“We lost 137 gunships,” General Glade said. “The Army lost better than 20,000 troops.
“I’ll say one thing for those bastards—they came right at us. I don’t think a single one of them ever turned back. It didn’t matter if we hit them with machine guns, grenades, or cannon fire, those bastards marched right into it, Harris. They fought to the last. We got every last one of them.”
That sounded good.
Glade paused for dramatic effect, then delivered the bad news. “If they come back this week, the Marines take point. We have to beat them out there”—he pointed to the forest—“stop them in the woods so the Army can rebuild its perimeter.” Huuhhhh huhhhh. He cleared his throat.
The general delivered most of his meaning unsaid. Next time we would meet the enemy out there without the benefit of rocket launchers and shielded bunkers. I thought about the yard-long bolts of light that flew through the air like javelins, cutting through any embankments, trees, and combat armor that happened to get in the way. I thought about Private Huish shivering as he died.
Twists of smoke still rose from the wreckage beyond the bunker. FOCPIG, indeed.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The only stores still operating in Valhalla were the ones that catered to the GI crowd. Crews stayed to open liquor shops, cigar stores, bars, and movie houses while grocery stores, bookstores, and clothiers remained empty and closed. It didn’t matter whether you entered a coffee shop or a fine grill; so many military types were crammed around the tables that every restaurant felt like a mess hall. With most of its civilian population in a relocation camp and nearly a million servicemen walking the streets, Valhalla felt like an extended military base.
Among the hundred thousand men who formed the local militia, there were hundreds of devoted capitalists who owned bars, and they willingly opened their establishments between battles, God bless them. Large pockets of Valhalla’s low-rent entertainment district ran round-the-clock operations, and some of the finer establishments opened their doors as well. The day after that first battle, more than five hundred bars opened for business. Restaurants, movie theaters, and arcades opened. Most of the Marines I knew would have preferred to have waitresses working the tables instead of off-duty militiamen, but I never saw anyone refuse a drink.
We were on call, of course. If something happened at the front, we would hear sirens and report for duty in an instant. With the entire city on continuous alert, our commanders could muster their scattered platoons and report in a matter of minutes.
Approximately one-tenth of the men could go on leave at a time now that the shooting had ended. With the exception of Philips, who spent the day on his rack staring into space, the entire platoon headed into town for the night. Thomer offered to hang back with Philips, but I didn’t think it would matter. He was somewhere between grieving and guilt-stricken, territory most Marines prefer to travel alone. Philips might come out of this funk in a day, or it might take a month, but his wild nature would pull him through. Until then, the best thing we could do for Sergeant Mark Philips was to give him space to work things out while watching him closely enough to make sure he did not hurt himself.
I headed into town with five guys from my company, all enlisted men. Officers and enlisted men did not pal around together as a rule, but I was also a clone. In the hierarchy of U.A. Marine Corps society, the gap between officers and enlisted men was not nearly as pronounced as the separation of natural-borns and synthetics.
We borrowed a jeep and drove deep into town. Driving the streets of Valhalla, it was easy to forget we were fighting a war. The entertainment district was alive. Marines, soldiers, and civilians crowded the streets. The dance clubs were closed, but crowds packed the movie theaters and bars. The MPs turned out in force, too. Walking around with their armbands and nightsticks, they scowled at every man they passed.
What downtown Valhalla really needed was a dog catcher. Packs of stray dogs roamed the alleys, looking for food. They posed no threat to humans, especially in a community in which most pedestrians carried M27s, but the dog shit was turning alleyways into minefields.
People’s pets became the first victims of the mass relocation. In the rush to relocate the human population, house pets were left to fend for themselves. The dogs and cats seemed to adapt, but I suspected that the domesticated fish, bird, and hamster populations were on their way to extinction.
There were so many jeeps parked along the sidewalks downtown that the place looked like a motor pool. We ended up parking in a residential area and walking eight blocks back. As we walked, Private Skittles made a snide remark about all of the old, white-haired soldiers we passed. “I don’t know about you guys, but seeing all these old guys around gives me the creeps.”
“Philips calls them the ‘Prune Juice Brigade,’ ” Thomer said. Philips’s quotes were always good for a laugh.
Then Corporal Thorpe asked the question of the day, “What happened out there with Sergeant Philips?”
“I heard you capped one of those things with a rocket,” Skittles said to Corporal Boll. “A rocket …Man, you must have blown that bastard to bits.”
Neither Herrington nor Boll seemed interested in talking about the skirmish. Herrington ignored the comment. Boll gave Skittles a tight smile, and grunted, “Something like that,” in a voice just above a whisper.
“Think there’s anyplace around here that serves Crash?” I asked, hoping to change the subject. Crash was a hard liquor made out of potatoes grown in toxic soil. The U.A. Senate had recently banned the stuff due to a rash of fatalities, but Marines loved it because it was cheap and got them drunk fast.
“They don’t serve that anymore,” said Thorpe, taking the bait. “It’s been banned.”
“Banned?” I asked, pretending I had never heard about the ban. As I looked over at Thomer, I could tell he saw through me. He smiled but did not say a word.
“A bunch of college kids died after drinking it in a frathouse initiation,” Skittles said.
“No shit?” I asked. “Curbing the frat-boy population. I never thought of using it for that.”
Wherever we went, we ran into crowds. The restaurants and bars had lines that stretched half a block, so we wandered off the main drag and began searching smaller streets and back alleys. There was dog shit everywhere, but the ion curtain provided enough light for us to avoid stepping in it.
Five blocks off Main Street, we finally found a small pub that only looked mildly overcrowded. When the guy serving the drinks said he would be able to seat us within the hour, we decided we were not going to get a better offer. It actually took two hours, but that was okay.
Herrington pointed out the window, and said, “Hey, look, an Ava movie’s showing in the theater over there.” It was an Ava Gardner double feature—The Sun Also Rises and On the Beach. What red-blooded Marine could resist?
Among the vices that appealed to enlisted men, drinking was the uncontested champion, with sex coming in a strong second. Movies did not figure into the top ten, at least not before Ava and her lovely face.
“I bet Ava does some naughty stuff ‘on the beach,’ ” Skittles said.
“No, man, it’s not like that,” Thomer said. “I saw it. It’s an end-of-the-world flick. She’s stuck on a planet with radiation problems, waiting to die.”
“C’mon, it’s got to have some good visuals; it’s an Ava flick,” said Herrington.
“She does look good,” Thomer agreed.
“Think she really is a clone?” Herrington asked.
Thomer shook his head. “I hope not,” he said.
“Would it make a difference?” I asked.
“Well, I hope she is a clone,” said Skittles. I first met Private Timothy H. Skittles as we rode the helicopter out to the forest, and I already liked him. The kid was nuts.