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Compound - Day One - 0400 hrs.
"The biggest enemy you will face is your own mind." The bearded ex-soldier lectured as he strolled between their ranks, raking his dark eyes over each of them as he passed. The early morning was cold, near freezing temperature, and his breath steamed out into the stagnant air. He didn't scream or yell and his tone was conversational as he spoke. "You will be hungry. You will be exhausted. You will want to give up and quit. You will want to sleep. Your resolve will be tested. You must have an iron will. The weak, the shallow, the poorly prepared will be culled from the herd. We are here to prepare you. Every one of us has endured the training you will experience and we have all succeeded. Many of us have gone beyond that training. All of us have seen combat."
Around the perimeter of the ranks the Bravos had formed were other men, clothed in khaki tactical uniforms, none of which adhered to military uniform or grooming discipline. Some had shaggy hair, some had various forms of facial hair, most stood with hands in pockets to keep them warm. All of them looked rough and unforgiving as they fixed the Bravos with deadly stares of promised punishment.
"You will be instructed and tested on knowledge and skills. We will evaluate your performance of the various Battle Drills. We don't have enough time to broaden the depth of your skills by a great deal, and your ability to learn will dictate how much we can fit into the time we have. The faster you learn, the more we'll teach. I have been told that you are dedicated and serious, but if you think this is going to be some camping vacation in the woods we will take a pound of flesh and send you back. You will not waste our time, nor your own. I don't know what makes you special in the eyes of the Army and I don't care. You are not special and we are not here to coddle you. First rule: Respect given is respect earned. Second rule: Honor and Integrity among brothers. I shouldn't have to explain that, but I will. You will be honest with yourselves, and with us, and with your squad mates and your unit. Third Rule: Pay attention...to EVERY...THING. Men, make your selections."
Thirteen men moved inwards to walk among the Bravos. "You. Follow me." Could be heard again, and again as the men picked out their chosen soldiers. A few had four Bravos, some had three, others two, and there were three who pulled only a single Bravo behind them. Soon, they all melted away into the wooded darkness, leaving only Weeble standing there alone.
He stood there for a few quiet minutes, looking around and listening. There had to be someone here, right? Sound carried far in the winter woods when the air was thin and gradually all indications of his brothers walking away disappeared. Did they mean to leave him behind? Why wasn't he picked? Weren't they gonna teach him too? Was he s'posed to stay here and wait? Did he miss the signal to follow one of the men? Maybe he blinked at the wrong time and missed it. He was sure he was payin' attention like they said. It had to just be a mistake.
Weeble felt a slight panic start in his stomach and move into his chest. His heart began to beat faster, his breath became short and quick. They didn't pick him. They knew he was weak and wouldn't be able to keep up. He wasn't going to move on with the other Bravos. The day he'd been dreading had finally come. It didn't matter how hard he tried, or how skilled he became, he wasn't a REAL soldier like the other guys. Once he was thrown in front of actual men who'd seen combat they saw right through him. Weeble fought to keep the tears from filling his eyes. The realization sank in that it wasn't up to him, or his brothers. The Army wasn't any different than gym class in high school. Even the coach, who was supposed to be fair, was reluctant to inflict his weakness on a team. He stood there in the dark doing everything he could to hold himself together, and it was taking everything he had.
KEVIN
It rarely bothered him that people thought things came easy for him, that he hardly had to work at them. That wasn't true, but he didn't feel any need to correct their assumptions. When it did bother him was when they used it as an excuse to leave most of the work for him, and he didn't have time to pull someone else's weight on a group project. As usual, he flirted with the irrational desire to sink the entire boat so that all three of them would fail the Fluid Dynamics project. It would serve those two right. But he knew he couldn't afford anything below a 100%, not if he wanted to be inducted into the Honors Engineering Society. A star like that from MIT on his resume would open all the right doors.
When he'd come back from Tom's graduation from the Airborne course, he'd discovered his team had slacked off. None of the calculations had been done, and worse none of the experiments had been run to provide the data for the calculations. He'd even written up specific, easy to follow instructions on setting up the experiments, scheduled the lab time, reserved the equipment for his team when everyone knew the lab time and the equipment were extremely hard to come by. The FORTRAN program was written and compiled, error free, waiting for input to produce the graphs and tables, done by himself of course. He'd done everything possible to make it EASY for them to do their share of the project, and they'd blown it off as if it wasn't 30% of their final grade.
He was borderline angry at the incompetence and laziness. And he was trying to figure out what he'd have to NOT do so that he could make up the work. He couldn't drop track practice for the week or coach wouldn't run him at this weekend's meet, and he needed this meet to qualify for Indoor Nationals next month. Even now, walking to the Taekwondo class he'd spent his preciously scant money on made him feel guilty for spending his free time on something non-academic. And that made him resentful because it was an important element in his plan to be the kind of man Tom would want. Tom was tough, and capable, physically imposing and borderline deadly.
Kevin knew the Army would change Tom, but he hadn't quite been prepared for the power, efficiency and granite-like solidity his boyfriend exuded even when he stood completely still. It was seductive and drew him like a moth to a flame, possessing a heady magnetic presence like the gravity of a celestial body. He could describe it no other way when simply being in the same room with Tom he felt a pull to be next to him, and when standing even a few feet away his skin thrummed with what had to be an imagined field effect, as if every cell in his body struggled to fly towards Tom for even the briefest physical contact.
