Turn 1, Part 2 - A Grunt's Eye View

SSG Bill Johnson arose before 0500, as was his custom. He hadn't slept more than four hours a night since the war started. He found it impossible, with the constant visiting of ghosts from the past. He usually awoke in a sweat and shaking as it was. By 0500 he'd gotten his morning toiletries out of the way and made rounds of the company area, checking the CQ and rousing the troops in his "congenial" manner. He answered the complaints with short quips back at the complainer. Heck, bitching was part of soldiering he thought, he only worried if it got too serious, or worse, if it stopped.

After checking with the CQ, he headed for the mess tent at battalion. They usually had a working meeting over breakfast, him and the platoon sergeants. He was about 100 meters from the tent when he heard the first incoming rounds.

"INCOMING!" he shouted as he dove into a muddy trench along the path. Rounds crashed around him, lifting him the bottom of the trench, shrapnel whistling over the top of the shallow tench as he buried his head, and prayed for the ten-thousandth time for God to make it quick, as mud and debris rained down. When the ammo and fuel storage went up he thought it was all over but the crying. Screams of agony filled the air, along with the stench of death. A smell he could never get rid of. "More ghosts to visit", passed through his mind as he hunkered in the bottom of the shallow trench, waiting for the barrage to lift or shift. It seemed like hours passed.

Suddenly, it was over. The eerie silence was broken by the wails of the injured, and the occasional explosion edging through his ringing ears. He rapidly got out of the muddy trench, soaked from the outside with muddy water, and from the inside with sweat. He surveyed the carnage around him. This was the worst hit in a long time for the camp. The Russians had found the mark this time it seemed, but why not, they'd been trying for months. He turned back towards his orderly room, all thought of breakfast gone from his mind. His jaw set in a "Don't mess with me" angle, his eyes showing an angry pain. Anyone who knew him was not going with the short First Sergeant when he got this look. It was the look he got every time he lost a troop, and he was sure he lost some this time. In the distance he could see the smoldering hulk of the Brigade CP. "Shit. They took a direct hit." He grabbed the first trooper he saw and told him to gather the leaders. He stood in the company street with his hands on his hips, angrily cursing to himself.

Jack hated mornings. Come to think of it, he wasn't wild about nights either. The men in his section knew it, and avoided him during those times unless duty made it necessary. Risov was not quite a veteran, and made no pretense at being one, but the other men in his section were all recruits, green as grass. They'd been here 3 or 4 days. They did know him a bit though...

This morning, they let him sleep in until 0530. He was an old man, to them anyway - at least 24 - and he needed that extra half hour of sleep to fend off his dark moods, which seemed linked to the nearly constant lead-colored sky above Camp Clark.

Two of the section had left for the mess tent to bring breakfast back for the others. That left two others there at the tube, one minding the radio and the other scanning the far bank with binoculars. Finally, Risov began stirring in the nearby bunker, clanging and banging around into things metallic and glass, and the two recruits the 60 mm got real quiet.

"The Bear" rose, scratched, gargled, and spat, and then took a long drag from his canteen. He wiped grit from his eyes, exited the bunker and looked around. The recruits never called him "the Bear" to his face, but it certainly fit on two accounts - his perpetual grouchy mood, and his family's background. Risov never talked about them, but with a last name like that, it was a safe bet that they came from somewhere Red, and not Red, White, and Blue....

"See anything?", he asked the man scanning the riverbank, who nodded in the negative. "Where's the other two?", he grumbled to no one in particular. One of the recruits spoke up. "They're bringing back breakfast. The LT said it was OK, and they know someone in the line that'll set us up."

Risov paused, and mumbled something, then "OK". He looked at the cycles. Two were up and running, and the third was in parts on a tarp. Those things will be damn handy if we have to bug out of here, he thought. "Get that thing together today, and we'll see about scrounging some juice for it." He nudged the gas tank and other parts of the dismembered motorcycle, and was about to say something else when he immediately dove into the mortar pit, yelling "INCOMING - GET DOWN!!!"

The rounds slammed in, some near, some far. Risov manned the tube, one guy pulled increments and passed rounds, while the third tried to make sense out of the chaos coming over the radio. From behind, the rounds of the bigger stuff - 105's and 155's - passed overhead, sounding like some angered giant was hurling boxcars across the Columbia River. Soon enough the cease-fire order came over the wire, and Risov and his two men climbed out, dusted off, and had a look at what damage the attack had done. A minute later, Risov began shaking like a leaf, and went back into the bunker for about five minutes. He reemerged and seemed fine. Risov checked out the mortar pits, and soon returned.

