***
0530
first day
The Marines fired a red flare over the opening to the tree-line, illuminating a dark, bobbing mass of screaming men moving towards them with shields, helmets that bore horns, and carrying long spears or axes. The earth shook with the rush of thousands of feet hitting hard ground, along with the explosive shouting of commands, and horns blowing. They came running in scattered bands, their leaders leaping before them and waving long pikes. They howled in their native tongue.
"I can't raise battalion captain," cried Henniger.
"Keep trying," commanded Brendan.
"What do you make of this skipper? This is more than a guerilla band caught in a hammer and anvil tactic."
"I haven't a clue."
The fog thinned a little, but a pale still shown in the gray sky. The first platoon waited until the figures broke the tree-line on the left before they opened fire in a sudden, deafening roar. Automatic weapons spewing out streams of bullets and tracers tore into the densely packed mass of humanity invoking ghastly screams of pain. The mass kept coming with their spears held at waist high similar to a bayonet charge. Bodies tumbled by as the guttural snarling of men in combat was all around. A spray of bullets whittled their number but they still came forward, some of them falling, at last closing with the Marine defenders. Some of them jumped on Marines swinging axes, swords, and brandishing spears. The "jarheads" cut them down and moved to close with them in close combat.
In the face of the onslaught stood Pfc. Frank Grant of 1st platoon , manning an M-60 machine gun only a few hundred yards from the west side of the opening in the tree-line. Pfc. Grant fired hundreds of rounds into the attacking horde, before he took a javelin to the head. His peers knew him just as Grant, lean and swift like a greyhound. A man as convinced of victory as he was sure of his own death in battle. Grant had joined the Marines with his remark to his closest friend: "I'll see you some day, Mac- but not on this earth."
"Get that 60 working!" someone shouted. Pfc Acie Barbee grabbed Grant's M60, sighted it and fired. It was impossible to miss. Across the smooth gully the entire slope straight ahead looked to be moving.
Pfc Barbee never knew whether or not he heard the muffled explosions around him for his finger was squeezing the trigger of Grant's M-60 machine gun that his friend had found important enough to die for, and the charging enemy was falling back. He felt sick and dizzy as he crawled toward a stand of oak saplings and leaned against them to steady himself. They returned, again and again, sweeping in on other fronts, but the line held. The Marines fought with flame-throwers, with grenades, with bayonets. They fought yard by yard, killing and being killed, while the area they were fighting in burned from the flame throwers and the mortars. It was a scene right out of Dante's HELL.
"Lance corporal Henniger did you raise battalion yet?"
"I can't get through sir!"
Groups of Marines struggling to restore their lines blundered into groups of the grizzled attackers milling around trying to get through the barbed wire hastily strung by the Marines between the first and second attack. The shooting was wild, the grenades fell among friend as well as foe, bayonets jabbed against the sound of a strange tongue and found only air. It was a battle fought beyond the direction of either commander. Brendan's men were stunned. They stumbled as they moved lifting their legs high as though fatigue had weighted them with lead. They mumbled as they talked, licking cracked dry lips with swollen tongues. It was up to 244 men holding a line 900 yards long against thousands of dirty looking bearded men. The hills spewed forth section after section of short wild looking madmen. But now the Marines were screaming their own coarse epithets at the onrushing enemy. They were firing and the bearded ones were falling. Still they came on, the equivalent of a Marine battalion rushing Brendan's right flank held by less than 50 Marines. PFC. Huey Jones caught sight of several of the dark foreboding two legged animals. He rushed them bayoneting their leader and the others fled, he then aimed his modified M-16, put it on fully automatic and killed them. He kept firing at others who took their place until he himself was killed.
"Fire for effect!" cried Nichols into his handset, "and keep it coming 'til I say stop!"
Marine mortarmen started dropping payloads down their 'stovepipes', those harmless looking tubes that fire looping trajectories, straight up and straight down, putting their missiles down chimneys if need be and dropping them like bombs into enemy formations. Nothing kills men like mortars, and no weapon is more dreaded by foot soldiers. Alpha company had ample supplies of these dreaded killers, when these strange warriors came racing across the valley floor. Once again with, with disastrous indifference to detection, their leaders had whipped them into a wild frenzy. So the short squat figures charged and Lieutenant Roberts' mortars racked and ravaged them, while small arms fire depleted the survivors who reached the wire. But still they came. It was not really a charge but a senseless death swarming. Without any idea of how deadly these weapons were, Tuirgeis sent his best brigades into a crucible of fire and steel.
It started to thunder and lightning again, and even the howls of the crazed attackers were drowned out in the clashing of the clouds, the drumming of the rain, the drawn-toppling crash of the trees being hurled to earth by the wind, and the treetop explosions of mortar shells. The defending Marines could not fight from shallow hurriedly dug out foxholes, now full of water. They lay on the top of the ground. It became a blind battle, decided, in the end, by Marine mortars "laid in by guess and by God," and the stamina of the individual Marine.
A rain of enemy arrows came down on Gunny Smith. Arrows spattered off the ridge shale, spurting, squealing away in ricochet, Smith kept firing. Several men ran to him with more ammunition, Smith kept firing. One of them went down with an arrow in the belly. Another reached Smith, took an arrow in the groin, and went down kicking, nearly knocking Smith off balance. The other came in with an ammo box and an arrow in the shoulder. As he stopped to grab more ammo, Smith saw an arrow lodge in the third Marine's throat.
"Get the hell back!" Smitty yelled to his men as he triggered a long searing sweeping burst and the short crazed men vanished from sight like puppets pulled on a string. Then gunnery sergeant Smith charged himself. He called to his riflemen.