The fight not to kiss him this past weekend when they were in the presence of his mother, or in public was abject torture. There was not enough kissing, never enough. He salved the wound with small gestures, brief contact for no more than a three count, knees touching under a dinner table, a pat on the back, a playful grab or wrestle. Columbus, Georgia was another military town, with eyes everywhere and no one could mistake Tom for anything other than a soldier held to a strict code of conduct. Kevin could reason himself into accepting that this was the situation he'd signed up for, loving a military man, and he wouldn't change that for anything, but it didn't mean his very soul didn't scream for release at some ridiculously inopportune moments. Another leash, which he could endure only because it would enable a future he desperately wanted. A future that at times seemed too distant to bear.
He repeated the mantra he'd grown used to in the last month: Just a few years, and he needed this degree. A partial scholarship paid for the tuition, books, and a meal plan, his on campus job in the engineering lab paid for his dorm room he was hardly ever in which was a godsend because he could study and complete his vast amount of homework in the lab while he assisted the students who came in to complete assignments. He was lucky to be one of those chosen from all the applicants. On campus jobs were in high demand for those unfortunate enough to have poor families that couldn't pay for the expensive school.
Kevin's parents didn't believe in higher education, which they made clear when they tried to force him to go to work for his father's towing company. He couldn't imagine a more depressing and limited life, making money from people in unfortunate circumstances. Circumstances they wouldn't be in if they had the kind of money to avoid being towed. Repossessions, illegal parking, breakdowns on the side of the road, unpaid tickets, seldom the situations wealthy people found themselves in.
His parents weren't bad people, they just had no motivation to do better, to be more. It often occurred to him that frequently the path of someone's parents either ensured their kids would have a similar life, or in an act of rebellion completely opposite. He always envied Tom and his family. Tom's parents owned their own house where Kevin's parents rented, and it seemed so nice. I don't gotta fix nothing, just call the landlord' his father said, as if that was of great benefit. It's too expensive to buy a house, and that's how they harness you to the plow. Material things..' his father said the word as if were a curse, `...are a trap meant to enslave the masses.' It was something his father repeated rather than thought of himself, Kevin realized very young. His father wasn't intellectually astute enough to form a philosophy like that himself.
He steered his mind away from the issue of his parents. He didn't like their complacency, but was unwilling to entertain such unfilial thoughts as blame, not when he grew up fed and clothed with a roof over his head, none of which were of a quality to indicate anything more than necessity. Clothes from thrift stores was what they wore, even his parents. Food that was edible but cheap, preferably a bargain or free. Now older, he realized his parents just didn't know any better and that was how they were raised, and doubly crippled by the tumultuous social upheaval of the late sixties and early 70's. The hippie movement might have contributed great things to the culture of America, but it also damaged an entire generation with hopes that there was any real alternative to capitalism. Maybe in some other country, but socio economic SYSTEMS that had been developed and refined over two hundred years just weren't subject to change by a few thousand entitled adolescents who couldn't understand that they had the luxury of their arrogant judgment precisely as a result of the hard work and sacrifice of the very parents they scorned. True systems of oppression existed in far too many other nations and it shamed Kevin to hear his parents consider the opportunities provided here as some evil scheme by tyrannical overlords to bind and entrap average people. In fact, it was made worse by his eventual understanding that ethnic groups in this country faced actual oppression every single day, frequently supported by law.
If there was one thing he was grateful for that his parents had taught him, it was that if you didn't buy into structures of class, everyone was equal. It had an unintentional effect on Kevin, who took the lesson to mean there was nothing holding him back except himself and he could rise to any level he desired. And that people of a higher level weren't exceptional or special, just lucky to have advantages that others didn't. His parents would be dismayed if they knew that their belief in a crushing system that diluted all individuality was exactly the system their son would use to excel, a system that didn't care at all who you were or where you came from. It was a system that required the same steps for everyone, and education was the first necessary step. That was the argument they used when he left for MIT, that it would turn him into a robot slave focused on nothing except materialistic selfishness. Which was ironic considering Kevin could almost guarantee his father cheated on his taxes, and rationalized it by fooling himself that it was only to keep the fruits of his labor from the government that didn't deserve it, rather than the true motive that he wanted more money. After all, his father didn't give his money away to the poor, or a charity, he spent it. Quite a bit of it on beer and cigarettes.
`Grrrrrr' he growled as he trudged through the light snowfall of the early afternoon. Well he was in quite the mood if he'd gone down that rabbit hole of his parents' failings. It was hard to regret any of it when it resulted in who he turned out to be. He sighed. Life certainly had a sense of humor.
He felt better as he walked into the storefront near the MIT campus that served as the Taekwondo gym. He stamped his boots dutifully to shake off the snow before stepping off the absorbent mat just in front of the door. Maybe he'd be lucky and his dorm mate would be gone when he got back to the room. He would need a shower and a change of clothes before heading to the lab for his evening shift.
