John Ringo: A Hymn Before Battle

“I think I know where this is going,” chuckled the sergeant major.

Taking a deep breath the quivering specialist continued. “Well, the PLL kit is only good for minor shit like changing a tire…”

“Like now!” the colonel snapped.

“Yes, sir,” the specialist continued, doggedly, “and when the vehicle is good the tires rarely go bad. And this is a good jeep, that’s a new damn tire! But at ORS the inspectors know that the commanders’ vehicles get first dibs so they really go over ’em with a fine comb. And if they can’t find something major they look for little shit like chipped paint on your jack and stuff. So, I got the maintenance chief to swap me for a new set of PLL and since I didn’t want it to get fucked up…”

“Knew it!” laughed the NCO. “God, I hate that trick. Next time, Reynolds, get two sets of PLL and keep one in your locker!”

“Reynolds.” The colonel forced himself to pause. Ripping the head off the idiot would solve nothing. One of the reasons he was so angry was his own sense of failure for not replacing this particular weak link before ARTEP.

“Yes, sir?”

“You are almost remarkably lacking in sense.” Horner looked at the heavens, as if seeking guidance.

“Yes, sir.”

“I ought to send you to the Post Protocol office as a permanent driver,” said the colonel, returning to the situation.

“Yes, sir.”

“It is not a compliment,” said the officer, smiling like a tiger.

“No, sir. Airborne, sir.” Reynolds knew that when the colonel smiled like that you were totally screwed. Scouts, he thought, here I come .

“Sergeant Major Eady?”

“Alpha weapons.” While the discussion had gone on, the sergeant major had pulled out and consulted a tactical dispositions map. The sleet turning to rain pooled and dripped on the acetate cover, occasionally requiring a shake to clear the view. By evening it was sure to snow. The sergeant major decided he wanted to be back at the Tactical Operations Center by then; all his comfort gear was there.

“Where?” snapped the colonel, stalking over to his own seat.

“South to the next firebreak, which should be on the left about two hundred meters, around the bend, then about a hundred fifty, two hundred. Clearing on the right. If I remember correctly, there’s a lightning-struck pine at the edge of the clearing along the road.” The NCO had been driving these roads before the specialist was a gleam in his daddy’s eye.

“Reynolds,” growled the colonel, throwing himself into the seat of the open jeep and propping his foot on the mud-splashed shovel lashed to the side.

“Sir.”

“I assume you can run four hundred meters in your field gear.” The colonel assumed the same position as the sergeant major in the back, gloved hands thrust into armpits, body slightly crouched to reduce surface area. The position of an experienced and heartily pissed infantry officer preparing for a long wait in the cold rain and sleet.

“Airborne, sir!” The specialist snapped to attention, happy to have somewhere to go out of the glacial gaze of his commander.

“Go.”

The embarrassed spec-four took off like a gazelle. The icy red mud splashed for yards in every direction with each stride.

“Sergeant Major,” said the colonel, conversationally, as the figure disappeared around the first bend.

“Yes, sir!” snapped the sergeant major, coming to attention in his seat, but not removing his hands from his armpits.

“Sarcasm?” asked the colonel, tightly.

“Sarcasm? Me, sir? Never,” he said, leaning back in his seat. Then he held up his right hand with forefinger and thumb slightly separated. A pea might have fit between the two. “Maybe, maybe, just a bit. A bit.” As he said it, his fingers separated until they were at maximum extension. “A bit.”

“I have been meaning to talk to you about getting a new driver…” said the colonel, letting some of his tension go. The situation was just too stupid and petty to get really angry about.

“Oh? Really?” The sergeant major chuckled.

“It’s not so much the fact that he is so damn stupid,” the colonel continued, resignedly. The Smaj would have his little laugh. “It’s that when he’s not arrogant, he’s obsequious.”

“Well, Colonel,” said the NCO, taking off his Kevlar helmet and scratching his head. A flurry of dandruff drifted off in the cold wind. Basic personal hygiene complete, he took care settling the helmet on his head and getting all the straps back in place. The chinstrap was greasy against his chin, the well-worn canvas soaked with skin oils after the long field problem. “The sergeant major is only an enlisted man and we’re not cleared to know what obsequious means. But if you mean he’s a little ass-kisser, that’s why he got the job in the first place. That and he’s a hell of a runner; Colonel Wasserman was big on running.” The ebony Buddha, a noted runner himself, smiled contentedly. From his point of view this was the last item that needed major repair in the whole battalion.

“Colonel Wasserman came within a hair’s breadth of being relieved for cause and is currently headed for the street,” snorted the colonel. He and the sergeant major had tried to bring the soldier up to the standard that they expected but it just had not happened. Reynolds just seemed to be one of those soldiers best suited for the “Old Guard.” He looked great during inspections, but just could not get his head out of his ass when it came to combat training. Horner sighed in resignation, realizing that there were some situations that training would not solve.

“In general I use the following criteria,” he continued. “If Colonel Wasserman thought it was a great idea, I try to go in the exact opposite direction. In a way it’s too bad I can’t follow him through the rest of my career, it’s like a guiding light. Move Reynolds out gracefully. Give him a nice letter, your signature, not mine, and send him back to Charlie company. Find a good replacement. God help us if we had to go to war with this bozo.”

There was a period of silence as the two leaders listened to the falling precipitation. It seemed to have settled for sleet, but there were occasional flurries of snow and still a little freezing rain. In the distance there was a rumble of artillery from the Corp artillery having its bi-yearly live fire bash. Weather like this was good training for the cannon-cockers. Good training was an army euphemism for any situation that was miserable and, preferably, screwed up. Their present predicament met all the requirements for “good training.”

“Where the hell is the jeep?” asked the colonel, resignation echoing in every tone.

Coming down the road was a sight that would have been comical in other circumstances. Reynolds was tall and slender. Walking with him, carrying a gigantic overstuffed rucksack, was a short — Horner later learned he was five feet two inches tall — incredibly wide soldier. He looked like some camouflage-covered troll or hobgoblin. His oversized “Fritz” helmet and, when he got near enough to see, equally oversized nose completed the picture. Under one arm he carried a large chunk of pine, easily weighing seventy or eighty pounds and his face bore a deep frown. He looked far more annoyed than the colonel or sergeant major.

“Specialist, hmm, O’Neal, one of the mortar squad leaders,” the sergeant major whispered as they approached. He climbed out of the jeep and the colonel followed, getting ready to deliver a world-class ass chewing, Horner style.

“Sir,” said Reynolds, continuing his saga of despair, “when I arrived at the weapons platoon, I found all the vehicles were gone to refuel… ” As he spoke O’Neal walked to the rear of the jeep without a word or a greeting to the senior officer or NCO. There he dropped the log and his pack and grasped the bumper. He squatted, then straightened, lifting the corner of the thousand-pound jeep into the air with an exhalation.