The reports over the radio of the damaged areas sent one of the recruits running for the mess tent. He trudged back about 10 minutes later, carrying a NY Yankees hat. No one needed to ask about the owner. The other man was in the hospital, he said. He'll make it, but his arm won't.

Risov was very quiet, nodding from time to time as the man described the horrors he had seen on his trek from the mess tent. If he felt anything he sure didn't let it show on his face. Finally, he broke the silence.

The morning started like any other at Camp Clark. Charlie Company's area was close to river and had a tendency to take a lot of heat. Captain Ramsey ran his face over his beard, almost putting down the cup of shaving cream. It never ends, keeping a clean face. He had time yesterday to shave twice, having to go see the Battalion CO had allowed him to freshen up. "Oh, well", he thought. Applying some cream to his 12-hour beard, he moved the mirror a little to allow a little more light to hit him. He began the job of removing his unending beard. For a moment, the Academy returned to his memory, and his days as a cadet in the long gray line. He gave a short laugh. Then he had to shave twice, sometimes three times a day, so the upper classmen wouldn't gig him during inspections.

The days and years flashed by in his mind. OCS and Jump School at FT. Benning. Then Pathfinder school, and orders to the 82nd Airborne Division, then to Washington, assigned to 25th Infantry Division Scouts. And then all Hell breaking loose, put in charge of the Company just 5 days into the war. Captain Thompson had been a good CO, but a Humvee is just no good when you drive into an armored recon unit. Thompson and most of 3rd Platoon disappeared in an instant. It was all Ramsey could do to pull the rest of the company out alive. Now a young 1st Looie is not what you really want to run you through Indian country. But they had learned quick. And the 25th needed information. That was what the Scout company was there to do. For the rest of the retreat the Scouts kept the advancing enemy in sight, hitting targets of opportunity at every turn. They had a pretty good record, but at a heavy price. When they crossed the bridge with the General and the Oregon National Guard, there was less than a platoon left.

Now the unit was split up, and Ramsey was in charge of about 300m of trench line, CO of Charlie Company, 1/24th BN, 25th ID. The unit was a good one, though a little light now. But that gave him survivors, men ready to pay back the Russians on the other side of the river.

Mess would be open soon, but for Ramsey and his men it was breakfast in the trench. As he finished shaving, he wiped clean the rest of his face, and grabbed his helmet and flak vest. "Let's see", he thought to himself, "I think it's 3rd Herd's turn to enjoy my company for breakfast." Ramsey had started taking turns having breakfast with one of the platoons each morning. It was a habit he had learned back in the Scouts, and it just seemed natural to do it here. The men seemed to like it, and he got to know them better. "Know your enemy, but know your troops better, and you can accomplish anything." He had read that, or something like it back in his days at West Point, and had taken it to heart. He slung on his MOLLE, checking everything once again. He picked up his OICW. "Wouldn't it be nice if you did everything you were supposed to?", he said to no one. "Corporal, I'll be with the Herd on Echo for breakfast," he said to the radio man as he left.

Ramsey was soon settled in with 3rd Platoon, having a wonderful breakfast that someone had scrounged up, joking and keeping an eye on his men as they started their meal. Then Thump Thump Thump. Ramsey was only seconds behind the Platoon Sgt's yell of "COVER!". As the counter-battery fire started, Ramsey moved down the line, checking his men and getting them up to the trench. He shouted, "Man that .50 Corporal!". As the men opened up on the possible spotter's position, Ramsey scanned the opposite bank for movement.

When the incoming fire stopped, , Ramsey called out, "Cease fire. Give me an ACE report." After the LT gave Ramsey the Ammo/Casuality/Equipment report, he turned to the whole platoon. "Well, I can always count on the Herd to make my stay enjoyable and filled with excitement." After the laughter died down, Ramsey continued, "OK, I have to go and try put some order in around here. LT, see to your people and send a Sitrep to the CP." With this, Ramsey went back to the CP to check on the rest of his people, seeing to the wounded, and getting reports from the rest of the unit. Then it was back to the daily grind of requisitioning and paper work.

Carter opened his eyes the second the first shell exploded. The dugout shook and dislodged some loose earth from the heavy timbers supporting the roof. He looked around, momentarily confused. One minute ago he was in a dream with Britany Spears, the next he was underground in a cramped dark bunker that smelled of unwashed bodies and sweat. You always get woken up just before the good bits, he thought...