"Kevin, you're early." The instructor greeted, serious as usual. Gary was someone Kevin struggled to figure out. The phrase `you're early' came out as some kind of complaint rather than a pleased observation. Kevin had the feeling Gary tried to hard to project the image of a tough and serious leader but in comparison to Tom and his Army platoon the pretense couldn't be more obvious. Maybe among martial arts students and competitors that type of personality radiated strength, but Kevin saw it as foolish and unnecessary. It was even more apparent now that he'd seen Tom's buddies and how relaxed and fun-loving they were when they weren't on duty.
From Tom he'd learned that competence and knowledge didn't need arrogance for support. The harder you worked to prove you held a certain level only proved your own self-doubt. If you needed others to recognize your accomplishment your achievement wasn't complete. He also found it strange that Gary didn't seem to adhere to the true philosophy of a martial arts foundation. For Gary, it seemed to be about competition rather than self-improvement and mental growth.
However, Gary pushed, accepted no excuses, and definitely possessed skill, which was what Kevin wanted. He didn't need to approach this as a hobby because his goal was to keep up with Tom, at least in this aspect. He didn't need to know how to shoot an enemy, or conduct a mission but knowing the mentality of mutual combat was important. He needed to show Tom that he understood at the very least. And he couldn't understand without experience.
So he didn't respond to Gary's accusatory greeting, if it could be called a greeting at all. Responding to useless observations wasn't Kevin's thing, especially the sort of observation that held an unspoken opposite: Gary was more irritated by students who were late. Kevin walked over to the row of chairs against the wall of mirrors and began changing out of his winter layers of clothing and into this dobok. He and Gary didn't have anything to speak about, really, and Kevin found Gary's personality grated on his nerves. Gary was far more gruff and hard-assed than he had to be, but again, it all came across as an act of intimidation rather than who Gary truly was. Kevin couldn't help but feel like Gary was some sit-com character on TV, or Mr. Miyagi's enemy in Karate Kid. The funny thing was, Gary thought his act brought him respect. Kevin just thought he was a fool.
`Fuck, I'm in a bad mood' he thought to himself as he sat in his usual spot on the mats to center his mind for the start of his warm up. According to Gary, these were the feelings he had to let go of in order to achieve focus.
Weeble lay on his stomach hidden at the top of a small ridge, looking down on the four men below him. It was Dumbo, Shark, Alaska and one of the men from the compound. One of the things Weeble was trying to find the answer to was who these guys were. It was clear the Bravos were sent here for special training. `Well, MORE special trainin' He thought to himself.
But he'd also take the opportunity to learn what this guy was teaching his friends. He had nothing better to do, so why not?
Weeble stayed in the clearing where he was abandoned for an hour or so, talking himself down from his near panic. Yeah, he was feeling sorry for himself, arguing with the demon in his head about why it wasn't fair that they hadn't picked him. He started thinking of all the reasons why the other Bravos were selected and he wasn't, trying to come up with the reason why they were qualified and he wasn't. His current decision to act didn't occur to him until he'd almost automatically dismissed Assmunch, Sleeper and Zeus from his internal judgment. Of course they were chosen, all three were competent and skilled.
And then it hit him: what would Assmunch do if he were in Weeble's place? He certainly wouldn't be sitting there feeling sorry for himself. Assmunch wouldn't accept being useless. Then his thoughts naturally fell to the other Bravos. Zeus and Sleeper wouldn't care what their hosts thought of them, hell Sleeper would probably find a good place to take a nap. Bootlicker would see it as an opportunity to sneak around and do his own thing, maybe test out a few tricks to throw a wrench in whatever their hosts had planned, just to see what the response was. Puta would just find a group and insert himself without asking, daring them to throw him out. He went down the list of Bravos and none of them would just sit there. They wouldn't LET someone else exclude them. Cellblock would find a way to get a message to the Bravos about this and come up with his own plan. Demon and Troll would train, maybe test their skills at infiltrating the compound.
But all of them would do SOMETHING.
In the end, it was Weeble's curiosity that determined his current situation. He wanted to know what the Bravos were learning. He wanted to know the point of being here.
Their voices carried up to him in the cold air, even though they weren't talking very loud and they were thirty feet away. He considered how cold air in the woods when the trees had no leaves allowed sound to carry further, and filed that fact away knowing if he wanted to stay hidden he had to be quiet. He wondered what the range would be on hearing people talk, or move.
"Always have a plan." The man instructing the three Bravos explained. "Plans start with a goal, then an examination of your current situation, your resources, limitations. Know your team and their capabilities. Know your battlefield, and EVERYTHING is a battlefield. Define your arena, your sphere of action. Thinking with those terms for every situation, no matter how small, trains you to see the path to success. You already do it without thinking for many things, but it doesn't mean you don't take these steps. It's just that for most day to day activities you just do it automatically. Example: Your goal: get food. Situation: You're hungry, maybe weak and tired. You have three men, so you need enough for all of you. You have environmental options - plants, if you can identify those safe to eat. There's a compound, you know there has to be food there. You could hunt, plenty of squirrels, deer if you can kill one. Does anyone in your team know how to hunt, skin and field dress a kill? If the answer is no, you'd be wasting energy and time choosing to hunt. Your arena is these woods, which includes the compound. If you were on Post, or an urban environment you could simply walk to the chow hall, or a restaraunt."
