»
Main Forums
»
Passions in Prose
»
Travels (Part 3)
| Passions in Prose |
|
Travels (Part 3) |
|
|
paraboxer Member
since 2002-11-10
Posts 121Maryland, USA |
Travels (Part 3) 2145: "What was the fiercest battle you'd ever been in?" a thirteen year old girl asked me. Her little brother had an inquiry or two of his own, "What was basic training like? Did they beat you up? Starve you? Put anyone on the firing squad?" "I'll get to that soon, just give a moment." Arnot replied, checking his watch, still another couple hours till his flight. He might as well tell his story, because he was drawing a small crowd of other passengers that were likely on this aircraft. “To answer the young gentleman’s question, basic training wasn’t too rough. Starvation, that’s a matter of opinion. We were fed, about four times daily but I distinctly remember being hungry almost all the time at the Castel despite eating a lot at meals.” Arnot replied. ~ ~ ~ ~ 2136: With approximately the forty other men of my section we did our basic training at the Farm for one of the two months of babysitting. We were assigned one Sergent and three caporals. If I remember one particular blowhard of a man, its Caporal Terrell, he was an American from New England and he was often gunning for me with both barrels. He was a compact fellow with close cropped brown hair standing three inches taller than I. The reason he didn’t like me is the fact that my French was far more fluent than his, because of the fact that I grew up in multilingual households throughout my life. “Advance!” he shouted. There was a field behind our forty man barracks at the Farm, which was quite literally a farmhouse out in the countryside where we would practice advance and contact drills after morning physical training and French lessons. I spent quite a few sessions with my rifle, belt kit, helmet, and assault pack with Terrell shouting for me to advance and withdraw across a 100 meter long field of mud, rocks, hardy grasses and roots. He was trying to bully me into deserting and I thoroughly wanted to prove him wrong. “Engage Volontaire (Recruit Volunteer) Biegard! Advance!” he shouted. I squinted in the light of the full moon as I stood up and ran as far forward as I could and took to the ground fast. “Advance!” he shouted again. Advance I did, rifle in hand, charging forward as fast as I could. After he got tired I was allowed back into the barracks for a few miserable hours of sleep. As I’d drift off to sleep I’d think of someone who smiled instead of scowled, who spoke softly instead of shouted, someone far away from the squalor that my life had now become of my own volition. But the reason I had chosen this was for myself more than anything else. Understand this. I only wanted Diane to feel happy, special, and loved. It killed me inside on a daily basis to know that the source of her feelings wasn’t anything I did as a friend. I just couldn’t take the pain of my unexpressed love for a good friend any longer. I couldn’t return to South Africa, I was feeling increasingly trapped by the campus, so I took the only route I could, the Legion. So many things we did at the Castel and the Farm. Ran obstacle courses, learned marksmanship and land navigation, basic infantry tactics, sang various songs of the Legion that hailed back centuries of our history, and learned that we were to be loyal to each other. I remember through it all, in my hardest times, whenever I thought of my happier memories of Diane I could carry on. I remember many a late night sentry watch where the cold winds would whip across the land. I remember as I huddled inside my heavy reversible winter camouflage jacket thinking about her. I could almost see her smiling face, feel her kindly touch, and hear her melodious voice. Then reality would intrude upon me, and I would realize she was happy with Chris and I had only the Legion. Legio Patria Nostra, the Legion is Our Homeland, and it served me well to remember those words. I remember as we stood in our ranks and rated donning the famed kepi blanc, the white cap made famous by the Legion of old, for the first time. We recited our Code of Honor, one part of which states, “Every Legionnaire is your brother-at-arms, irrespective of his nationality, race or creed. You will demonstrate this by an unwavering and straightforward solidarity which must always bind together members of the same family.” Little did I know that the lessons I learned at le Castel in 2136 would really have value for me at the battle of Pangar Ban in 2139. So the hardships of training made real men out of us, valiant legionnaires, soldiers to serve Earth but loyal only to one another. ~ ~ ~ ~ 2139: I remember when we launched a counterattack to retake the town of Pangar Ban after the Biohazard broke out on that colony world. Of all the places I’ve been nowhere is more desolate, barren and depressing as the deserts surrounding Pangar Ban. We found out that we had walked ourselves right into encirclement. We resisted siege for five months, running from side street to side street, from house to house. Whenever the dust settled after a barrage and an attack we’d launch a counterattack on our foe. Very often we surprised them with our tenacity and courage, forcing them to keep a respectable distance from the science outpost on Pangar Ban. “Over the top! Attack! Attack!” Sergent Rimmler yelled over the parapet, he was already running towards and then he dropped forward