I was seasoned enough not to over-react. “I was sleeping, asshole.” Not normal chatter for the comlink, but I was mildly annoyed, and my tone conveyed it.
“What are you gonna do, sleep your life away?” He was always cheerful, which was surprisingly irritating sometimes. This time, though, it seemed like a facade. Something was bothering him.
“Wouldn’t want to waste a minute of the Tombstone experience, would we?” I wanted to be pissed, but he was a good guy; he just never shut up. “I think it will be a big vacation spot once we’re done fighting for it.”
He sat down next to me, leaning back against the rock wall. “I wonder how long we’ll be posted here.” His upbeat tone was gradually getting a little more somber. Tombstone wore everyone down. “The unit we replaced had been here six months. We’re almost there, but I haven’t heard squat about us getting rotated out.”
Of course, I’d considered it too, but I wasn’t sure I should tell him what I really thought. It looked to me like both sides were increasing the strength deployed here, and they were probably going to do it by extending the tours. “I think we’ll be here awhile.” What the hell, I thought. Tell him what you think. “It’s obvious the expeditionary force here is being increased. If they increase the postings to a year they can bring in the unit that was going to replace us as an incremental force.”
“Fuuuuck.” He stretched the word out impressively. “I hadn’t thought about it that way, but you’re right.” He paused for five or ten seconds, both of us silent as we thought about that unpleasant prospect. “Man, I hate this shithole.” He slapped his hand lightly against the ground as he spoke.
I nodded, though it wasn’t all that obvious of a gesture in armor. “We made it this far; we’ll make it a year if we have to.” I said it, but I wasn’t sure I believed it. A lot of us hadn’t made it this far, and it was anyone’s guess how many would get through another seven months on this hellhole.
I expected him to say something - he always had something to say - but not this time. What was there to say? We were here, and we had a job to do. That was all there was to it. Whether we liked it or not wasn’t part of the equation.
“I’m getting the shakes.” He’d switched to direct laser com. “The last month, maybe more.” His voice was serious, more so than I’d ever heard it.
I let out a short breath, thinking about what to say, wishing he’d gone to one of the real veterans who might have something wise to tell him. But he’d come to me, and we were Marines…we were there for each other. Always. “It can’t be too bad, Sam. I lost count of how many you dropped this morning. It’s not affecting your shooting any.”
“I’ve managed to control it when we’re fighting. I guess it’s the adrenalin or something. Focuses me.” He paused. “But it’s bad before, and it’s starting to get that way after too. It took me the whole walk back here to settle down.” His voice was edgy; he was really worried.
Sam Harden was a decorated Marine who’d been in half a dozen engagements. He was sure to be bumped to corporal and given his own team after this posting. But none of us was immune to the nerves, the fear. It gnawed at you, even as you pushed it aside, and it could come out at any time. We all controlled it in our own ways. Over the years I’ve known guys who had lucky charms, some who prayed before battle, still others who played different mind games with themselves. Some of them focused anger and rage; others relied on a sense of discipline.
When you started to lose your control, even a little, it became harder to get it back. Doubts preyed on your confidence, and eventually the fear that you wouldn’t be able to regain control added its own pressure. Marines, especially veterans like Harden, didn’t like to talk about this kind of thing, so if he was coming to me it was probably bad.
“Sam, you’re one of the guys who pulled me through when I got here. You’ve done it for other guys too…I’ve seen it.” I was trying to sound upbeat and supportive, but I really had no idea what to say. I was so green I barely knew how I kept myself together. “This place gets to everybody sooner or later. Don’t let it eat away at you. When it’s important, you’ll be ready. There’s no one here I’d rather have backing me up.”
He sat quietly for a minute then he turned and looked at me. “Four partners. Four partners I’ve lost here.” He looked down at his feet.
“Sam, that has nothing to do with you. We’re in a dangerous business.” I frowned, though of course he couldn’t see that in armor. The next time I heard that jinx bullshit being joked about I was going to have a talk with whoever started it. “Not one of them got hit because of anything you did.”
“I know you’re right.” His voice was really unsteady. “But still, I should have been able to do something, kept them safer somehow.”
He really sounded like shit. I was in way over my head. My first thought was, he shouldn’t be in battle right now. But what should I do? I wanted to run to the lieutenant and tell him about this, or at least the squad leader. It was the hardest situation I’d run into since I’d been in the Corps. Harden had come to me in confidence. He’d be furious if I ratted him out. It felt wrong. But letting him go back to the line in his current condition didn’t seem any better. I talked to him a while longer, trying to make him feel better, all the while trying to decide what to do.
In the end, I got up and walked away and kept my mouth shut. It was a mistake I have regretted the rest of my life. We were about to get called back to the lines, and Harden would be dead in two hours, him and Quincy both. I was never sure exactly what happened; I think he got rattled and decided to move the SAW, and they ended up exposed and were chopped up by enemy fire. By the time I got over there they were both dead, riddled by half a dozen rounds each. They’d had a good position; if they’d stayed put they probably would have been fine.
Things were hot on the line when they got hit, so I didn’t have time for grief or guilt. But a few hours later the situation calmed down for a while and I just sat on the ground in shock. My stomach clenched, and I wretched, though there wasn’t much in my stomach to come up but a little foam. My suit’s systems tried to clean up inside my helmet, doing a fairly reasonable job.
It was my fault; I knew it was my fault. I didn’t want to betray Harden’s confidence…I wanted to be a good friend. So I didn’t tell anybody he was too unnerved to go back into the line. I didn’t do anything.
Harden died thinking of me as a friend, but I failed him when he needed me. We were more than friends; we were comrades in arms. I owed him more than he got from me. He was my brother, and I didn’t have his back. He thought I did, and I thought so too, but that was superficial. I could have saved his life, but I didn’t. A live Harden who hated me the rest of his life would have been a thousand times better than a dead friend.
I never forgot the lesson I learned that day.
Chapter 9
We were in the middle of the third day of the biggest battle ever fought on Tombstone. Our estimates of enemy strength on the planet turned out to be wildly inaccurate. My distrust of intelligence services, which would continue to increase at an exponential rate over the years, started that day. It wasn’t the last time I’d see bad intel, but it was the last time I’d believe it.
Not only were we facing more enemy troops than should have been possible, but we were also up against a tac-force of Janissaries. We’d been outnumbered all along on Tombstone - we knew that - but we’d had the qualitative edge. My battalion was an elite assault unit, one of the best in the Corps. Most of the enemy troops were colonial troops, well-equipped, but definitely second line. One on one they had never been a match for us.