"Won't we be given that information, and training, before a mission?" Alaska asked.
The man shrugged. "Sometimes, but you have to be prepared to come up with that yourselves. Sometimes you'll be the ones giving that briefing. But either way, knowing the questions you need to ask, the information you need to achieve your mission, that falls on your shoulders. Details matter. What time is full dark? How much daylight do you have? When or where is re-supply? If there's no re-supply what materials and resources can you bring with you? Can you acquire any of that during the mission? Can you call for a drop? You'll have attack windows and deadlines, so coordinating objectives has to happen. Having the most information allows you to adapt to a chaotic battlefield. And battlefields are always chaotic. You can't always depend on receiving orders, and a good leader will let you worry about the details of HOW to conduct the mission. Look at it this way: no one tells you how to tie your shoes anymore. You're trusted to know how to do that by now. As a leader you shouldn't be telling your men how to tie their shoes unless the mission is shoe-lace dependent and only a specific type of tying will work. There's always some exception, of course, for special circumstances. You'll have leaders who think they have to tell you how to tie your shoes, figuratively speaking. They're usually not good leaders."
Shark snorted. "Met a couple of those." He said with a smirk. "But we're low grunts, coming up with our own ideas is kinda the opposite of everything they've been screaming at us."
"Yes and no." The man responded. "There's going to be a lot of `yes and no' to all this. You're taught not to question orders, to move when you're told to move, to sit when you're told to sit. That's good training, it's something you needed to get used to. It eliminates that hesitation that will get you killed. But it doesn't mean you won't have other roles you need to shoulder, at other times. You have to be ready to step into leadership at any time. By now you all know what it takes to run a squad, or you should. We saw you guys split up into smaller teams and head off on your own. You chose a leader of your smaller groups who determined your course, how you would achieve the overall mission objective, get to your target, and what you would do on the way. That's how it usually works. The Army doesn't want robots who don't think for themselves, in spite of what your Sergeants may have beaten into your skulls. There's a point to every method they've used to train you. If you're smart, you've figured out when they tell you to dig a hole, they don't necessarily want or need a hole. What they want, is that you internalize following orders no matter how stupid or useless you might THINK the activity is. Because whatever information you have it's always less than what your leader has and you might never know the purpose, but there is ALWAYS a purpose. Digging that useless hole has a purpose, even if it's just to adjust your attitude."
The silence stretched as Weeble's brothers considered that information. Then Dumbo spoke.
"So, why are we here? Training, sure. But for what?" He asked.
"Good question, and a perfect example. I don't know. I wasn't told. I don't know why I'm supposed to train you, I was just told to do it, and I don't even know if our boss knows, that information may be above even his level. What I do know is that I don't NEED that information to complete my objective. Would it be useful to know that? No, if it was, my commander would have given me that info. That's how the chain of command works, how it SHOULD work. He trusts whoever hired us to provide the best intel to achieve our objective. I trust him in the same way. I've been told to dig a hole, so I'm digging the hole."
Weeble remained motionless on the ridge above as he thought about that and realized it expanded his entire view of the military by several levels. In ordinary circumstances the Bravos would have a mission, because all units, regiments, companies, battalions, commands had missions. Before he joined the Bravos, his overall mission was to keep the birds flying, the Apache Helicopters. In the shop, it was chewing through the constant maintenance checks for air worthiness, flight hour requirements, equipment details, tracking service checklists and a hundred other mechanical details that were necessary daily. But the Bravos were never given an overall mission except Infantry training, which honestly since he'd re-classed to Infantry he'd learned that training was continuous for Infantry across the entire Army, every day, every week, every month.
Their host was right. It didn't matter why. Someone decided training the Bravos this way was necessary and Weeble understood their operational effectiveness had soared in the time since he'd first put a foot down on German soil. He felt a rush of satisfaction that he could never imagine the Weeble back then laying alone in the woods eavesdropping on other soldiers thirty feet away without them being aware of his presence. Maybe Wicomb was right: he was a little bit of a badass now. A grin stole across his face at the thought. HE did this, and it wasn't all that hard.
"So we can you ask you questions, you'll teach us anything?" Shark asked.
The man chuckled. "Yes and no. I've got a lot to teach you, and not enough time, so we have to keep it to combat missions, tactics, and the skills necessary to operate. But I won't tell you... how did your Sergeant put it when he screamed in that pretty boy's face? `Shut your dickhole?' That shit was hilarious."
Alaska jumped in. "Fuck, you were watching us? Dammit. Sarge was right, we should have set a perimeter. I hate when Sarge is right. So who are you guys? We know you're military, or at least trained that way."
"Good observation. Yes, we are. Most of us fought in the Gulf War, some of us former JSOC, some RIF'd but most were at the end of their enlistment and chose not to take the re-up offers. Iraq sucked. Re-integration into civilian life is difficult, after all what we know isn't all that useful on American soil and I have to tell you once you've seen combat it makes it even harder to fit in. But there's a niche for highly trained former military as contractors, and the boss figured out that the U.S. government pays very well for certain skill sets and that there's no shortage of situations across the world where the presence of U.S. Military is a detriment or disadvantageous. There's also plenty of tasks that don't need military involvement that are better suited to a civilian force like protecting or moving assets, retrieving specific items, gathering intel, training foreign locals for various engagements or to provide protection, embassy security, skills trades with NATO allies. We fill the gaps."
