John Ringo: A Hymn Before Battle

“Captain Francis Alloins, Sergeant, Deuxième Division Blindèe ,” the captain responded and saluted with panache. “ Enchantè . Yes, we’re the first. We have many wounded, do we have to fight them out?”

“Well, sir—” Green’s AID overrode the conversation with an incoming transmission.

“ACS 325 th, ACS 325 th, this is Medevac Flight 481, we need to know where to land.”

“Medevac is inbound, sir,” said the sergeant, gratefully. “You can take your wounded down to the water. If you could detach a unit to handle the medevac I’d appreciate it, we’re really shorthanded.” Sergeant Green switched from external to the medevac frequency and started coaching in the birds.

“ Certainement ,” agreed the captain, unaware that he had already been effectively dismissed by the NCO. “ Pardon. ” He picked up his radio and barked rapid orders into the handset. As he did more FX-25s poked out onto the street, followed by APCs and support vehicles. A cavalry scout vehicle pounded down the boulevard and slid to a stop opposite the tank.

A tall and gangling general in camouflage descended from the scout vehicle, looked around and hitched his belt into a better position. He was immediately followed by a squad of heavily-armed infantry who spread out to cover him. The captain jerked to attention and threw a parade ground salute. Sergeant Green, nettled, clanged a gauntlet into his helmet and left it at that.

“ Bonjour, Sergeant, bonjour! I must say that I am extremely pleased to make your acquaintance,” the general said, returning the salutes and then taking the sergeant’s gauntlet into his hand and pumping it strenuously. “There were any number of times I was sure that I would not. And good day, Captain Alloins! Fancy meeting you here! How was the ride?”

“Simple enough, with the flanks secured for once, mon General ,” the captain said with a smile. He gestured grandly towards the suit of armor. “General Jean-Phillipe Crenaus, may I introduce to you Sergeant Alonisus Green of Confederation Fleet Strike.”

“Yes, yes, I have already been apprised of Sergeant Green,” said the general. “And where is the indomitable Lieutenant O’Neal?”

Sergeant Green wrinkled his eyebrows, an expression impossible to see beyond the blank mask of his helmet. Where had the general heard of Lieutenant O’Neal? “He’s taking a nap, sir. He’s wiped out.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” the general boomed. “Sergeant Duncan assured me that he was made solely of steel and good quality rubber! It seems beyond the pale that he could require such a mundane thing as rest!”

Sergeant Green was beginning to realize that the general was one of those people that could only talk in exclamation points. Then he noticed the solemnity of his eyes and remembered that this was the general who had preserved his unit far more than any other in the battle. That spoke volumes for his ability. “Well, sir, sorry. But the LT is as human as you or I. Did Sergeant Duncan pass on the battle plan? And do you approve?”

“Yes,” said the general. He looked around at the windrows of bodies with a mildly pleased expression then kicked a Posleen forearm out from under foot.

“I agree with one exception. I believe that I have the largest cohesive unit left. I insist that Deuxième Blindèe should hold the intersection until the other units are past, although I agree that your ACS unit should maintain the final retreat. It is uniquely suited for it since it can, in extremis, exit through the buildings or for that matter over them.” He smiled again at his little joke.

“Major?” asked the sergeant, tiredly, wrinkling his brow again.

“Fine by me,” said the panzer major, “we’re down to a short battalion after that last push by the Posleen.”

“Excellent!” exclaimed the general, rubbing his hands together. Sergeant Green could not believe he had so much energy. “We can begin the relief within fifteen minutes. My unit will form up on the boulevard. We will continue to send the wounded to the seaward side to be evacuated by air. Sergeant, since you are the only one with effective communications, please ask your personnel to pass on the word to the other units to move the wounded forward as fast as possible.”

Sergeant Green passed on the word and watched in bemusement as the intersection was rapidly and effectively invested by the French forces. The perimeter was pushed farther out and the rubble walls reinforced.

The exhausted ACS and panzers thankfully turned over their positions and dropped back to assembly areas. Soon, a continuous stream of medical choppers was shuttling to the seaside ramp, now cleared of Posleen by the simple expedient of dozering them into the sea. Sergeant Green told off first and fourth squads to help the Germans drive to the MLR.

The French general had decided he had enough troops to hold the intersections as well, so all the Germans had to do was reach safety. Sergeant Green monitored the nets as the reduced division organized itself and moved out. Within forty minutes after the first French XF-25 had appeared, all the Germans in the perimeter, the wounded, the hale and the dead were gone, by tank, truck, foot or helicopter and Sergeant Green decided it was time to trade places with his commander.

Az’al’endai, First Order Lord of the Po’oslena’ar, clenched his fists and gnashed his teeth as he fought a rising tide of te’aalan. His finest genetic product dead and his oolt’ondai, including that thrice-damned puppy Tulo’stenaloor, in full retreat! If these threshkreen thought to triumph they were sorely mistaken!

“All security oolt’ondai to the command ship,” he barked into the communications grid as the oolt’os of his bodyguard looked on with adoring eyes. “The command ship lifts in five tar!” Let them try to face his just wrath as he swooped upon them in his oolt’ Posleen. He stewed as the scattered battalions and their vehicles, including the Posleen tanks used for ship security, were reloaded into the vast dodecahedron. Thousands of normals and their God Kings filed into the cavernous holds packed with cold sleep capsules and all the machinery necessary to set up a Posleen civilization.

“I shall have the get of my enemies as thresh!” he snarled, switching from screen to hateful screen. “And the structures of my enemies shall burn beneath my claws. I shall reap the blood and sear the bone. They will burn and burn until the burning sends word to the demons of the sky that none shall oppose the A’al Po’oslena’ar!” The scattered lampreys, trapezoidal craft that attached to the facets of the command craft in space flight, were left with their own small security detachments as the vast ship lifted under anti-grav and ponderously thundered towards the fragile human lines.

Something painful was waiting beyond the veil that surrounded him and Michael O’Neal refused to face it. It waited with hungry mouths to devour him and he fled down endless brightly colored metal corridors ahead of it. Wherever he turned it was there and it called to him with a seductive voice. Michael, wake up. Lieutenant O’Neal, wake up. Wake up, wake up, wake up. I’m sorry Sergeant, I can’t get him to wake up… All right. A sudden searing pain jerked him into wakefulness and was as quickly gone.

“What the hell was that?” he mumbled blearily.

“I applied direct pain stimulation to your nervous system,” the AID answered nervously.

“Well, next time try shaking the suit or something, okay? That hurt like hell.” He checked the time and shook his head. It would just have to do.