The kerosene lamp hanging in the middle of the room was swinging from side to side, casting weird shadows as the players from an all night poker game hastily gathered up their winnings from a table. Carter had been playing with them, but after a bad losing streak he pulled out, he'd lost three Hershey bars and a pack of cigarettes to that card shark Murphy from D Company.

Some of the newer soldiers were huddled in a corner. They were terrified, looking nervously at the roof. One of them was crying. First time for them, considered Carter, they were just out of Basic at Rilea. He had done the same thing his first time. But he'd learned that being in a dugout was probably the safest place to be, unless of course one of the shells landed directly on the roof, a whole squad was buried that way about 12 months ago.

Someone said, "Bet that's a 152.", as another shell screamed overhead. "No way, it's a 122.", was the anonymous reply. Carter wasn't sure what they were. Artillery was all the same to him, big and loud. The "neighbors" liked to wake up the Camp by lobbing a few shells over the Columbia every now and then. Carter had gotten used to it in the last two years, he wondered when the Russian's would ever run out of shells though.

Soon our guys started to shoot back, counter-battery fire it's called, some arty guy told him. He went on to explain the principles, but Carter didn't bother to remember any of it. He was a grunt, artillery wasn't his job. As abruptly as the shelling had started, it was over. Carter expelled a breath of air. He wasn't shaking anymore, not like he used to. He got out of his bunk and lit one of his precious cigarettes. He knew smoking would kill him one of these days, if something else didn't first.

He looked over to the new guys, and smiled sympathetically. "It's all over now." They peered over at him, one was still sobbing, as another vomited. Carter rolled his eyes...Jeesus it smells bad enough in here already without that, he thought. He shook his boots, making sure nothing nasty had crawled inside, he'd heard that some guy in the transportation pool had lost two toes to a rat that had been sleeping in his boots. He wasn't sure if it was true, but it never hurt to check first.

Carter put on his flak jacket, he'd preferred one of the Kevlar ones, but they were pretty scarce. He placed his helmet on his head, and slung his battered rifle over his shoulder. He headed to the entrance way of the dugout. He could hear Sergeants shouting out orders, and could smell something burning outside. He stopped and puffed the last of his cigarette, savoring the flavor.


