Chapter 7
His mother tended to hold him tighter in those early days after the funeral.
That’s what he recalled the most. The folded flag placed underneath the picture of his father, and his mom always squeezing him a little harder than she used to every day. Just a little longer than she might have before. But with her, there had always been a warmth to it. Always. He remembered mainly that warmth, the sense of safety it brought. She was there, and he’d be alright. He could not recall feeling any discomfort when she’d hold him a little tighter or a little longer because she was warm. Loving.
Right now he felt nothing but discomfort and pain.
Fear had subsided somewhat, though his heart kept pounding like a drum in his chest. Still, Dennis shifted his weight as best he could, finding himself able to move. Dust and brittle pieces of rocks rolled away from him, including a particularly large one that made a fair bit of sound as he moved. The spot where it had landed on him already started to ache.
Probably left a big bruise.
Despite the brief panic at the possible outcomes his situation had caused, the wall’s collapse had not buried him alive nor had the larger chunks of wall that fell on him broken his neck. Not completely at least. Instead of dying instantly or suffocating underneath the centuries-old stoneworks and concrete, the collapse had blanketed him in debris that he could just dig himself out of bit by bit. He hadn’t even lost consciousness. At least, not that he could tell. And if he had he’d be able to tell. Right?
His left side was free a lot sooner than his right, and he rolled along in the darkness.
That turned out to be a mistake, as he rolled down what felt like a jagged slope. His M16 seemed to sound like one of the plastic toys some poked fun of it for being as it rolled along with him, held onto only by its sling. He was pretty sure there were pebbles and rocks inside his uniform, which somehow seemed terribly important now as he rolled downward. He could feel his helmet hitting and scraping against the rocky ground under him.
So much noise.
And yet, he now wondered when had it gotten so quiet around him? The sounds of gunfire were now awfully distant, and while he had heard helicopters, they too, were now fading out.
Then he felt grass hit the side of his face and he reached to stop himself from rolling further down. In the darkness, he could just faintly see the glow of the city to his right. The information swirled in his tired mind and slowly formed a conclusion. He’d rolled to his left. The city was to his right. He’d rolled left. Not right. Suddenly, a little voice in the back of his mind was screaming…
Oh God- Oh God- Oh God! Get out of here!
He forced himself not to call out for anyone around him, laying as still as he could. Listening. No rocks shifted, no movement was heard. He tried to get an idea of how much of the wall had collapsed, but it was difficult to tell. The stars above told him the portion of wall that had gone was significant, but he couldn’t see any indication of how much. His mind went to his guys then.
Tom and Hastings had been near him and Alex could not have fallen that far from him. But he hadn’t heard them calling out. He hadn’t heard anyone, he realized. Someone would have called out. He was the interpreter! And the local guys…
Why weren’t they calling out? They would’ve been calling out.
The little voice screaming in the back of his head got louder. Screaming at him to move as everything seemed eerily still. His eyes darted around with a purpose, trying to visually identify a sound that was closer than not. Was the occasional odd crackling in the distance farther away or closer than he was giving it credit? Did the wind blow nearby grass to create a rustling sound, or was it someone or something moving around? He recalled some of the strange insects he’d seen in the mountains.
Maybe one of those was…
Suddenly very worried and willing to listen to the screaming voice in the back of his head, but still in control of himself, he slowly turned on his belly. No strange insects. Even better, his vision was adapting slightly now that he was facing the darkness directly. His other senses felt like they were catching up to him, too. He could still smell the dry smoke and dust, but… he closed his eyes for a second and tried to concentrate.
He didn’t smell charred flesh or the metallic scent of pooling blood. Those hadn’t fully left his mind after the first day’s artillery strikes, and he pushed the images of bodies ripped apart in the aftermath to the corners of his mind. He had to move.
He opened his eyes and slowly tried to get his footing as quietly as possible. He would climb back up as quietly as he could and hop back behind whatever remained of the ancient wall. Surely, someone was still there. He’d be quick to identify himself, then, ideally, get back in the fight. Maybe Rhodes needed an interpreter to explain to some stupid civilian who’d stayed behind why they couldn’t stay behind. Maybe.
He froze on instinct.
Dennis Orville tried to keep his professionalism and training in mind when the world around him suddenly decided it was daytime as an illumination round lit the skies above. It was bad enough that his eyes suddenly needed to readjust, but as they did, the light made the larger problem all too visible and the little voice in the back of his head was no longer very little.
