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The Healing of Death - III
Posted By: russ687<russ687@hotmail.com>
Date: 30 May 2006, 8:21 pm
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The Healing of Death
III
There are some defeats more triumphant than victories.
Michel de Montaign
If there was anything worse than traversing the rocky earth under a scorching sun with over seventy pounds of gear, Lieutenant Simon Mardaroni couldn't think of it. With perspiration soaking his dark brown and tan fatigues, and sweat stinging his eyes, he couldn't think of anywhere he wouldn't want to be. His legs ached consistently as they fought to uphold his laden body, and his chest painfully reminded him that such a load was on the breaking point of his limits. In spite of this exhaustion and soreness, he kept his the rifle firmly and defiantly placed against his shoulder and the muzzle oriented forward as he moved along quickly, forcing every ounce of energy out to keep moving.
The platoon of twenty-one Marines moved along at a brisk jog, their rucksacks pounding up and down against their backs and their heavy breathing nearly breaking the still air. Their hard boots hitting the earth offered something aside from the persistent heartbeat filling each man's hearing, and as a group they moved wordlessly down the other side of the hill they formerly resting upon, stepping cautiously around large rocks and navigating the slope with vigilance. Rifles were out and ready, and they moved hurriedly to cut off the approaching Covenant patrol that was now less than eight-hundred meters out.
Below them was the rocky and sandy valley that stretched out for two kilometers until another hill similar to this one rose into the sky. The ground was a complexion of tans, browns, and deep reds, and was only broken up by the barely green shrub bushes scattering the terrain and the infrequent tree. No animals could be seen inhabiting this rocky desert, and as such the only movement any of them could make out was the distant pair of vehicles raising a small cloud of dust behind them.
They were relatively close to this Covenant patrol, but each Marine was confident of their camouflage to keep them concealed against the side of the hill they were descending. Moreover, the sun was fortunately shining against the patrol from their direction, which meant that nothing short of a supernatural alien could see their rapid decline from the hill. Their fast actions were called for, despite the weight of their gear and the blistering heat that painted everything nearly white, and each Marine pulled out every shred of strength remaining to follow their leader hauling aggressively ahead of the pack.
The platoon had been assigned long range patrol duties, which meant each soldier carried all the gear and ammo they would need for operation in the field for seven days. Usually, satellites or air support would comb over the massive expanse of this desert, but much to the wishes of the menacing darkness that occupied this wasteland, such provisions were not available, forcing men to endure this environment directly. As fate would have it, nothing that flew remained operable on this planet—whether that be human of alien—and every soldier found themselves in the same damning situation that had no forewarning, and no escape.
It was why the option of victory was not viable, not even to the distant commanders themselves. Rather, in a depressingly self-evident situation, every soldier that was hauled to the surface was subsequently left there as priorities shifted among their leadership. Formerly—nineteen weeks ago—this planet had been a vast focal point, one that both the UNSC and Covenant poured resources into it. Though now, with the wake of the fall of Reach and the attack on Earth, both sides neglected the troops already surface-side.
In a hasty pull out, ships were destroyed on both sides, and the Marines on the surface watched as the night sky lit up in flames as the wreckage of Covenant ships plunged through the atmosphere, lighting up the ground as if it were day, only to be followed by the remains of human ships. Those several days over twelve weeks ago proved to be interesting, at the least, yet if they could have known that the battle raging above and the massive withdrawal to save "more valuable" planets would condemn them to this hell, nobody would have paused in interest—or hope.
Now, months after everything and everyone had left this system and the troops to fend for themselves on the surface, the war still raged on despite the futility of it. Of course, in some sickening "humane" gesture they had been told that ships were return for them within the month, maybe to offer some shred of hope to the thousands of troops left that they would get out of here. Though three months later, what remnants remained among the expeditionary force—being survivors of the constant skirmishes with the Covenant also left to rot here or men with enough hope in their future not to commit suicide—still fretfully awaited for someone to return for them.
Some had come to realize that it was never going to happen, and that they would be stuck here to burn to death under the scorching sun or meet some unfitting end by their physical enemy. Those soldiers, in the ultimate display of despair and misery, turned their own instruments of war on themselves, forever leaving the anguish of this world. And to date, with the scarcity of Covenant troops to fight and the shortage of supplies, more and more had turned to self-extermination than to a life watching the stars every night, hoping that someone was coming back for them.
Those who did choose to stay alive and persevere, to try and wait this one out while concurrently trying to defeat the Covenant in the same situation, fought a marginal battle. Moral was nonexistent anymore, and after the men in charge of leading these soldiers departed from this world by the will of their own hand, nobody held much hope that things were going to improve. Water and food were nearly gone, and units were subsisting only on their own ability to hunt and kill what rare creatures lived in this wilderness. Rounds were still being used for survival, but their intents were on food, not killing their nemesis.
It was not a light issue—or one to causally ignore—and accordingly the suicide rate was the fourth killer, led only by the casualties of combat, starvation and then dehydration. Even Mardaroni's platoon was short on supplies, the only aspect that was even partly plentiful was ammunition; and even that was less than half. Nobody had eaten in over a day, and each man carried their last MRE. It was a grave future ahead of them, one that nobody wished to contemplate but one nobody could deny. Every Marine in his unit would be lucky if they even made it back to "base"—which was really just a graveyard of empty crates and shredded tents, with a burial ground nearby with the helmets of all the Marines of their Company who past away protruding from the ground.
Mardaroni closed his eyes for a split second as he ran down this hill, vividly seeing the image of that necropolis. The sticks with those eerie helmets hanging above them, just behind the rise of earth that loosely covered the body. He reopened his eyes and clenched his rifle, the rage washing over him yet again. Their commanders in orbit had condemned them to death; they had explicitly left without them, they had overtly left them to die. In the wake of this war, of this futile defense, they were deemed nothing more than expendable. If the man who made this decision ever came before him, his instinctive action would be clear; before those lips parted to exhume some excuse, the man would have dropped to the ground by the force of a bullet.