"That's so cool." Dumbo said.
"Yeah, it's good work, for the most part. My turn. Who are you guys? I know you're Infantry, but you're more capable than you should be at your age and rank. I'm not ashamed to admit you caught us underestimating you."
Weeble saw Shark stiffen up. It was almost unnoticeable, and someone who didn't know Shark probably wouldn't catch the tension there, but Weeble saw it. What spooked Shark? Weeble slowly moved his head to the right and examined the woods. Nothing there. He repeated the move to his left...nothing there either. The sounds in the woods hadn't changed.
Hmmm. Was it the veteran's question? Why would Shark get tense about that?
It was Alaska that answered. "Just regular infantry. About half of us were offered a re-class from our previous MOS, the rest had already done AIT for Infantry so we figure we all had to get unit training as a Platoon. We spent 6 months in Germany doing that, with Sarge...the guy you saw screaming at Sleeper... pushing us through training."
Weeble could see the veteran's face change, his eyebrows squeezed slightly, his eyes fixed on Alaska. The man didn't respond right away. He looked at Dumbo, then stared at Shark. The look he then gave Shark made Weeble's hair stand on end. The veteran moved his head to face Alaska, but his eyes were still on Shark.
"You were `offered' a reclass to Infantry?" He said, almost so low Weeble couldn't hear it.
"Yeah. I mean, not exactly like that, it was more `We have a special training program available you've been recommended for, do you wanna?' I didn't really know it was going to be Infantry." Alaska said, completely unaware something was off about the question.
"And they put you with soldiers who were already Infantry?" The man continued.
Alaska shrugged. "Yeah, where else were they going to put us?"
"And they spent money to train you in Germany?"
Alaska nodded.
"You trained with other soldiers there? What base?"
"Grafenwoehr. Why?"
The veteran moved his face back to Shark. "No reason. What's your name, Private?" He asked Shark.
Weeble saw Shark swallow. "Gallick. They call me Shark."
"Step over here with me for a minute, Shark."
Weeble couldn't hear them speaking, but the veteran seemed intense as he stood just a few inches from Shark and conversed with low voices. Weeble could see Shark start out nervous and scared as he kept his answers short. Whatever the veteran was asking, Shark didn't like it. Then gradually Shark's nervousness turned to defensiveness and determination as the speaking lengthened into drawn out silences, and finally Shark shrugged, shook his head, and pointed to the single chevron with a rocker on his upper arm while leaning forward to say something final with what appeared to be frustration.
"So what do you think they're talking about?" A voice whispered from just over his shoulder and Weeble just about screamed and jumped out of his skin. Only his training kept him from anything more than a minute jerk. The exceptionally cold knife placed against his neck made him freeze into stone.
"How long you been there?" Weeble asked in a trembling whisper, attempting to cover to his fear and the pounding of his heart.
"Long enough to kill you. Long enough to watch you maintain discipline. Answer my question." The voice whispered.
"I don't know, but Shark don't like it. And your buddy don't like the answers he ain't getting, neither. There's a lotta head shakin goin on, lotta eyebrows squeezin together." Weeble said.
"Speculate." The voice ordered.
"Your buddy thinks Shark knows somethin bout why we're here." Weeble said, still watching the group below where Shark and the veteran had returned to join Dumbo and Alaska, but also trying to roll his eyes back to catch a glimpse of the man without moving his head. He couldn't see anything.
"And does Shark know that?"
He was about to shit himself, his stomach was gurgling and his guts felt like a wild animal was trying to get free. The man asking questions could be anyone, out here in the woods, no one would find Weeble's body, not for days. He could be killed just for spying on these deadly men and their secret, hidden maneuvers. Weeble gave a tiny shake of his head, one misstep, one lie, and that knife could be yanked backwards before he could blink. He could be buried in leaves in less than a minute.
He didn't have much choice. As long as he was talking, the man wasn't moving. "He might know, but I don't think so. I saw the squad leaders talkin yesterday, they didn't seem too excited, not tore up neither. But who knows?"
"You're visible and exposed." The voice whispered. "You just shared Intel with an unknown. I won't be nice next time." The threat was whispered with a brutal severity Weeble didn't doubt for a second.
Weeble waited for the next question, but it never came, he just felt the knife leave his neck. He slowly twisted his head to look behind him, so slowly just in case. The man was gone. Completely silent and nowhere in sight. Surely he could see him walking away, the visibility in the winter woods was so clear that unless he could hide behind a skinny tree Weeble should be able to see him, hear something rustling through the leaf bed on the forest floor. But there was nothing. Anywhere. He couldn't believe anyone could sneak up on someone like that, just appear and disappear like a ghost? Weeble felt a tingle surge up his back. That was something Weeble wanted to learn. And he'd made three mistakes. Critical mistakes. Mistakes that came from assumptions. He assumed they'd abandoned him. Maybe they did, and the voice just happened to come across him as he was moving through the woods. He didn't have to specifically be looking for or watching Weeble. But, there would have been nothing for him to find if Weeble had hidden himself better, found a better position that hid him from the group below AND any others.