The men in front of him stood as if frozen by the sudden light. Swords were glistening back at him, but their wielders had a noticeable lack of armor to reflect light. Instead, dark tunics and dirtied faces to better blend into the darkness of the night stared back at him. Details he could not have appreciated when they had been a hundred yards away in the fields now stood out to him as terribly important, such as how they’d been moving as slow as a good marksman, and the fact their eyes appeared almost as black and white as some people he’d interacted back home. He felt his grip on his M16 tighten as all those darkened eyes focused on him. The man in front didn’t smile as the short spear, whose iron tip glistened in the night, twitched in his direction as though it were about to be thrown. It was followed by two more who moved almost in tandem with each other, his eyes seeing it all.
By then, Dennis Orville had allowed pure survival instinct to mix with the training he’d endured and the result would be what determined his survival or whether his funeral was open casket or not.
-Crack-Crack-Crack-
He’d raised his M16 and squeezed the trigger without aiming or thinking whatsoever, instead angling the weapon to his shoulder and firing based on his line of sight and adjusting as hot lead shot out. He hadn’t even considered the dust and dirt on it just yet. While the M16 wasn’t self-cleaning, despite the adverts, the fact they’d all learned by now was that its design did keep dust and dirt from getting inside, whereas the M14 or older M1 Garand would’ve probably jammed by now, the three-round burst he unleashed with a quick squeeze of the trigger performed spectacularly.
Dennis saw- actually saw- the first round hit the man square in the chest as a puff of blood shot out like small geysers, but as the burst had not been entirely aimed, and the man was not that far away, Dennis saw a distinct climbing series of punctures that culminated in the man’s face turning into a bloodied mess. The spear dropped uselessly to the ground as the corpse, missing the side of his head, fell along with it.
His buddies weren’t too keen on wasting their chance, though.
And he wasn’t about to make it easier for them as he knelt down as low as he could without going prone and shot at the first guy he saw with a spear.
“Tom! Hastings! Anyone?!” he shouted, not caring about the desperation that bled into the cry, as another man went down and his eyes darted around wildly now, searching for any other target could hit, taking the entire scene in as his brain processed all the information as though it’d gone into overdrive.
The spear landed in front of him, as he’d already forced himself to move back. Crawling felt too slow, so quickly getting up and firing wildly now as men moved to try and strike at him- God, how many were there? They ducked into the grass or into ditches as rounds flew at them. Some hitting. Most missing. But it kept their heads down for the moment at least. Not stopping, he tried to move up the pile of debris behind him as another spear landed right by his left leg as it pushed stones and rubble away as he searched for a firm foothold to start climbing back up the line.
Keep moving! Keep Shooting! Keep moving! Keep shooting!
He felt rather than heard the M16 click empty. It was a swift motion, the reach into his pocket, the grabbing of the waffle-pattern magazine, the fast inserting of it onto his M16 while staring at the men who kept trying to surround him, their heads perking up as they realized his weapon wasn’t in action for the time being, and the quick slapping of the bolt catch. A final, reassuring click as the M16 went into battery was all he needed. He inhaled to call for help again.
In that time, the Iberians had also realized what they were facing and had ducked down, trying to make themselves smaller targets while he continued trying to search for a way to put distance between them and him.
He heard in the distance, a shrill, angry, loud that turned his already cold body even colder.
“It is one man! Ignore him! Push into the city! Push in!”
His eyes darted wildly, trying to find where that order had come from. Where that commanding officer was. There was a part of his mind telling him that it was suddenly very important to identify him and, naturally, neutralize him. Kill him. As the flare continued to float downward directly opposite to his adrenaline, he saw the men clambering up the ruined wall and his heart sank.
How much of the wall collapsed?
He couldn’t see the end, but he could see several men going up the hill of debris, unopposed. Blades were drawn, and the order he’d heard flashed in his mind. Ignore him. One man.
You do that…
Entirely on instinct, he turned his M16 to the men and squeezed the trigger.
As the flare began to die out bit by bit, every explosion of gunpowder made his mind jump to happier times. Every thunderclap as the M16 chattered away caused a gentle smile to flash in the front of his mind as if the three-pronged flash hider wasn’t doing its job, yet he knew better by now. He felt his throat close up as the smell of gunpowder filled his nostrils, the harshness of his surroundings caused him to wish for… for…
It hadn't been two seconds and his gaze wildly turned back to the men behind him in time to see the spear.
The Roman Hasta from museums back home had a uniqueness as it was smaller than what one would originally think when envisioning a spear, and its iron tip made it appear closer to a harpoon. It was meant not quite for throwing, but for thrusting, stabbing, ripping into a man’s abdomen, and then ripped out to devastating effect, letting the target bleed to death. It was effective. Deadly.
He was saved because this Roman threw it.
