Wander My Friends
Jackson had it wrong – again – as usual. Whatever the smell was, it reeked in no way like rotting turnips covered in week-old fungi. No, this odor was more sophisticated, damper, and it in fact consisted of a number of various fragrances, each more subtle, serene, refined, more unique than the next. But Lavernius couldn’t make out just what body or mass was producing this perfume of sorrow.
“Smells like shit in here…”
“Yeah, dead shit…”
There was no place for heroes on this godforsaken patch of soil and dirt. No place for bravery, self-sacrifice, no place for wisdom or well considered words. Nay, heroes were they not, not good men where they. But they were soldiers.
Black Operations Unit N°5 to be precise. They weren’t trained, never experienced a drill, had no knowledge whatsoever about weaponry or combat, be it armed or barehanded, they weren’t told how to hide and when to act, they never even learned each other’s names. BOU5 did not exist. That is, as far as their superiors were concerned. Should BOU ever get captured, there would be no one to come and save them. No trial, no mercy, hell, they probably wouldn’t even get anything to guard their souls. And they knew this far too well. Their message was clear: never get caught. Their job wasn’t pretty, nor glamorous, nor was it legal. Jackson was a master at quoting the various conventions, laws and agreements which prevented exactly what they were paid to do from happening. But necessitas non habet legem.
They used to be a group of four. Jackson was their sniper, Lavernius handled Intel, Nero made the bombs and Frost had his head blown off seventeen minutes ago. Most of them had no family other than the orphanage they were recruited from, and apart from their brothers-in-arms. Nero used to have his younger brother. But Frost had his head blown off, seventeen minutes ago. It wasn’t all bad, though, Nero still has a dried-up bloodstain on his sleeve, and small pieces of brain in his hair. Lavernius didn’t know how to mention them. And Jackson didn’t care. His leg still was hurting from when he fell, tripped over the roots of some plant he’d never seen before, and probably would never see again. He hadn’t even seen it when it caused him to hug the mud, face first. And yet it wasn’t his fault. If only that Asian idiot had learned how to fly a chopper, they wouldn’t have missed their drop point. But no, Cho Chang – or whatever that cross-eye’s name was – figured it would be better for BOU5 to parachute down in the middle of the jungle. Or rainforest. They’re closely related. But whatever it was they crashed down in, they couldn’t stay there. Locals armed with Russian made rifles and guerilla tactics made sure of that. They had to run, or stand to fight and die. So they ran, and tripped, and landed in the mud, face first. And kept on going. Frost had helped Jackson to his feet again, after making a quick and crude joke about his facial color. Now, under normal circumstances, Jackson would have made sure little Julius Matthew Frost would never again dare to think a racial comment worth mentioning, but these weren’t normal circumstances, nor where they normal people. Normal people wouldn’t sprint for half an hour, under a starry night and a rain of led. Normal people were happy, sometimes.
They had to make camp a couple of hours later. They couldn’t light a fire, had lost most of their rations somewhere in the twenty-four-or-so miles in the opposite direction, and only half the crew was allowed their hour of sleep. They could only afford luxuries like these because the locals had stopped mindlessly chasing them twenty minutes in. They should be safe here. At least for now. The brothers took the first shift. Lavernius and Jackson the second and last. Neither of them could sleep. At night, the dreams start coming. The sun was already rising when they finished the last can of what they considered to be a good meal. Food always weighs you down. They couldn’t move at dawn, to many nasty bugs. This was a good time to go over the plan.
“Still seventy more miles to go.”
“Hmm. In these conditions, that’s two days.”
“At least.”
“Make it three.”
“What’s slowing you down Frosty?”
“Yeah baby bro, 70 miles is nothing.”
“The miles maybe aren’t, but it’ll be crawling with Tangos up ahead.”
“Lavernius?”
“The kid is right. Better plan on three. Play it safe.”
“Johan, you’re leaving for recon when we hit fifty miles. We’ll meat up at point Fissure.”
“Already got my rifle packed, Nero. Tim, target?”
“That’s on a need to know basis.”
“I take it we don’t need to know?”
“Smart kid.”
“My bro Johan, my bro.”
“You’re the dumb one of the family, Sammy.”
“Don’t make me give you guys a time out. I’m mailing you your individual objectives. Nero, start working on those charges. We leave in two hours, when it’s light.”
“What should I do, Lav?”
“The abbreviated term is Vern. And you don’t get to abbreviate here yet, kiddo.”
“My – ”
“Check your PDA.”
“But – ”
“No. PDA.”
Nine years. A hell of a long time to spend in a BOU. But it had earned Lavernius the respect he deserved, and the position of team leader. He should have had a closet full of medals, but the army doesn’t hand those out for covert operations. Lavernius got scars. Liked them better, in fact.
Nobody likes burning. Nobody likes crouching trough a jungle/rainforest whilst burning. Nobody likes the constant danger of attack. Jackson loved it. The brothers were indifferent due to their constant bickering, and Lavernius had better things to worry about. The forest was hell, but once they got to the villa, it would seem like heaven. Or purgatory. One of those. In any case, far better than hell could ever aspire to be. Build with cash, taken from the already poorer than poor and laundered by every goddamned syndicate Jackson could name or come up with, this place wasn’t just a villa. Not a fortress, castle, bunker, or any other fortified position for that matter. Hell really was the most appropriate term.
“Get in.”
In his head, Lavernius relived the brief mission briefing, over and over again, like a mantra, to keep him focused, he couldn’t risk to let his attention slip, not even for a second. He didn’t want a second Operation RiverTown.