	Twilight: 2000 - Under a Blood Red Sky \| Home History and Background \| Maps \| PC's and NPC's \| Turns \| Friendly Units \| Character Generation \| Equipment Turn 1, Part 2 - A Grunt's Eye View SSG Johnson SSG Bill Johnson arose before 0500, as was his custom. He hadn't slept more than four hours a night since the war started. He found it impossible, with the constant visiting of ghosts from the past. He usually awoke in a sweat and shaking as it was. By 0500 he'd gotten his morning toiletries out of the way and made rounds of the company area, checking the CQ and rousing the troops in his "congenial" manner. He answered the complaints with short quips back at the complainer. Heck, bitching was part of soldiering he thought, he only worried if it got too serious, or worse, if it stopped. After checking with the CQ, he headed for the mess tent at battalion. They usually had a working meeting over breakfast, him and the platoon sergeants. He was about 100 meters from the tent when he heard the first incoming rounds. "INCOMING!" he shouted as he dove into a muddy trench along the path. Rounds crashed around him, lifting him the bottom of the trench, shrapnel whistling over the top of the shallow tench as he buried his head, and prayed for the ten-thousandth time for God to make it quick, as mud and debris rained down. When the ammo and fuel storage went up he thought it was all over but the crying. Screams of agony filled the air, along with the stench of death. A smell he could never get rid of. "More ghosts to visit", passed through his mind as he hunkered in the bottom of the shallow trench, waiting for the barrage to lift or shift. It seemed like hours passed. Suddenly, it was over. The eerie silence was broken by the wails of the injured, and the occasional explosion edging through his ringing ears. He rapidly got out of the muddy trench, soaked from the outside with muddy water, and from the inside with sweat. He surveyed the carnage around him. This was the worst hit in a long time for the camp. The Russians had found the mark this time it seemed, but why not, they'd been trying for months. He turned back towards his orderly room, all thought of breakfast gone from his mind. His jaw set in a "Don't mess with me" angle, his eyes showing an angry pain. Anyone who knew him was not going with the short First Sergeant when he got this look. It was the look he got every time he lost a troop, and he was sure he lost some this time. In the distance he could see the smoldering hulk of the Brigade CP. "Shit. They took a direct hit." He grabbed the first trooper he saw and told him to gather the leaders. He stood in the company street with his hands on his hips, angrily cursing to himself. SP4 Risov Jack hated mornings. Come to think of it, he wasn't wild about nights either. The men in his section knew it, and avoided him during those times unless duty made it necessary. Risov was not quite a veteran, and made no pretense at being one, but the other men in his section were all recruits, green as grass. They'd been here 3 or 4 days. They did know him a bit though... This morning, they let him sleep in until 0530. He was an old man, to them anyway - at least 24 - and he needed that extra half hour of sleep to fend off his dark moods, which seemed linked to the nearly constant lead-colored sky above Camp Clark. Two of the section had left for the mess tent to bring breakfast back for the others. That left two others there at the tube, one minding the radio and the other scanning the far bank with binoculars. Finally, Risov began stirring in the nearby bunker, clanging and banging around into things metallic and glass, and the two recruits the 60 mm got real quiet. "The Bear" rose, scratched, gargled, and spat, and then took a long drag from his canteen. He wiped grit from his eyes, exited the bunker and looked around. The recruits never called him "the Bear" to his face, but it certainly fit on two accounts - his perpetual grouchy mood, and his family's background. Risov never talked about them, but with a last name like that, it was a safe bet that they came from somewhere Red, and not Red, White, and Blue.... "See anything?", he asked the man scanning the riverbank, who nodded in the negative. "Where's the other two?", he grumbled to no one in particular. One of the recruits spoke up. "They're bringing back breakfast. The LT said it was OK, and they know someone in the line that'll set us up." Risov paused, and mumbled something, then "OK". He looked at the cycles. Two were up and running, and the third was in parts on a tarp. Those things will be damn handy if we have to bug out of here, he thought. "Get that thing together today, and we'll see about scrounging some juice for it." He nudged the gas tank and other parts of the dismembered motorcycle, and was about to say something else when he immediately dove into the mortar pit, yelling "INCOMING - GET DOWN!!!" The rounds slammed in, some near, some far. Risov manned the tube, one guy pulled increments and passed rounds, while the third tried to make sense out of the chaos coming over the radio. From behind, the rounds of the bigger stuff - 105's and 155's - passed overhead, sounding like some angered giant was hurling boxcars across the Columbia River. Soon enough the cease-fire order came over the wire, and Risov and his two men climbed out, dusted off, and had a look at what damage the attack had done. A minute later, Risov began shaking like a leaf, and went back into the bunker for about five minutes. He reemerged and seemed fine. Risov checked out the mortar pits, and soon returned. The reports over the radio of the damaged areas sent one of the recruits running for the mess tent. He trudged back about 10 minutes later, carrying a NY Yankees hat. No one needed to ask about the owner. The other man was in the hospital, he said. He'll make it, but his arm won't. Risov was very quiet, nodding from time to time as the man described the horrors he had seen on his trek from the mess tent. If he felt anything he sure didn't let it show on his face. Finally, he broke the silence. "Hey, what are your guy's names again?..." CPT Ramsey The morning started like any other at Camp Clark. Charlie Company's area was close to river and had a tendency to take a lot of heat. Captain Ramsey ran his face over his beard, almost putting down the cup of shaving cream. It never ends, keeping a clean face. He had time yesterday to shave twice, having to go see the Battalion CO had allowed him to freshen up. "Oh, well", he thought. Applying some cream to his 12-hour beard, he moved the mirror a little to allow a little more light to hit him. He began the job of removing his unending beard. For a moment, the Academy returned