Sometra and Prisara
18-05-2007, 23:28
Sutra Sutra, ~1,000 km northeast of Sometra and Prisara
1300 Hours, 906 Extaran Reckoning, Day 273
There were ways to control the effects of the intense midday heat of a tropical island, they said. Sutra Sutra, the largest in a chain of six tropical islands, was definitely hot. Reaching 114 degrees Fahrenheit during the day was commonplace, and the standard one-quart canteen carried by an infantryman left much to be desired. Rains were frequent on the island, but it was the type of rain that did little to control heat, they merely ensured that every rock that appeared stable was treacherously slick with humidity.
It was lack of water that was foremost on the minds of every Sometran and Prisaran soldier on Sutra Sutra. The lowest grunt and the highest brass alike sweat profusely, and those infantry on patrols were commonly found battling with the myriad insects that gathered around stagnant pools of water, rather than assuming their proper duties.
Although frowned upon by the commissioned officers, the practice of "pond diving" became a popular pastime for those infantry whose squads were charged with patrols far enough from the established camps that no officers would be around to ruin the fun. It was around one such water hole that a rifle squad from B Company, 2nd Infantry, 3rd Division (B/2/3) chattered playfully, splashing the rotted water into the eyes of their comrades, forgetting the stress of an otherwise dreary assignment.
Sergeant Jim Hadston, in charge of the rifle squad, sat above his men on a rock with his feet submerged in the currents of the waterfall leading to the pool. Beneath him splashed eleven men, none of them over twenty-one years old, without a care for either the diseased water in which they swam, or the multitude of insects who bit at them repeatedly in defense of their now-occupied watery home. Laughter echoed off the granite walls of the pool and was absorbed by the dense, dark shrubbery of the endless jungle surrounding the small oasis. The men's rifles sat several feet from the entrance to the pool, a fact which Hadston barely noticed at this point in his tenure on Sutra Sutra. In almost a month of occupation, the only hostiles met had been primitive natives, armed with blow-darts and spears, easily put down by the modern weaponry of the Allied States. In truth, Hadston barely saw a reason to be on this damned hotplate of an island. There was little information on reasoning behind the occupation, but orders were orders, and SaPCom had been quick to ensure that each man knew that.
A quick look around yielded little for Hadston. Besides his squad, the sounds of jungle life dominated. High pitched shrieks and the occasional larger animal calling a mate pierced the flora like needles, rubbing monotonously at the ever thinning sanity of a man's mind. They would need to leave soon, company HQ was expecting the squad back at 1530, and they would have to travel almost a kilometer through thick brush and shrubs. Company would expect a report, but Hadston would handle that as he always did. Nothing to report, Sir. All quiet on the southern front!
Standing up, Hadston stretched his arms high above his head in a gaping yawn. As he brought them down, a twig snapped to his immediate left, and his world exploded in agony. Stumbling forward, the sergeant clutched at his neck, falling head first off his ten foot high post, directly into the water atop his startled men.
Corporal Ken Valsdon was first to reach their fallen sergeant. A lanky rifleman with shaved hair the bright color of a tomato, Valsdon at first thought his commanding officer was merely trying to frighten his men. This thought was erased from Valsdon's mind as he noticed the thick red pool of blood mixing with the fermented water. Screaming at his squad to help him save their sergeant, Valsdon looked upward quickly to the spot Hadston had occupied mere seconds earlier.
A set of jet black eyes peered back at him.
Ordering his squad to get Hadston out of the water and to do what they could for him, Valsdon dove for the pool's exit. Keeping his stare directly on the native that had assaulted his squad leader, Valsdon grabbed his rifle and went racing up the steep granite cliff in nothing but his underwear. As he reached the top of the cliff, Valsdon saw the native rushing into the forest, dark skin barely covered by a thin leopard skin loin cloth, but covered in the extensive tattooing legendary with the Allied Infantry.
Switching the safety off his combat rifle, Valsdon ran into the thick jungle, vines and branches protesting his every move.
Valsdon's first thought was to curse his haste in leaving his clothing behind at the pool. The canopy was thick here, and in the twilight his pale white skin was much less effective at masking his movements than the native's tattooed darkness. Inch long thorns rent massive slashes in his arms and legs, and blood flowed freely from six especially deep wounds, some of which Valsdon knew would need medical attention.