It landed right behind him. Flying by the side of his head and landing on the debris pile he was trying to move up. Yet it still caused him to lose his balance as his body tried to react to it. It was as if his mind realized it had been in danger and tried to react, sent the order to his body, but as even the command to move went out, the situation changed, and another command to hold still and adjust his fire was sent, with the result being that he then froze up. A mistake. A costly one. He fell onto the debris, cutting his shoulder on the spear’s tip as he fell near it. The pain was more of a sting as he fired semi blindly into the grass as another spear was thrown a little too high this time. Faintly he heard commands in the cursed local tongue.
His breath ragged as he began to reload again, a little voice in the back of his head started to not at all calmly scream at him.
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Run! Run, you idiot! Run!
But he couldn’t. The savages that were ignoring him were pushing on his left and right, and the ones that weren’t were in front of him and closing the distance. Another spear landed nearby and he started to push himself up the debris. Or at least, he tried to. He couldn’t give his back to the enemy and his options for trying to flee elsewhere were non-existent as they tried to quickly keep him pinned to one spot so they could… if his mind hadn’t been in overdrive before, it was certainly now as he felt the shakiness in his voice.
He could now hear sporadic gunfire nearby. Single shots. M14s, probably. His guys were still alive somewhere nearby! Energized, he tried to shout at them.
“Tom! Hastings! Anyone!” he called loudly, desperately, all as he tried to look into the darkness while the flare fell away suddenly. Desperation was truly pouring into his body and soul as he aimed his rifle left and right, losing sight of the Iberian soldiers as some darted behind taller brush or back into the darkness. Making things worse, the shuffling of men to his flanks as they pushed into the city was too loud now, obscuring movement in front of him even more. He didn’t dare fire lest the muzzle flash give them a clear idea of where to hit again as he moved.
His breathing grew faster, and for a half second, the explosion behind him made him think his heart had suddenly given out. But no. Behind him, gunfire had truly erupted. Louder. Men screamed. People were fighting nearby. His guys were still there! The little voice in his mind got a little louder. A little more desperate as a ray of hope for survival shone through the panic.
Run! Run, you idiot! Run!
He glanced behind him, about to try and get behind the debris for any bit of cover. He dug his left elbow into the debris and pushed himself up when, as he actually moved up a bit, he realized that what he thought had been a particularly large rock, he stopped. The rock was soft. Still warm. Squishy. Not a rock. As if to affirm his fears and refuse any mercy for his panicking mind, another flare bathed the area in light and showed him exactly what was grabbing onto.
It was an arm.
Attached to what had once been a person. Half-buried. Head bent at a bad angle. M1 helmet gone, but the sleeve was…
As he suddenly felt a ringing that overwhelmed all senses, Dennis let go and slid down the pile of debris slightly. A spear landed nearby, causing him to quickly recoil and whirl around. This time the men had approached closely, grabbed more spears, and were rapidly approaching. Six men. All charging in as one. Only one needed to reach him.
Alone.
You abandoned your mother just fine.
A breath caught in his throat as he squeezed the trigger. He let it go as the first burst went high and missed, sitting up slightly as yet another man tried to finally stab him with a spear, not discouraged by an inaccurate first burst. This time, Dennis didn’t miss. One three-round burst, and the closest man was dead. Another three rounds, another corpse, three rounds again-
Is this how Dad died?
He ignored the question. Another three rounds, another dead father, another three rounds, another dead son.
How many did I kill?
The men charged nevertheless. Undeterred. Madness in their eyes as if too close to run away now, meaning it was either charge and kill him or die. Would he let them go if they ran? If they stopped?
Come on…
They still tried to kill him. One picked up his dead pal’s body with one hand and lifted him up like a shield as another who peeked behind him threw a spear, missing him by an inch.
Come on!
Dennis unloaded the rest of the magazine, one round grazing the man’s side, the other slamming into the other man’s head as he’d peeked out again, knocking another body to the pile of corpses on the bloodying fields. The guy holding a dead body still threw the spear, unbalanced, an obvious miss, but Dennis still pushed himself away to better reload. As he inserted the fresh magazine, a second spear was thrust right at his face from the shadows, and he recoiled backward only for another guy to grab him from out of nowhere, one arm wrapped tightly around his neck, the other grabbed his M16.
“Kill him, now!!!” the Iberian screamed as he struggled to hold him up.