And then, the surprise and adrenaline made him run his mouth, his fear loosened his tongue. Just a simple threat and he spilled everything. He didn't know who snuck up on him. Sure, it was probably one of the men from the compound, one of their hosts. And maybe they were friendly, but Intel wasn't something he should share unless he received something of value in return or the person he shared it with was entitled to it.
Fuck. So, not only was he dead, he was a traitor. A dead traitor. Which was really the only kind of traitor anyone should tolerate. And dead men don't speak, so he should keep his fuckin dickhole shut from now on, like Sarge said. He smirked. Hunter Wicomb sure liked it when he opened his dickhole. Weeble felt his own dick begin to swell, and immediately squashed the thought. This wasn't the time.
At least he kept his pants clean, but just barely. It didn't happen often, but it wouldn't have been the first time he'd been forced to just let go in his pants. Most of the time on a march or patrol you had time to dart to the side of the road or path if it was urgent, drop your pants and push a turd out, then pull em back up real quick and get back in position. Sometimes it came on you too fast and you couldn't get em down in time. If you were in fixed position, you didn't move for anything, and it could be hours. You learned to keep an MRE bag, or box in your pack or one of your pockets that you could whip out if you needed it.
Taking a piss wasn't a big deal. It wasn't easy, but you could let one go without stopping. Again, you didn't usually have to take a piss in the middle of a patrol, but if you did you just pulled your dick out and aimed it away from the guy in front of you. Your body does something that shuts down those sort of functions while it's busy exerting itself. And the desire not to shit yourself, or piss yourself is stronger than most people think. Weeble knew of one guy who didn't shit for two weeks in Basic, he didn't like people seeing him poop, so he held it because their toilets were in a line and open to the sinks and showers. In Basic, you were NEVER alone, it wasn't allowed, against regs for a recruit to be by himself at ANY time, even in the latrine, even for a shit. When he finally couldn't hold it anymore, he clogged one of the toilets in the latrine with a turd almost as big as a man's forearm. That guy never lived that down, the whole barracks came to look at that brown crocodile floating at the top of the overflowing toilet No one could believe something that size came out of that guy's asshole, and whatever it was that clogged the rest of the toilet wasn't much smaller. He said it felt like he was having a baby.
They called him Turd Baby the whole rest of Basic. When they had their training module for medical which was more about which injuries you WOULD report to your drill sergeant, and which you wouldn't, they got a brief talk on why you didn't hold your shit or piss and what it could do to you if you did. Turd Baby was given a buddy that was in charge of making him take a shit at least once every two days and calling out at morning formation whether Turd Baby had taken a shit yet, for everyone to hear.
"PRIVATE HAWKINS, HAS PRIVATE BARROW TAKEN A SHIT TODAY?" The Drill would scream out, while Barrow tried to endure the embarrassment.
"Drill Sergeant, Private Hawkins has not taken a shit today, Sergeant!" Barrow would yell at the top of his lungs.
"PRIVATE HAWKINS HOW LONG HAS IT BEEN SINCE PRIVATE BARROW HAS TAKEN A SHIT?"
"Drill Sergeant, it has been forty eight hours since Private Barrow has taken a shit!"
"PRIVATE HAWKINS ESCORT PRIVATE BARROW TO THE LATRINE TO TAKE A SHIT."
"YES DRILL SERGEANT!!"
He was called the Dookie Herder, The Shitherd, or Poolice, which he hated. If he hadn't taken a shit for two days, their Drill sent Turd Baby and the Dookie Herder to the latrine while the rest of the class got smoked until they came back successful.
One time, someone gave Turd Baby some chocolate laxative without telling him so they wouldn't get smoked the next morning while they waited for him to shit, and that didn't turn out too good. Laxatives don't MAKE you shit, they make it easier to shit. Poor dude couldn't stop shitting. They got smoked for an hour straight, and Dookie Herder said he counted thirty flushes and twice as many `oh god's' while he tried not to pay attention to the sounds coming from behind him. Weeble figured that was Turd Baby's own fault, if he didn't save all that shit every day, he wouldn't have so much he needed to get out.
Weeble was surprised. He hadn't thought about Basic Training in forever, it seemed so long ago. It seemed like he saw a completely different Victor back then. He was just a kid, stupid and scared, while everyone around him seemed so grown up and tough as well as far more capable than he was. Older now, he could look back and see how stupid and scared EVERYONE was, and while there were a couple guys who did well as recruits most everyone else wasn't that much different than Weeble. Turd Baby was so scared of anyone watching him shit that he almost landed himself in the hospital.