and started firing, covering us. I followed, running as fast as I could, then I dropped behind a rock and started firing rounds off at the ogres and Gollums that had holed up in prepared positions surrounding Pangar Ban. I could see more legionnaires advancing alongside me and joined them in the rush, shooting at anything that looked even remotely hostile. I remember the smell most of all, the creatures we killed that lay rotting just short of our positions. Day and night blended together with the smell of cordite from ammunition being fired, smoke from burning vehicles, and the constant shooting from various positions. We fought over houses, from street to street. I remember grenades killing both friend and foe alike. There was one block long apartment complex in Pangar Ban we called the Crucible, for many of the men who went in never came back out. The Crucible changed hands seventeen times in one day. I distinctly recall taking a floor of the building, only to know we had enemy forces on the top floor and in the adjacent room. We fought hand to hand over stairwells, threw grenades into neighboring rooms, and set fire to hiding places. The place was thick with black smoke, the cries of dying men, and the smell of death. At night they’d infiltrate our positions and we’d hear screams as the zombies yanked a man sleeping too close to a window into the streets to eat him alive. We’d throw a grenade into their midst to put him out of his misery and spare the rest of our lives. We also fought over the sewer system, by throwing demolition charges into the tunnels and firing napalm down there. The city of Pangar Ban was so utterly broken by bombs and bullets when we left her. Out of my forty man section only a dozen of us survived the battle of Pangar Ban. After five months of fighting, we buried our dead and left. Funerals for whenever one of our mates died were always solemn affairs. We buried them in our regimental cemetery, just outside the city. We always sang a song in particular called J’avais un camerade, or I had a comrade. It was a song we sung whenever one of our men had died. And it was a song we sang far too often. ~ ~ ~ ~ Little did Arnot realize that a slim, dark haired woman was making her way through the crowd as he told his story. Diane didn’t want to disturb him just then, but she could see that the years away had their effect on Arnot. He looked a lot more careworn than when she’d last seen him, his skin tone darker, at least one or two small scars visible from nine years of intense combat. “Did you ever tell her you loved her?” someone asked. “No.” Arnot replied, “What good would it have done? She already had Chris in her life, I’d just have been a complication.” “What got you through such a hideous ordeal?” an elderly woman asked, “How can you still think so tenderly after nine years of brutality.” “It was my fond memories of Diane that kept me going.” Arnot said, sadly, “Though she never returned my love, I still fondly remembered her friendship as the closest thing to affection I’d had in a long time. I refuse to admit this to Mrs. Grudge, the lady at the orphanage, but her belittling of me, day in and out left its marks.” “What was it like for you? Life in the orphanage?” Jordan asked. “I was often defiant when Mrs. Grudge treated me with her unkind remarks. But the one that left its most hurtful mark occurred when I was sixteen years old………” Arnot began. ~ ~ ~ ~ My first crush in secondary school, her name was Camille. I can still remember her sweet face, her short black hair, the hazel of her eyes. When Mrs. Grudge found out I was sweet on her during some kind of open house where my teacher told her about my excellent marks in literature class she really let me have it. “So, Mrs. Venkmann said that you were the smartest kid in her class. She said you’re in the top five percent. I should be impressed.” Mrs. Grudge said, “I’m not. Nothing you can ever do or accomplish can impress me.” “That’s always how it’s been, right!” I replied, “Whenever your favorite stoolies, Florence and Francis get a C, it’s a special occasion. I work hard, and I receive nothing!” The queens of the rumor mill were two nasty girls who used their looks and gossip as weapons, “They told me you have a crush on Camille Rennault, the baker’s daughter. Such a beauty, such a sweet young woman. Too bad she wouldn’t want a worthless orphan like you………” Mrs. Grudge said. I acted like it didn’t hurt, I was still defiant. It was hours later in a hidden place I found that I let it all out. Camille eventually dated another boy in our class and last I heard they were engaged. Ever since then, whenever I felt any sort of feelings of love, Mrs. Grudge’s words echoed in my mind. ~ ~ ~ ~ Arnot saw her as soon as he looked up. Diane was standing at the edge of the crowd, looking at him, tears in her eyes. He crossed the crowd, taking her in his arms, tenderly wiping the tears away. “It’s alright, don’t cry, please. Don’t cry.” Arnot said. ~ ~ ~ ~ (Follow this link to hear the song Arnot was talking about: http://hem.bredband.net/turnik/ffl/songs/jauc.htm) |
||
| © Copyright 2004 Carl - All Rights Reserved | |||
|
aussie teen Member
since 2003-09-27
Posts 396Australia |
another cliif hanger you leave me with...... please continue the story..... would love to hear a happy ending...... keep on writing Mel |
||
|
|
⇧ top of page ⇧ |
|
| All times are ET (US). All dates are in Year-Month-Day format. | ||
