. He jumped to the ground and climbed out of the fighting position, his all-leather boots stirring up just a bit of dust. Whitmore took off his CVC and joined his commander. He just stood there in his sweat-soaked Nomex and said nothing. Neither of them noticed when the driver’s hatch popped open and Simmons crawled out. He removed his spall vest, put his Kevlar on and approached the other two members of his crew.
Steve pulled out his mouthwash bottle, took a large swallow of bourbon and passed it off to Whitmore and Simmons. The other two members of his crew drained the small plastic container before handing it back. Steve screwed the cap back on and put it in his pocket.
Soldiers began to emerge from their bunkers and vehicles, and stood there staring into the valley. The only movement was from those who dragged and assisted the wounded, but even they made little sound.
Cartright, Smigelski and Gunga Din sat on the floor and leaned up against the wall of their bunker. The three of them shared their last canteen of water. Smigelski tossed a cigarette into Cartright’s lap and offered him a light.
Sergeant Holmes emerged from his bunker and sat on the roof. He took off his Kevlar and wiped the sweat from his face and bald head. He hardly even noticed Miller when he sat down next to him. The two of them sat that there in total silence.
Bill Pfeil stood by himself, empty pistol in one hand and bayonet in the other. Bodies covered the entire hillside--humans and Posleen intermingled. He saw a few battered survivors moving about, but not many. Over the crest of the hill came a Bradley, and it drove down the slope and stopped about twenty meters from him. Up top was Captain Fontaine biting his fingernails down to the nubs. He looked over and saw Bill standing there staring at him. Fontaine pulled his fingers out of his mouth and smiled. Pfeil felt relief wash over him for the first time, and he smiled back. He was thrilled to still be alive.
The mood could be felt throughout the entire battalion. The Manchus had fought and died in scores of battles in a dozen conflicts. They earned their battle streamers in a number of places with unpronounceable names, and now they had just earned their first on Diess. They were somber, but they were not broken.
Lieutenant Colonel Smith squinted as his eyes tried to adjust to bright sunlight. He felt about eighty years old. Mental and physical fatigue was starting to get the best of him.
He tried to reconstruct the events of the last twenty-four hours in his head, but he couldn’t do it, everything was just jumbled together. Flashes of light, sounds, and smells all intermingled. The only thing he was sure of at that moment was that they had won. It had been a Pyrrhic victory, but a victory nonetheless.
He struggled to his feet, and back toward the TOC. As much as he wanted to, he just couldn’t afford to take a break right now. They had to reorganize chains of command, rebuild obstacles, casualties needed evacuation, supplies had to be brought in, and lines of communication re-established. There was a tremendous amount of work to do.
Rest would have to come later
.