His head spun for a moment while his two lives overlapped - who he used to be, and who he was now. So different, but so much the same. He still believed everyone else had their shit together, the rest of the Bravos were more capable, and he was the sad, scared, wimpy, small guy. But what if he wasn't? In five years would he look back on his time with the Bravos and see that they were ALL the same, just like how he saw Basic now? Well, except for Sleeper, Zeus, and Assmunch. Those three weren't normal. But the rest? Would it look the same to him as he remembered about himself and the others in Basic? No one had their shit together in Basic, they were all idiots, all just learning what it meant to be in the Army, all of them breaking one reg or another more out of ignorance than anything. Just a group of barely adult kids who didn't know what it meant to be a soldier. All of them were screamed at by the Drills daily, even hourly. In hindsight, he probably fell toward the top of his graduating class because he put his maximum effort in daily just to prove he wasn't lacking. There were plenty of other recruits that didn't seem to give a shit how well they did, whether they maintained discipline, and didn't take it seriously.
The truth was, if he'd bothered to see it, the Bravos treated him like he belonged. He wasn't some pathetic disappointment to them, he was their brother and he pulled his weight. They didn't see him like he saw himself, and if he was honest it all centered on his size. It was almost as if after a certain point they didn't even notice he was short and rather physically average. He mentally corrected that thought - since he'd joined the Bravos he'd filled out pretty nicely. He could look at himself in the mirror and appreciate his unfamiliar muscles, his low body fat, he even had a full round butt that Hunter seemed to like a whole lot. He danced away from that line of thought, it wasn't the time to think about sexy Hunter and those eyes. Or that dick.
The guys below were watching the veteran from the compound doing something with a net that appeared to be the size of a small blanket.
"This is your foundation." He held up the net in one hand. In the other, he held a roll of twine. "This is what you tie the material on with. Use your environment, what you see. We have some pine, different types of leaves, but there's no grass. The goal is to break up your profile mixing dark materials, and light materials. Never create a uniform ghillie made from one material. Your BDU's stand out in the winter woods, there's almost no green here, it's all brown but your BDUs are green. If you were in the Middle East you'd be required to wear desert camo, which is brown. That's first. Second, you're shaped in the outline of a person, and the eye will grab that shape before anything else. Third, movement should be minimized the closer you get to an enemy. Slow, and I mean painfully inch by inch. It might take an hour to cross ten yards, and you vary your profile. Never move in a constant head-first direct line. A quick scan by the enemy will catch if that lump of grass suddenly seems ten feet closer. Pay attention to more than just the front view, you should be hidden from every location around you."
Weeble was riveted. Of course they knew about camouflage and ghillie suits, but creating them on the go was never something they were taught.
The veteran continued. "On a mission in the wild you should have these two items in your kit. Make your ghillie boring, unremarkable, with no unusual features."
Weeble didn't have either, so he'd have to get creative. He slowly moved away from the edge of the ridge.
Two hours later, he waited patiently for the group ahead to turn their heads away. They were on their knees with their butts seated on their heels. He wasn't yet close enough to hear what was being said, but he recognized Troll, Cellblock and Holler with a different man who was gesturing with his hands to the ground where a couple pine cones stood on end, with some fist sized rocks placed strategically around.
He saw his opportunity and scuttled behind another tree. He'd looked at the ground ahead and found enough bare spots or rocks to step on to get there silently. The tree he actually wanted to hide behind had too many leaves around the base so he gave up on that one. When he first hunted for materials to disguise himself, he was lucky and found a shrub that had a mess of tiny branches, twigs, and green leaves that were about the size of his fingernail. He didn't know what type of bush it was, but it broke up the pattern of his BDUs without him having to cover every inch. He used mud to cover his hands, face and neck, stuck some bark from a rotting tree down the neck of his blouse so it stuck up behind his head and on the sides. He had several pine branches with both green and brown needles tucked into his belt upwards and downwards, front and back. He had loose pine needles and oak leaves covering his patrol cap. He found a vine and used it to create a roughly woven `hat' that he stuffed handfuls of leaf litter and pine needles into. That vine was useful, and he draped more of it down his back, tucking several lengths down his boots.
He crawled forward slowly in a duck walk, praying no one would glance his direction before he could position himself. He waited for the wind to gust and send the branches overhead rustling and he timed his crawl with those. Once, Cellblock looked around, probably just checking the perimeter, and Weeble folded into a ball the instant he saw Cellblock's head move. At that point, he was close enough to hear a little of what was being said.
He wasn't sure he should chance getting any closer, but as his eyes darted around he noticed a rock, maybe a boulder no more than shin high not too far away at 9 o'clock. It was a better position, provided more cover, was closer, maybe twenty feet from the group. He just had to find a way to get there.
He was just about to make his move when he felt the cold knife against his throat again.
"Better. But still pathetic." The voice whispered.
This time, Weeble felt anger well up rather than fear. What the fuck?
"Every time you fail, you get cut." The knife left his throat and a half second later he felt a sting on his ear. The knife was back at his throat before he completed the gasp. "That was just a taste. Next time I won't be gentle. I will carve you up."
Weeble resisted moving even though the words threw a bucket of cold water on his anger. Was the guy following him? He'd been watching everywhere, trying not to stay in the open, he even left Shark's group hoping to leave the area where the guy first found him.
"What are they talking about?" The whisperman asked.
"The compound, I think." Weeble answered automatically, hoping to avoid another punishment.
Another flick came, another sting on his ear. "You don't learn, stupid. Who am I?"
Weeble hesitated. "I don't know." He mumbled quietly.
Another flick and his other ear stung and then the knife was pressed more firmly into the skin of his throat. "I'm the enemy. Bring me those pine cones. And you better get away clean."
