"I know, get some rest. That's what everybody is saying. The general, the major, the sergeant. Before you know it the fuckin' privates are gonna be coming up. `Lieutenant O'Neal, you need to get some rest,' " he concluded in an annoying little kid's voice.
"Yes, sir, we should be able to get you up in time if anything happens. Let's go siddown over by the wall, sir." The platoon sergeant turned the lieutenant with a tactful hand on his shoulder and led him to a block of masonry along the wall. There he pushed him to a sitting position and patted him on the shoulder. "Just catch a quick nap, sir."
He had long experience of the stresses of leadership. A private just has to do his duty, follow the flow. He can often rest standing up or walking, his senses on alert but otherwise checked out. The leaders have to constantly be thinking, feeling, paying attention. They have to be running around and motivating. It eats them up and the higher on the chain the harder it is. But junior leaders rarely conserve themselves and burn out faster. Eventually they learn. Or they don't and find an easier profession.
"Okay, Sar'nt, okay. Oh, put the platoon on thirty percent stand down and, and, umm . . ." Mike trailed off. He knew he had forgotten something but it just wouldn't come.
"Yes, sir, we'll take care of it." Sergeant Green stood by the officer until he was sure he had gone to sleep, the depletion of the constant strain of command as sure as any drug. "AID, is he asleep?"
"Yes, Sergeant."
"Okay, leadership push. Squad leaders, put your troops on thirty percent stand down, one third on guard, the other two out, and I want you O-U-T, asleep, not playing fuckin' spades! Sorry second, we'll let you get some sleep when you get back. Scouts, divvy it up between you. First and third squad leaders, turn it over to your Alpha team leader and rest dammit! AIDs, administer Wake-the-Dead antidote and if the sleepers don't, report it to me. And tell your people to continue to prepare these positions, this can't last. Thirty minutes rest only then rotate. Any questions?"
"When do we get to pull out?" asked Sergeant Brecker.
"When the LT says so, anything else?" There were no further questions. Sergeant Green looked around trying, like his commander, to decide if there was anything undone. He considered telling the Kraut major what the situation was but the officer in question was oblivious, head cradled on the TC hatch and asleep. There were no Posleen in view on either boulevard, the occasional straggler marked by the hammer of a machine gun or grav gun, depending on whose reflexes were faster. He shrugged his shoulders and decided to take a walk around the perimeter.
Shortly after that the engineers got back, full of stories of their adventures and set up a charging station. Sergeant Green took the precedence of rank and then had the scouts come in one by one and recharge. There were four charging stations so he figured they would be able to fully recharge in about an hour. He ordered the engineers to set up a shunt and start charging the suits of the personnel who were asleep. Starting with the lieutenant.
As the first turnover of rest groups was occurring an FX-25 French Main Battle tank nosed out of the rubble of the human-occupied building, turned and sped to the intersection, grinding the Posleen pulp on the street to a finer slurry. Sergeant Green bounced over to it and waved for it to stop. A bare-headed captain occupied the TC hatch of the vehicle which had a long deep scar runneled down the left side. The captain bore a large bandage on the same side of his face. Sergeant Green thought there was probably a good story there. He saluted.
"Sergeant First Class Alonisus Green, 82nd Airborne Division, Monsieur Kapitan. I take it you're the first French unit?"
"Captain Francis Alloins, Sergeant, Deuxiéme Division Blindée," the captain responded and saluted with panache. "Enchanté. 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 325th, ACS 325th, 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 Deuxiéme Blindée 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."