The sounds of the jungle were next occupied Valsdon's thoughts. In the darkness of the jungle, silence from one's surroundings was an absolute luxury. Valsdon had no such luck today. The calls of millions of animals large and small, thousands of species, engulfed the corporal as if the native had willed the jungle against him. Without sight or sound, finding the man would be sheer unadulterated luck.
But apparently luck was with Valsdon now. The native, out of foolishness or sheer confusion at his plight, halted in a column of dim light cast through an opening in the canopy far above. He was barely ten yards ahead of Valsdon, who leveled his rifle and fired a swift three round burst of 6.5 mm ammunition in the direction of the man. Valsdon's heart filled with satisfaction as the jungle noise stopped completely at his rifle's command, and he watched the native crumple where he stood.
Running forward, Valsdon groaned as he realized the pain he had unleashed upon his foe. His burst had hit the man just above the knee, nearly severing the bottom half of the native's leg. Hyperventilating and with a look of pure horror, but still conscious, the native peered up at his assailant with crying eyes.
"Bleshto! Mara plinka esto nara shu!"
Valsdon struggled to remember the few phrases of the native tongue he had learned from B/2/3's interpreter. He was quite sure that this was the phrase of a man begging for an end to unbearable pain. He lowered his weapon and kneeled by the native.
"Mara. Kala stardon malach. Wala kento lodo, prela baka tu?"
("I will give you peace. You must answer questions. Why did you attack the first man?")
The native's eyes hardened with a look of anger and hate upon his face. His reply came slowly, and it was dulled by a small tinge of blood coughed up accompanying the words.
"Eldo tara shu, meka tara vut rala inko."
Again struggling to decipher the meaning, Valsdon recalled a similar phrase he had heard in a friendly native village about half a kilometer from here, on patrol a week ago. B/2/3's interpreter had said something about a "red eyed menace, tearing the trees from the ground and destroying native villages." Command had dismissed it as local rumors, complete foolishness. Valsdon was fairly sure that this native had mistaken his squad leader for this menace though, and so had attacked him. The two stories of the same thing were disturbing, and command would want to know.
"Mara."
("Peace.")
The crack of Valsdon's rifle sounded once more, and the jungle went eerily quiet.
1300 Hours, 906 Extaran Reckoning, Day 273
There were ways to control the effects of the intense midday heat of a tropical island, they said. Sutra Sutra, the largest in a chain of six tropical islands, was definitely hot. Reaching 114 degrees Fahrenheit during the day was commonplace, and the standard one-quart canteen carried by an infantryman left much to be desired. Rains were frequent on the island, but it was the type of rain that did little to control heat, they merely ensured that every rock that appeared stable was treacherously slick with humidity.
It was lack of water that was foremost on the minds of every Sometran and Prisaran soldier on Sutra Sutra. The lowest grunt and the highest brass alike sweat profusely, and those infantry on patrols were commonly found battling with the myriad insects that gathered around stagnant pools of water, rather than assuming their proper duties.
Although frowned upon by the commissioned officers, the practice of "pond diving" became a popular pastime for those infantry whose squads were charged with patrols far enough from the established camps that no officers would be around to ruin the fun. It was around one such water hole that a rifle squad from B Company, 2nd Infantry, 3rd Division (B/2/3) chattered playfully, splashing the rotted water into the eyes of their comrades, forgetting the stress of an otherwise dreary assignment.
Sergeant Jim Hadston, in charge of the rifle squad, sat above his men on a rock with his feet submerged in the currents of the waterfall leading to the pool. Beneath him splashed eleven men, none of them over twenty-one years old, without a care for either the diseased water in which they swam, or the multitude of insects who bit at them repeatedly in defense of their now-occupied watery home. Laughter echoed off the granite walls of the pool and was absorbed by the dense, dark shrubbery of the endless jungle surrounding the small oasis. The men's rifles sat several feet from the entrance to the pool, a fact which Hadston barely noticed at this point in his tenure on Sutra Sutra. In almost a month of occupation, the only hostiles met had been primitive natives, armed with blow-darts and spears, easily put down by the modern weaponry of the Allied States. In truth, Hadston barely saw a reason to be on this damned hotplate of an island. There was little information on reasoning behind the occupation, but orders were orders, and SaPCom had been quick to ensure that each man knew that.