Weeble faced a moment of indecision. If he did what the voiced asked, would he be punished again for cooperating with the enemy? Would he be punished for refusing? He didn't know the right thing to do.
"Three...". The whisperman said. "Two..."
"Fuck you." Weeble said. "Get `em yourself."
The cold steel slid across his neck an inch. He felt blood drop down his skin. Whisperman was a fucking psycho. Weeble rolled away from the blade when he felt the cut, onto his back and kicked out with both feet feeling both boots make contact with something solid. He didn't wait to see Whisperman recover, he ran. He knew Cellblock's group probably noticed the commotion and him running away but he didn't care that he blew his cover. He had to get away.
"I'll find you, little puppy. You can't hide." The man's voice called out into the woods as Weeble ran for his life.
"Hey! You can't be here!" Weeble heard another man's voice call. "On your knees!" That had to be the guy with Cellblock's group. Weeble ran, not knowing if that was for him, or Whisperman. He heard gun fire, small caliber, five rounds, a handgun of some kind judging from the crisp `pop' of each trigger pull. The projectiles weren't in his direction, he didn't hear anything hit around him, so they must have been for Whisperman. Fuck! Fuck! FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK. What the fuck was happening? Who was Whisperman? The soldier that was part of the compound group didn't recognize him and actually shot at him. Weeble hoped he caught a bullet.
He was flying through the woods as fast as he could run, and he realized he had to make a plan. Hide out? Definitely, until he could get his bearings. He remembered a small ravine to the east. Weeble scrambled over the uneven ground of the woods, careening around trees and trying to identify anything that would give him cover as he ran. He had to disappear, put as much distance and objects between himself and Whisperman as he could manage. He ran generally east, but in a chaotic path of blocking trees, shrubs, hills, depressions, anything that might hide him from view.
When he got to the ravine several minutes later he furiously buried himself in dead leaves against the side of the ravine, hunkered down in a depression that was a foot deep so that the overhang covered him. He hoped the cut in his neck wouldn't get infected from the mud he'd covered himself with. His breath came in gasping heaves that he knew he had to slow, it was far too loud. FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK
He knew he'd probably left some kind of trail, but hopefully the dormant winter undergrowth resisted easy identification. He couldn't stay here long. Remaining in place ensured Whisperman would find him eventually, and it sounded like the psycho had a boner for him for some reason. Maybe he recognized someone else spying and not part of the group from the compound. He had to stay on the move. But where was safety? The compound was the only place he could think of. Even if they didn't put him with the others, at least they wouldn't kill him.
Psycho Whisperman could have killed him twice, he thought. If he really wanted to, but he didn't. He was toying with Weeble, he seemed to enjoy making him afraid. That didn't mean he wouldn't kill him, Weeble got a totally creepy feeling from the guy. Whisperman kept using his knife, without hesitation, like he enjoyed it, cutting him four time, drawing blood. He promised worse the next time he saw Weeble. And he kept asking what the groups were talking about. Was he trying to get intel on the compound? On the group running things? It was clear Whisperman wasn't afraid of the men in the compound, he'd damn near invited the soldier in Cellbock's group to confront him when he called out to Weeble, to taunt him, exposing himself in direct opposition to what he'd first whispered to Weeble. Someone like Whisperman would have noticed the sidearm the man carried. He must not be concerned he'd be caught. Weeble didn't doubt that at all, Whisperman was silent and sneaky. Fuck.
Weeble felt a shiver go up his spine. An idea occurred to him. Would Whisperman teach him? The compound guys weren't doing it, they'd left him as if he wasn't worth their effort. All the Bravos were chosen specifically. Maybe Whisperman would show him how to get intel, if that's what he was after. He had the advantage of being invited here as a Bravo. The compound guys wouldn't suspect him as a spy. And maybe the psycho would teach him how to sneak around and stay hidden. He'd love to learn how to do that.
Weeble trembled. It was a risk. It could go wrong. Whisperman was a psycho, probably couldn't be trusted. But, what options did he have? He couldn't hide out here, as well as survive. He'd need to eat, and Whisperman could catch him any time he was out in the open. He didn't fool himself that he had the skills necessary to evade someone like Whisperman. He could avoid the other groups easily, but escape someone who was deliberately hunting him? Weeble couldn't imagine a single scenario where he could reach the compound without Whisperman finding him. If he was Whisperman, he'd already figure out that's where Weeble would head.
Fuck him' Weeble thought. Fuck that asshole!' He repeated as he tried to calm his breathing. He was trapped. He couldn't make it to the compound unless he was VERY good, and he had no illusions about pitting his skills against Whisperman's. Pre-Bravo Victor would have curled up and cried. But he was Weeble now. He was a fucking Bravo. Even pre-attack Weeble... what was that guy's name? Delfin? No, Delnick... fucking rapist. Dead Delnick, HAH Delnick Dead Dick... whatever... even that Weeble would have given up and laid down to die. This Weeble?
THIS fuckin' Weeble wasn't gonna let this fuckin psycho determine how this played out. Screw him. And screw his momma too. Just because she was the bitch that made him.
Weeble began to form his plan.