‘Senseless’. The word hung in the air like the aftertaste of vomit as Lieutenant Boynton gazed dejectedly at beaten masses of humanity before him on the packed dirt of training grounds. What’s supposedly the birth of a modern-ish security force worthy of a modern secular nation state built upon the ashes (figurative and in too many cases literal) of the old order.
So of course he’s gazing at a scene that could best be described with the chilling term of ‘Dedovshchina’, at least the abstract version he has read in his off time military history research, and the stories from those OG guys who had the privilege (or rather, cursed) to be attaches to witness the original back in that certain country on Earth. However, seeing… the sights before his eyes currently, is something else entirely.
It’s much worse, by at least an order of magnitude.
The day begins for the recruits with a beating by iron bars, and only gets worse from there. The good performing ones were merely beaten endlessly for amusement, while the rest… by the time their souls expired from the torture it’s more of a blessed release.
Attrition rate, in the sense of those who died, is something around the majority by the time they finish. Because there’s more bodies where that last batch came from, so says those things in charge of said ‘training’ of the new security forces. He sure as fuck won’t acknowledge them with something as dignified as ‘instructors’.
The less said about the daily mass rapes of recruits, the better. And of course he can’t interfere to put a stop to that, as it’s a local matter. A lot of things are local matters. All rather horrific things.
'Maddening', to put it mildly, as there's nothing he can do about it. His role is merely one of advisory, and that he was specifically told to not interfere in ‘local cultural matters’. The half dozen predecessors before him didn’t get the memo, or ignored them. That’s why all of them have been recalled from this post, and the luckier ones merely reshuffled to some desk job at the rear. The two exceptions who knifed a few of those bastards were however court martialed and thrown out, retaining their personal sense of honor but little else.
Word from the grapevine and even the lance criminal underground is that it’s the same broken story in all the other places as well.
It’s getting more and more tempting by the day to follow in the footsteps of those predecessors. It makes no difference in the grand scheme of things. He’s replaceable, just like them, just like all of them.
Nobody back home cares. The war’s long over, so’s the peace after that. Now that power has been returned to the natives there’s even less than no reason to give a damn.
Of course it’s never that easy. It’s even well known, but knowledge does not necessarily translate into caring or willingness to do something about it. The show’s over, the credits have rolled, even the post credit scene has come and gone. Yet here he is, watching another round of the endless cycle of brutality being perpetrated onto another generation. As helpless to intervene as a player character in an interactive cutscene.
He took out his hip flask, unscrewed the cap, and took a swig of the biting liquor within. Of course drinking during work hours is still forbidden, and day drinking is a bad habit, but he was far past caring. No one else cared after all.
They don’t even care for the big things that should matter. It won’t matter to them. Never did, never will.
And that’s still not everything. There was potential. People in this godforsaken land are far more willing to lay down their lives for grand causes, to die in the service of… something, anything. Yet all that willingness is being pissed away, by petty bullies drunk on power who take the uncommon valor of the others for granted.
He shook his head, chasing away all those unproductive thoughts doing the pity party in his mind. He’s not suffering, not really. They are, and it’s rather callous of him to wallow in self pity because of other people’s suffering.
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
With a final shake of his head, he shuffled off as he put the flask away. There’s nothing for him to do here, not even the pretenses by now.
------
“Sir!” the chorus of greetings, interrupted with fits of coughing, from the ragged band of troops met Boynton as he strolled towards them, along with equally ragged salutes from their emaciated frames. There’s at least a hundred of them, yet combined they carried less ammunition than a squad of US marines, even accounting for their walmart grade bolt action rifles.
Most of the ammunition given to the national security forces were openly stolen and sold on the black markets, to their past enemies, present enemies, and future enemies even, and everything in between. The same fate follows the rest of the billions of dollars worth of supplies and whatnot.
The general response when confronted with their blatant corruption was a shrug and a biting laugh from the fat bastards. The stuff is going to a better cause, namely their wallets. It’s not like letting them be used where they’re supposed to be would do any good.
And the thing is, they’re not completely wrong.
“As you are.” Boynton acknowledged the greeting as he walked up to the leader of the group. “You wouldn’t mind if I tag along a bit?” He asked, already knowing the answer. But he had to keep up appearances.
That’s all these poor bastards have left.
“No sir.” The leader of the group replied promptly, while not fearing for his life, as it’s generally known that the Americans tend to not be the sadistic hateful types, there’s still the undercurrent of fear of authority figures savagely beaten into their souls.
“Carry on.” Boynton nodded as he moved his way to the back of the group, a prime place to observe… and to notice ambushes should the event happen.
Without another word the gaggle of security forces troops begin shuffling to their patrol path.
……
Normally, a matter as simple as a patrol around the perimeter of a village would only require a couple of fireteams of normal soldiers, if even that. However, nothing is normal about what they’re doing, not normal by earth standards anyway.
Therefore Boynton didn’t even flinch when a massive fireball engulfed the front of the formation, consuming a dozen bodies in a flash even with the spacing between each other. The rest of the gaggle promptly scattered about, futilely trying to find any cover and concealment. Boynton followed suit, finding a hole in the dirt at the edge of the field while fishing out his pistol from its holster. Of course he wasn’t issued a rifle. Too many of his predecessors had used theirs’ to snipe suspected insurgents and other wackos at 500m, with predictable results as they weren’t supposed to be proactive in defending themselves. Rules of engagement and all that nonsense.
Thus he watched by as the fireballs continued unabated, which after a handful of minutes stopped. The deathly silence that descended after the last of the fires withered away explained why. Still he hid, and soon he heard the arrogant footsteps, and the meaningless bickering.
They might be blessed with the cheats of the gods, but damn are they still amateurs at the trade of war.
With a last check of his pistol, Boynton jumped out from his hiding place, and in a span of 9 seconds unloaded the entire clip.
They were okay shots, as befitting for who qualed for pistol marksman. Most of the enemy party dropped, or at least stumbled back. Then he noticed that he managed to miss the healer looking bitch- no, he didn’t miss, just didn’t hit anything immediately vital, which might as well meant nothing.
It wasn’t good enough, as by the time he was in the process of slamming another mag into his pistol a powerful blast knocked him off his feet. As he lay still on the ground from the shockwave he felt a flurry of pain, his blurry vision telling him that a number of arrows had found their mark.
As his senses slipped by him for the last time Boynton chuckled bitterly in his mind. Dying in a faraway place because of randomass bitches was not how he expected to go, but rather befitting for a marine. At least it won’t be his fault that libbo gets secured on a ship or base. He wished he had a grenade, so he reenacted that one part of that one cheerful song, but alas, that’s not to be. Too many of his predecessors had used grenades to frag out corrupt bastards and sadistic security force officers.
“Farewell, cruel world.” He muttered as a massive warhammer smashed into his head and turned it into red pulp.
------
It was a good year that year, as only a few hundred thousand security forces personnel had died in the never-ending insurgency. Or perhaps a bad year, as only so few undesirables died the death of martyrs. Less welcoming was the death of dozens of marine advisers. America was not happy about that, and that means a response of sorts was warranted…