Dennis screamed, then grabbed at the man with his free hand as the other one lunged at him trying to follow the order, the iron tip of a spear about to cut into him. He pulled himself away, kicked, he tried to reach for anything as the other Iberians continued to move up the debris around him. He wanted to cry out for help again, but he instead twisted as best he could as the spear’s tip met with his person. The stab plunged right through the thin plastic of his canteen without any issue, but stopped at his belt. As the man realized his folly, he quickly pulled it back for another, this time better-aimed attack. Dennis felt the water bleeding onto his pants as he grabbed the second man’s arm, keeping him from getting too far back, and slammed his head against the attacker’s forehead as hard as he could in his position. He could feel his brain kicking around his skull at the impact.
Still, his steel M1 helmet faced the man’s unprotected skull and won. As the spearman suddenly fell back, spear still jabbing at a bad angle onto his satines only marginally cut his skin as he turned away, a hand suddenly came over his face and tried to find his eyes. Dennis felt keenly aware of the fact the the guy who’d carried the dead body was getting a lot closer now that he couldn’t shoot, so he moved quickly and savagely rammed his protected head against the guy grabbing him, but when he still felt powerful fingers cut into his cheek there was truly only one option left. Now growling like an animal in desperation as he sensed rather than saw men rushing to kill him, Dennis opened his mouth and bit onto the man’s hand. He tasted metal and he was suddenly aware of the man screaming behind him, all as words echoed in his tired mind.
You abandoned your mother just fine.
Still, the Iberian only tightened his hold on him as Dennis tried pushing him onto the ground.
“God damn you! Let go!” he tried to scream in English, muffled by the man’s arm now. Quickly, his free hand began grabbing for anything, stopping at the Army knife’s handle just above the man’s arm. Again, wholly on instinct, he grabbed hold of it, brought it up and stabbed it blindly and rapidly at the man’s side entirely on instinct. No armor opposed the strikes. Soft flesh met sharpened American steel. The ungodly shrill that came from the man as he tried to suddenly get his arm down to Dennis’ throat was not exactly loud. Almost shocked, really. Frightened. But it could never be enough to get him to stop as Dennis removed the knife and again slammed it back down rapidly as now he could see again. The other guy who’d used one of his dead buddies as a shield got to them as Dennis moved the knife away. By now, the other guy had his dead friend aside and moved a short sword at him.
One attempt to kill him wound up saving him. The frightfully strong arms, as if in a panic, let go of his rifle and move to his throat. They started to squeeze his throat shut at such a pace that now Dennis only felt panic and fear as he realized the man was going to break his neck. He kicked at the ground and tried to focus on his rifle as he held his breath and his vision briefly faded.
You’ll lose it all.
He quickly worked his now free hands around the M16 while he felt a crushing weight on his neck. In the darkness, he felt the bolt catch. Just as the men got close.
-Click-
Wielding the M16 one-handed as if it were an oversized pistol, Dennis didn’t even have to aim at the man over him, sword already shooting towards him. One squeeze of the trigger and the M16 chattered away from his hip. A second later there was another dead body in the pile that was effectively growing every few seconds. The man fell over, dead before hitting the ground. His buddy faired no better. At once, he brought the knife down again. The weight on his neck lightened slightly. He pulled the knife back and brought it down a final time.
There was no time to recover. Now released from the dead man’s grip as men who were still alive backed off around him. Most seemed to try to continue up the wall, but others promptly threw more spears at him. They didn’t hesitate and he saw the glistening tips of raised blades as others decided it was best to play the game of range. From further in the darkness, a whistling was briefly heard before a sharp pain shot up his body.
A second set of whistling stones pelted his head, bouncing off his helmet yet making him feel like he’d purposefully slammed his head against a wall. Another whistling stone hit his stomach and he almost fell over in agony.
Half out of panic, half out of frustration, Dennis threw the knife against the closest guy he saw in the shadows, some skinny man who had been picking up a spear. Adrenaline sharpening his senses, he hit the man square in the face, albeit with the blunt end of the knife, which really just barely stunned the man into confusion for the lone instant needed for him to move back from another attack as two more whistling bullets hit near him. He considered his escape now as the gunfire behind him increased. Maybe he could limp a little way back, but it wasn’t really much as he quickly angled his M16 again, suddenly spotting the men swinging the slings in the distance.
He didn’t call for help as he squeezed the trigger and held it.
12 rounds fired.
Two more corpses.
-CLICK-
He glanced down slightly, for just a second.
One round had failed to extract. The third guy lifted the spear.
And gain nothing.
Next to him, however, another corpse fell. One of the men who’d been climbing up had fallen over. Only then he realized that the gunfire that wasn’t his had really increased around him.
“Orville!”
He almost didn’t register it as guys seemed to pour over the debris and hop down to his rescue. One shoved him back, carrying a brand new Model 37 Ithaca shotgun lifted and fired blindly into the darkness. Quickly, the Iberians started to fall back, one trying to throw another spear which landed too close to one of the guys. Still, Dennis didn’t turn just yet, instead, his eyes met the farthest man from him, standing alone in the fields as more illumination rounds lit the land.