to his memory, and his days as a cadet in the long gray line. He gave a short laugh. Then he had to shave twice, sometimes three times a day, so the upper classmen wouldn't gig him during inspections. The days and years flashed by in his mind. OCS and Jump School at FT. Benning. Then Pathfinder school, and orders to the 82nd Airborne Division, then to Washington, assigned to 25th Infantry Division Scouts. And then all Hell breaking loose, put in charge of the Company just 5 days into the war. Captain Thompson had been a good CO, but a Humvee is just no good when you drive into an armored recon unit. Thompson and most of 3rd Platoon disappeared in an instant. It was all Ramsey could do to pull the rest of the company out alive. Now a young 1st Looie is not what you really want to run you through Indian country. But they had learned quick. And the 25th needed information. That was what the Scout company was there to do. For the rest of the retreat the Scouts kept the advancing enemy in sight, hitting targets of opportunity at every turn. They had a pretty good record, but at a heavy price. When they crossed the bridge with the General and the Oregon National Guard, there was less than a platoon left. Now the unit was split up, and Ramsey was in charge of about 300m of trench line, CO of Charlie Company, 1/24th BN, 25th ID. The unit was a good one, though a little light now. But that gave him survivors, men ready to pay back the Russians on the other side of the river. Mess would be open soon, but for Ramsey and his men it was breakfast in the trench. As he finished shaving, he wiped clean the rest of his face, and grabbed his helmet and flak vest. "Let's see", he thought to himself, "I think it's 3rd Herd's turn to enjoy my company for breakfast." Ramsey had started taking turns having breakfast with one of the platoons each morning. It was a habit he had learned back in the Scouts, and it just seemed natural to do it here. The men seemed to like it, and he got to know them better. "Know your enemy, but know your troops better, and you can accomplish anything." He had read that, or something like it back in his days at West Point, and had taken it to heart. He slung on his MOLLE, checking everything once again. He picked up his OICW. "Wouldn't it be nice if you did everything you were supposed to?", he said to no one. "Corporal, I'll be with the Herd on Echo for breakfast," he said to the radio man as he left. Ramsey was soon settled in with 3rd Platoon, having a wonderful breakfast that someone had scrounged up, joking and keeping an eye on his men as they started their meal. Then Thump Thump Thump. Ramsey was only seconds behind the Platoon Sgt's yell of "COVER!". As the counter-battery fire started, Ramsey moved down the line, checking his men and getting them up to the trench. He shouted, "Man that .50 Corporal!". As the men opened up on the possible spotter's position, Ramsey scanned the opposite bank for movement. When the incoming fire stopped, , Ramsey called out, "Cease fire. Give me an ACE report." After the LT gave Ramsey the Ammo/Casuality/Equipment report, he turned to the whole platoon. "Well, I can always count on the Herd to make my stay enjoyable and filled with excitement." After the laughter died down, Ramsey continued, "OK, I have to go and try put some order in around here. LT, see to your people and send a Sitrep to the CP." With this, Ramsey went back to the CP to check on the rest of his people, seeing to the wounded, and getting reports from the rest of the unit. Then it was back to the daily grind of requisitioning and paper work. SP4 Hughes Carter opened his eyes the second the first shell exploded. The dugout shook and dislodged some loose earth from the heavy timbers supporting the roof. He looked around, momentarily confused. One minute ago he was in a dream with Britany Spears, the next he was underground in a cramped dark bunker that smelled of unwashed bodies and sweat. You always get woken up just before the good bits, he thought... The kerosene lamp hanging in the middle of the room was swinging from side to side, casting weird shadows as the players from an all night poker game hastily gathered up their winnings from a table. Carter had been playing with them, but after a bad losing streak he pulled out, he'd lost three Hershey bars and a pack of cigarettes to that card shark Murphy from D Company. Some of the newer soldiers were huddled in a corner. They were terrified, looking nervously at the roof. One of them was crying. First time for them, considered Carter, they were just out of Basic at Rilea. He had done the same thing his first time. But he'd learned that being in a dugout was probably the safest place to be, unless of course one of the shells landed directly on the roof, a whole squad was buried that way about 12 months ago. Someone said, "Bet that's a 152.", as another shell screamed overhead. "No way, it's a 122.", was the anonymous reply. Carter wasn't sure what they were. Artillery was all the same to him, big and loud. The "neighbors" liked to wake up the Camp by lobbing a few shells over the Columbia every now and then. Carter had gotten used to it in the last two years, he wondered when the Russian's would ever run out of shells though. Soon our guys started to shoot back, counter-battery fire it's called, some arty guy told him. He went on to explain the principles, but Carter didn't bother to remember any of it. He was a grunt, artillery wasn't his job. As abruptly as the shelling had started, it was over. Carter expelled a breath of air. He wasn't shaking anymore, not like he used to. He got out of his bunk and lit one of his precious cigarettes. He knew smoking would kill him one of these days, if something else didn't first. He looked over to the new guys, and smiled sympathetically. "It's all over now." They peered over at him, one was still sobbing, as another vomited. Carter rolled his eyes...Jeesus it smells bad enough in here already without that, he thought. He shook his boots, making sure nothing nasty had crawled inside, he'd heard that some guy in the transportation pool had lost two toes to a rat that had been sleeping in his boots. He wasn't sure if it was true, but it never hurt to check first. Carter put on his flak jacket, he'd preferred one of the Kevlar ones, but they were pretty scarce. He placed his helmet on his head, and slung his battered rifle over his shoulder. He headed to the entrance way of the dugout. He could hear Sergeants shouting out orders, and could smell something burning outside. He stopped and puffed the last of his cigarette, savoring the flavor. Throwing the butt into an old ammo box by the door, he headed out into the morning light. Britany would have to wait.