“Set charges.”
RiverTown… Even the name hurt.
“Find plans.”
Everything went wrong with RiverTown. Shrapnel everywhere. Explosions. Searing hot led. Shredding flesh from bone, bone from limbs. Situation Normal All Fucked Up. Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition. Acronyms just didn’t cut it.
“Eliminate target.”
He could have saved Jimmy. Jimmy and Thong. And Thong could have saved Alexander Pyrrhus. Nero missed Pyrrhus. So did Frost. Lavernius didn’t. Missing someone means admitting they were actually gone. Gone forever. And BOUs don’t die. They’re always MIA. Missing In Action.
“Blow the fuse.”
Keeps up moral…
“Get out.”
Moral implies morality.
“Get back.”
And there’s no such thing.
The radio was quiet. Had been like that for several hours now. They were close. Too close. Chang didn’t just miss his first drop point, he missed it, invented a second, and overshot that by at least eleven miles. Pilots are dispensable and cheap. BOU pilots were. Frost could hear the crickets move, dance, and sing their eerie song not too far away from where they had made camp. Crickets were good bugs. Crickets didn’t kill people. Or at least not very often such a case is reported.
“It’s been too long now.”
“He’ll get back in time.”
Recon. Vital to any missions success. Requires a lot of waiting, exercise, patience, and most importantly, it requires a lot of luck. And Jackson was not a very lucky man.
“Turn the radio to another channel.”
“We’ve always used this one.”
“Maybe he’s been made, or they could be jamming – ”
“We haven’t heard gunfire.”
“Yet.”
Frost and Lavernius stopped their quiet arguments and looked over their shoulders. Nero didn’t say much when he was making his playfull devices of sheers and laughter, destruction and doom, – a name he had come up with during Basic – but if he did, it had to be worth saying. He looked up from his soldering iron and stared into the dual pairs of eyes peering towards him. And repeated the word yet.
“He’ll make it Nero. He always does.”
Nero didn’t bother to reply. He could have grunted, and a soft undertone of mockery perhaps would have colored his voice. Or he could have spoken out, paraphrasing common knowledge facts, admitting to solace during one of which referred to ancient actions past. But he didn’t bother. He was handling explosive inventory.
“I think I hear something.”
They snapped to attention. Ears fletched, tuned to the dark abyss which had surrounded them when the clouds had begun covering the night’s sky in a thick, ghastly carpet. They heard nothing. Nothing of interest. Yet they kept listening. Eighteen minutes.
“Try the radio again.”
They had calmed themselves before by playing with the electronics. It passes the time, they said.
Static.
“He’s not out there.”
“Do you think he was captured?”
“Could be.”
Nero raised his head again.
“Try the SHARD.”
Shortwave Antenna Radio Device. If there ever had been a more artificially conceived acronym, Frost was buying all of BOU a bottle of twenty year old scotch. A good bet.
“He’s not in range.”
“Then use the tins to boost the frequency.”
“And light up on enemy radar like a big white whale? Try again.”
“He should have checked in four times by now.”
There was a silence. A long, unnatural, manmade silence. The sort of silence that’d set your teeth on edge.
“The SHARD it is.”
It took BOU5 eight minutes. But they managed to tap in to the microscopic microphone stitched into Jackson’s jacket. He was alive. And captured.
“Smells like rotting turnips covered in week-old fungi in here.”
Jackson was a smart man. As soon as he had found out he was about to be caught, he stashed his radio, still broadcasting on a scrambled frequency. He told Lavernius that Frost could triangulate his whereabouts using the Shard and their radios. Nero was skeptic. Didn’t believe it could be done. But his brother ensured him of the fact that it could. That he could. They set out to save their fallen one. No brethren left behind.
Several years later, the mission could have been considered either glorious victory or complete and utter defeat. Finding Jackson wasn’t too hard. And the day after he was rescued, they mopped up the dirt at the villa, tying up all loose ends. Nero died. He was to angry at them. Lavernius felt like he could have saved him. But he was busy saving Jackson. Because Jackson had hurt his leg. Because he had to run, and fall, and hug the mud face first. This had slowed him down during his rescue. During which it also happened that the actions took place, which should in hindsight be considered as being nothing more than misfortune or basic imprudence, for be it a matter of mall received luck or a sheer act of ill-mannered fate, for reasons unknown and doubtfully worth mentioning, the tragedy had to unfold the way it has been known to do and will forever keep on doing so, and perhaps a higher being such as a God or a mysterious Providence had had a hand in this, but none of these words stated by superiors at the debriefing table held up even a shard of meaningfulness, as little Julius Matthew Frost had had his head blown off.
El Pinguin Loco
Bram Simons
Siulaigi a chairde, siulaidh liom
Mar cheo an tsleibhe uaine ag
imeacht go deo
D’ainneoin ar dtuirse leanfam an tsli
Thar chnoic is thar ghleannta
go deireadh na scrib’
Seo libh a chairde is canaidh liom
Lionaigi’n oiche le greann is le sport
Seo slainte na gcarad ata imithe uainn
Mar cheo an tsleibhe uaine,
iad imithe go deo
(Translation of the Irish-Gaelic )
Wander my friends, wander with me
Like the mist on the green mountain, moving eternally
Despite our weariness, we’ll follow the road
Over hills and valleys, to the end of the journey
Come on my friends and sing with me
Fill the night with joy and sport
Here’s a health to the friends who have gone from us
Like the mist of the green mountain, gone forever