He stared eyes wide, his throat on fire as he only now realized that he’d been screaming a good chunk of, if not the entire ordeal. But he was alive. And his rifle still had rounds in it.
The farthest man he could see was looking around at the carnage, as if dumbfounded. Visibly confused and trying to make sense of things. Even now, he could see glimpses of fear in the man’s face as well as one simple, undeniable fact.
This one had armor and a purple cape that identified him.
As Dennis raised his rifle with one hand the other clearing the jam, the man turned and ran into the shadows and behind the hills, with a few others following.
A hand suddenly grasping his shoulder brought him out of the act before he could.
“Orville! You hurt?!”
Captain Rhodes.
“No. No, captain.” he croaked, his throat aching horribly, and his sternum suddenly felt like it wanted to fall out of his body. He ignored it all as he found it harder to breathe suddenly.
Desperate for a distraction, he looked around as the gunfire around him continued, finding the dead tall guy. His knife was right by the corpse. He almost reached for it, but Rhodes held him back.
“Come on, we gotta get you… oh, Heaven above...”
Dennis glanced at his captain, then followed his gaze.
The sun was just starting to peek out through the horizon now. The sky was brightening into a pale, almost grayish blue, and the ground getting paradoxically darker. Yet, even then, from the edge of the forest in the distance, there they all stood. Visible. Out in the open.
A line of men with spears and shields.
Dennis swallowed.
“Come on. Come on! Everyone back behind the wall! Now!” Rhodes ordered as the guys started to quickly dart back into the ruins of what had been the city’s outer wall.
Rhodes suddenly croaked out, “Oh, God… damn it! Alex!”
Rhodes pulled him back up the debris field, and he managed, somehow, not to slip down the shattered rocks and spent casings. Or corpses. Dennis saw the buried body being dug out by the other guys from the 7th Air Cavalry. The patches had identified him already as someone in the 52nd.
Dennis was still breathing and still standing. No one else who’d remained on the wall when it collapsed appeared to have had that luxury. Not that he could see. His knees nearly gave out under him now.
There were guys still alive, some sitting up against the ruined homes, a few trying to fix up the main injury they’d suffered from the collapse. He saw Hastings and Tom trying to fix up the M60, replacing a bent barrel as fast as they could. Hastings was bleeding from the side of his forehead, and Tom was missing his helmet. Briefly, Dennis wondered if he’d had to use it as a weapon as well, but that was unlikely.
A trumpet sounded in the distance, and realizing what it meant, he stopped even as Captain Rhodes tried pushing him on. He too, stopped. Eyes turned to the forest. The injured and the uninjured, what few remained, all glaned at one another once.
No words were necessary as they all made sure a round was chambered, and fresh magazines were inserted.
Rhodes didn’t stop him from joining the others back on the line.
Alpine Mountain Range
A total of eight Howitzers had been set up in the last few hours. The 7th Battalion’s 13th Artillery had set up the M101A1 105-millimeter howitzers with expert care. These guns were older, originally designed for the Second World War, but the crates of High Explosive rounds were new, fresh from the factory in Texas. One of the loaders quietly took a piece of carbon and drew the Texan flag on its side. Others milled about, waiting. Alan watched from a safe distance, unknowing of the process unfolding before him.
Their fire direction center, bare-bones as it was, had been listening in to the waves and keeping the men in the besieged city informed of progress using the newer maps drawn up by a combination of aerial pictures and radar mapping. The last maps had been somewhat accurate, but not as accurate as the Army preferred. These, however, would be far more useful now. Using flashlights even as the sun began to show the earliest signs of peeking through the horizon and its peaks, they placed darts onto the map as information flowed in. How accurate these new maps were, well… Now was the time to put their skills to the test.
“Infantry out in the open… one round in adjust… H-E…”
Soon, the section chiefs had passed on the orders. Quickly, the guns were angled as demanded. Ammo Team Chiefs had ensured the rounds brought had been fresh off the factory, each of which had been neatly grouped and batched up near each gun, so once the orders were through, one was loaded very quickly. Hopes to have drawn more appropriate messages for their targets on the rounds would have to wait for a different fire mission.
“Stand by!”
A few wondered which of the 8 guns would get the first real shots out once the order came. They all knew which ones would get the first adjusting shot to ensure they were on target. Some hoped their coordinates were right. Some didn’t care if one of their rounds damaged a part of the city. Others were too focused on their role to consider either. None gave too much thought to the men they were about to turn into a fine, red, mist.