A quick look around yielded little for Hadston. Besides his squad, the sounds of jungle life dominated. High pitched shrieks and the occasional larger animal calling a mate pierced the flora like needles, rubbing monotonously at the ever thinning sanity of a man's mind. They would need to leave soon, company HQ was expecting the squad back at 1530, and they would have to travel almost a kilometer through thick brush and shrubs. Company would expect a report, but Hadston would handle that as he always did. Nothing to report, Sir. All quiet on the southern front!
Standing up, Hadston stretched his arms high above his head in a gaping yawn. As he brought them down, a twig snapped to his immediate left, and his world exploded in agony. Stumbling forward, the sergeant clutched at his neck, falling head first off his ten foot high post, directly into the water atop his startled men.
Corporal Ken Valsdon was first to reach their fallen sergeant. A lanky rifleman with shaved hair the bright color of a tomato, Valsdon at first thought his commanding officer was merely trying to frighten his men. This thought was erased from Valsdon's mind as he noticed the thick red pool of blood mixing with the fermented water. Screaming at his squad to help him save their sergeant, Valsdon looked upward quickly to the spot Hadston had occupied mere seconds earlier.
A set of jet black eyes peered back at him.
Ordering his squad to get Hadston out of the water and to do what they could for him, Valsdon dove for the pool's exit. Keeping his stare directly on the native that had assaulted his squad leader, Valsdon grabbed his rifle and went racing up the steep granite cliff in nothing but his underwear. As he reached the top of the cliff, Valsdon saw the native rushing into the forest, dark skin barely covered by a thin leopard skin loin cloth, but covered in the extensive tattooing legendary with the Allied Infantry.
Switching the safety off his combat rifle, Valsdon ran into the thick jungle, vines and branches protesting his every move.
Valsdon's first thought was to curse his haste in leaving his clothing behind at the pool. The canopy was thick here, and in the twilight his pale white skin was much less effective at masking his movements than the native's tattooed darkness. Inch long thorns rent massive slashes in his arms and legs, and blood flowed freely from six especially deep wounds, some of which Valsdon knew would need medical attention.
The sounds of the jungle were next occupied Valsdon's thoughts. In the darkness of the jungle, silence from one's surroundings was an absolute luxury. Valsdon had no such luck today. The calls of millions of animals large and small, thousands of species, engulfed the corporal as if the native had willed the jungle against him. Without sight or sound, finding the man would be sheer unadulterated luck.
But apparently luck was with Valsdon now. The native, out of foolishness or sheer confusion at his plight, halted in a column of dim light cast through an opening in the canopy far above. He was barely ten yards ahead of Valsdon, who leveled his rifle and fired a swift three round burst of 6.5 mm ammunition in the direction of the man. Valsdon's heart filled with satisfaction as the jungle noise stopped completely at his rifle's command, and he watched the native crumple where he stood.
Running forward, Valsdon groaned as he realized the pain he had unleashed upon his foe. His burst had hit the man just above the knee, nearly severing the bottom half of the native's leg. Hyperventilating and with a look of pure horror, but still conscious, the native peered up at his assailant with crying eyes.
"Bleshto! Mara plinka esto nara shu!"
Valsdon struggled to remember the few phrases of the native tongue he had learned from B/2/3's interpreter. He was quite sure that this was the phrase of a man begging for an end to unbearable pain. He lowered his weapon and kneeled by the native.
"Mara. Kala stardon malach. Wala kento lodo, prela baka tu?"
("I will give you peace. You must answer questions. Why did you attack the first man?")
The native's eyes hardened with a look of anger and hate upon his face. His reply came slowly, and it was dulled by a small tinge of blood coughed up accompanying the words.
"Eldo tara shu, meka tara vut rala inko."
Again struggling to decipher the meaning, Valsdon recalled a similar phrase he had heard in a friendly native village about half a kilometer from here, on patrol a week ago. B/2/3's interpreter had said something about a "red eyed menace, tearing the trees from the ground and destroying native villages." Command had dismissed it as local rumors, complete foolishness. Valsdon was fairly sure that this native had mistaken his squad leader for this menace though, and so had attacked him. The two stories of the same thing were disturbing, and command would want to know.
"Mara."
("Peace.")
The crack of Valsdon's rifle sounded once more, and the jungle went eerily quiet.