Though, much to his displeasure, he knew that such an encounter would never come to pass. They were gone, never to return, and the surviving Marines on this planet would not live to see them come back. All that was before them was a terminal future; it was as if each and every soul was mortally ill with a disease that would erase them from existence all too soon.
He breathed in hard as they reached the bottom of the hill, now in the flat valley with the enemy patrol that was steadily moving their direction. Was there anything different from that? Didn't they all have that terminal illness, yet most failed to recognize it? The Lieutenant gasped in another breath of hot air as they continued moving over the rocky, flat earth, heading towards a long dried up ravine that snaked through this valley. He recognized this illness, this sickness, and for the first time it had almost killed him. This disease of the mind was already within each and every being on this planet, and it was only a matter of time before the symptoms became thoughts, and the thoughts became actions.
It was the clincher, it was the ending act that was wholly evident. Every man would die by his own hand or by the sword of another, unless he chose to die slowly and horribly from starvation in this wasteland. It was hard to imagine a whole Expeditionary Force spread out over this continent falling to such disgrace, to such death, yet before his own eyes he was witnessing it happening. Nothing in training, nor anything else that prepared them for war, had ever addressed the possibility of being left behind.
And yet here they were. Mardaroni continued his quick pace up as they descended into the ravine, running along the dried up river bed that probably hadn't seen water in decades. It was fairly wide, but more importantly it was at least three meters deep, which meant they could run out to intercept the approaching patrol without being seen. He wasn't sure why he was doing this, why he was pushing himself and his unit so hard to kill their enemy, but certitude was not necessary for action.
Maybe it was his will to release his frustration, anguish, and despair. If he couldn't die just yet, then killing others seemed like the only viable option. The rationalization was clearly twisted, but Mardaroni already knew that had had lost his sanity when the barrel had pressed against his sun burnt forehead.
The Lieutenant stopped and raised a balled fist, causing the Marines behind to come to a halt behind him, their heavy breathing finally breaking above the stomping of the boots. Sergeant Levett, already knowing why, dismounted his rucksack and placed it softy on the ground. The nineteen other soldiers quickly followed suit and placed their gear on the rocky earth.
"LBVs only," Mardaroni said, barely above a whisper.
The Marines nodded with anticipation, preparing to engage the enemy. He looked over and saw a Corporal speaking to him, yet the words did not register in his head. Then the recollection of his rifle discharging next to his head occurred, and the officer brought and hand up to his ear, feeling the dried blood and tenderness, yet not hearing anything from that side. He took a step closer and turned his head.
"Say again."
"Sir, how are we going to take out their vehicles?"
The most powerful thing they had were grenades, and not many of them. "Just fire your weapon, Marine."
Mardaroni set his rucksack down carefully, then checked his rifle over and his ammo load. Three damn clips. "Ammo situation?" He asked to the men around him.
They raised fingers, and the results were not good. Each man had less than five clips of ammunition, which meant that suppressive fire was not an option here. This encounter was already meeting problems, and doubt began creeping into the Lieutenant's mind. Nevertheless, it was their job to get rid of this patrol, and even if it wouldn't matter in the long run, for now they would be combat effective and kill every foe that came across their path. Besides, at the very least, if he died a dirty job would be accomplished, one that he had already tried to do.
It was this type of thinking that got men killed, but he couldn't avert his thoughts or his intentions. They were going to combat this enemy patrol, no matter what. It was the reason they had trekked over miles and miles of rock and sand, and it was the reason they were on this planet in the first place. Aside from that, he knew that the victor, in all honesty, would turn out to be the conquered. The defeater of this imminent incursion would have to endure more days like this one; more days of starvation, of thirst, of unbearable heat, and of misery.
Perhaps that was his purpose here, to indirectly put himself and his unit out of this desolation. Maybe his motivation here wasn't for some small victory, but for quick and unavoidable release from this place. When fighting this foe, there was no one to save you, no one to rescue the situation. It was only your weapon verses theirs, and then the actual fight that would determine who fell to the earth in silent liberation or who survived in gnashing deprivation.
Then it was obvious as Mardaroni and his platoon of Marines turned to face the incoming enemy that victory now would only lead to suffering later. Triumph now would only lead to the hunger, to the thirst, and to the longing for release from this hell. To him, defeat was the longed for option, not the fear-invoking failure that had once tainted his will prior to engaging the enemy.
Mardaroni flicked off the safety on his rifle, looking back once more at his Marines, wishing that the thought coursing through his veins and heart did not exist. If only this never needed to be; if only if they could have avoided this fate. If only they could have never been sent to this barren world. Yet reality assaulted their wishes for a better future, for a better life, and forced them into a dead-end kismet. This self-evident future was not wanted, but nor was it deniable as their hearts raced and their body's tensed in anticipation.
The inevitable was upon them, and with final realization, the Lieutenant understood. He wasn't trying to reassert morale into his troops, or be "combat effective," or release the bottled up anguish in his mind. He was trying to die here, and end the pain in his heart, end the suffering in his soul. If he couldn't do it to himself, either by the cowardice of his own hand or the saving action of another, he could fall in combat before this enemy.
They claimed millions of lives and destined countless more to see this bloodshed, and dying intentionally before them seemed like only giving into their wishes of complete eradication of humanity, but he wasn't about to fight them with the intent of merely losing—of becoming another statistic. He was about to fight them to end the never ending torment and this hurting emptiness.
Indeed, he finally understood.
There are some defeats more triumphant than victories.
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