Between Here and the Horizon(39)
Last thing I wanted was to get drawn into the same existential “why are we even here?” argument that had already been the root cause of so many wars and genocides throughout the span of human history. I shifted my weight from one leg to the other, leaning as much as I could against my rifle, stock planted in the ground, trying not to wince as the blood flowed more freely through my stiff joints. When it looked like the men weren’t going to continue on their banter without me, I cleared my throat and gave them what they needed to hear.
“Theirs not to reason why. Theirs but to do and die.” No one said a word. “You guys never heard of Tennyson?” I asked.
“No, sir,”
“Nope.”
“Wa’n’t he some kind of Victorian faggot?”
“No, he wasn’t some kind of Victorian faggot.” These guys had my back at every turn. They were my brothers, fierce and loyal to the end, but sometimes I just wanted to strangle them. “He was a poet.”
“That’s what I meant.”
I ignored the comment. “Tennyson wrote a poem called ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade.’ It was about men going into war and dying. And that line, Theirs not to reason why. Theirs but to do and die, basically sums up this whole thing. It’s not our job to ask questions. It’s not our job to revolt, or doubt the upper chain of command. It’s our job to do as we’re told and do it well. And if that means we go out and we die, a guy every day, five guys every day, ten…then that’s what we do. And we keep our mouths shut.”
Did I believe this? Absolutely f*cking not. But admitting that to the guys would be fatal. They’d lose what little faith they had left in the idea of hierarchy and chaos would ensue.
Three more months. Three more months of this, and I’d be on a plane back to the States. Back to Magda. I’d given enough. Lost enough. Watched enough men die. No more tours for me. Three was plenty; it was time to go home.
More gunfire. More explosions in the distance. The long, whining sound of an RPG missile seeking its target. The men all flinched instinctively when the missile landed. The ground rumbled beneath us. A ball of fire leapt up at the sky, orange and white and angry, and someone sucked in a breath through their teeth.
Our orders finally came in: Stick to the outskirts of the city. Clear the buildings on the southern side near the markets. Interview everyone. Arrest anyone who looks suspicious. Search for weapons.
Disappointment ran high.
“Why aren’t we coming up behind those bastards? Fucking them hard in the ass?”
“We’re the closest unit, Captain. It doesn’t make any sense.”
I picked up my gun and got to my feet. “Like I said, gentlemen. Ours is not to reason why…”
At least four or five of them finished off the quote for me, groaning out the words, “Ours is but to do and die.”
Hours whipped by fast enough for the sun to climb over the lip of the horizon. The ruined city’s buildings were a rats’ nest of Taliban fighters and families supporting the fighters, hiding them from us, hiding their guns and their food, and any other supplies they could stockpile. We hammered on doors, and kicked over rocks. Anyone who resisted or looked suspicious had their wrists zip tied behind their backs and were escorted back to the base in the back of a Humvee.
The gunfire never ceased. The ground continued to shake.
Must have been sometime after seven when the news was radioed through: the three units stuck inside the old, bombed out hospital were safe. Not a man had been lost. Rogers seemed almost disappointed.
“Captain! Captain Fletcher!” Out of the smoke and the dust choking the early morning air, a young private emerged like a ghost, his rifle, slung over his shoulder, bouncing up and down as he ran through the stacks of rubble and twisted prongs of steel. “Captain Fletcher, sir, you’re needed.” He was panting, gasping for breath. “It’s…it’s your brother, sir. The other Captain Fletcher.”
A lead weight dropped through me, pulling at my insides, making my head reel. Fuck. Ronan. Ronan was hurt. Ronan was dead. Ronan had been captured, and was about to be executed on national television. A thousand gut-churning possibilities raced through me simultaneously. “What is it? What’s happened, Private? Spit it out, for f*ck’s sake.” I was close to slapping him.
“He’s sick, sir. Or at least we think he is.”
“How? How is he sick?”
“He’s just sitting on the floor. He won’t get up. It’s like…like he can’t hear us or something. We took the building back. We killed nearly every single one of those bastards. We were celebrating, cheering and whatever, and that’s when Simmons saw Captain Fletcher fall. He thought he’d been shot, but…there’s nothing wrong with him as far as we can see. He’s just…lying there.”
“Have you radioed it in?”
The private shook his head. “No, sir. We knew you were on mission. We thought we’d better, y’know…come find you first.”
“Right. Thank you.” Definitely not the protocol Ronan’s unit should have followed, but I was glad they hadn’t called in medics. The reason they’d held off was obvious; Ronan was in shock. Shock was one of those things. You could snap out of it in a heartbeat, like nothing had ever happened, or it could cripple you for the rest of your life. Either way, there was nothing a medic could do that I couldn’t at the moment. “Take me to him.” And then, to my own men, I said, “Head back to base. Go eat. I’ll be back in a moment. If anyone asks, I came back with you, okay?” As one, the guys all nodded. Even Rogers.