"Let's go!" He yelled.
Straight downhill they charged, screaming their rebel yells, firing from the hip as they went, obliterating all before them while Smith aimed a disemboweling burst at the warrior chieftain who had popped up out of the grass.
It was everywhere, a cloying caking dust that was thick and clogged in the nostrils, coarse in the throat and clotted in the corner of the eyes. It swirled in dense clouds or sparkled in tiny jewels within those shafts of sunlight sometimes made visible by explosions that rent one cloud of dust only to start another.
The shooting stopped suddenly. The mortars had ended the resistance. Bodies lay torn and unrecognizable. No piece of equipment or weapon left intact. As he reached the bottom of the depression Smith heard voices. . He peered from behind a bush down in the creek bed. A thin layer of mist hung over the dead like a ghostly cloud. Eight attackers were busy carrying their dead and wounded to a flat spot directly below him.
Smith put down his modified M-16 and took two grenades from his pistol belt. He pulled the pins, held down the spoons on the grenades, and slowly rose up on his knees. He tossed the grenades down the bank, grabbed his weapon, and rolled behind the bush. The grenades blew simultaneously. He jumped to his feet and ran down the bank, firing at four stunned survivors. Two jerked and were flung backwards with the impact of the bullets. The other two ran. Gunny Smith shot one of short squat men in the buttocks, spinning him around. Smith tried to shoot again, but his weapon was empty. The second warrior was hobbling away and had just reached a stream bed when Smith caught up to him and slammed his rifle butt savagely into his back. The grizzled warrior screamed in pain and fell into the water. Smith threw his arms around the man's neck, yanking up as he drove his knife down into the man's back. The warrior's neck popped with a loud crack. Smith released the lifeless body, picked up his weapon, and started to stand when an arrow whizzed by his head.
The attacker who had been shot in the buttocks had recovered enough to start firing from his long-bow. Smith stood when he saw the warrior put another arrow into his bow. The wounded enemy was fumbling with his weapon when he glanced up and saw the gunny slowly walking towards him. His eyes widened as Smith brought up his modified M-16 to his hip and fired. Smith kept his finger on the trigger and held the recoiling weapon tightly as he pumped rounds in to the slumping warrior.
Smith emptied the magazine, took another magazine from his belt and fired again, putting a bullet into the head of each man.
Brendan's right was in serious trouble. Lieutenant McMillan's platoon had been cut into small pockets among a surging sea of enemy. He was down to less than 25 effectives and he was being driven back. The horned rimmed nemesis stabbed two of McMillan's squad leaders to death and wounded one other, driving on farther to the rear after the Marine guns jammed when the crazed attackers tried to grab them and use them as clubs. During the next half hour the wild looking creatures began to falter under rising Marine firepower. They still rushed the Marines, but when they reached that point where the bullets crisscrossed with an angry steady whispering, they began to peel off in groups, flitting through the rain-washed illumination of the shell flashes to throw themselves down in the darkness and crawl toward the Marine lines on their bellies. Sometimes Gunny Smith and his men turned their pistols and rifles around to take on the infiltrators.
Marine mortar shells fell with dreadful accuracy. Death swept suddenly and invisibly among those strange looking creatures, devastating them. Regrouping they swarmed blindly up the hill against Brendan's men. They were raked with small arms. They fled back across the valley floor, sprinting in terror through that hell of mortar fire and up the side of an opposing ridge, only to re-emerge on the crest in full view of Brendan's Marines. They were riddled. Better armed attackers came surging forward. One of them a bear of a man, howled his war cry as he pushed through towards the front of the attack, knocking his companions aside with a gigantic silver shield. His sword flashed around its edge, and the whites of his fierce eyes shone over its top. So fast and powerful was his charge that he misjudged and his first swing sliced right over the gunny's head, striking another Marine. The blow sliced off the leatherneck's head as a birch switch might take the bud from a flower stalk. It dropped to the ground, eyes still blazing at the attacker. The body twitched convulsively where it fell, arms and legs striking out. Blood trickled through the cracks into the earth.
The leader of the attackers was one of those commanders who pressed home attacks that were no better than massed death-swarmings. They could not fight and run away, these commanders. They would not fight another day. They would look on death before defeat. They rushed into the massed fire of mortars, into the murderous interlocking fire of machine guns, rifles and automatic weapons. They were like moths, seeking to obliterate the light with their exploding bodies. They matched flesh against steel and were torn apart.
The strange looking attackers could not capitalize upon the first shattering charge. The assaulting troops so far from overwhelming the position, now merely flowed up against it, thrashing about in the foliage that engulfed them, tripped them, confused them, once they had left the straight going of the open valley. So now the battle was fragmented, man against man, bayonets and pikes jabbing against sounds, a mindless melee raging beyond the control of either commander.
Golightly saw the movement from the corner of his eye and began to swing his modified M-16 around, but he suddenly felt heavy. His right side felt as if it had been hit with a baseball bat. He could see the small warrior shooting his bow at him but couldn't make his body respond to bring his weapon around. His mind fought through the pain and focused on the enemy warrior. His left hand jerked the weapon around, and he fired. The bearded soldier's head snapped back and his horned helmet floated momentarily in midair before falling on his lifeless body. Golightly toppled over.
"Tonto is hit" cried O'Hare running to his fire team leader's side.
"Shit," mumbled Smith "how bad?"
O'Hare tore open Golightly's fatigue shirt and quickly assessed the damage. "He'll make it! The arrow ricocheted off his canteen and sliced his side." O'Hare then looked around and cried "Medic!" then looked at Golightly "a shot of pain killer and you're as good as new, old buddy."
The air was thick with things flying around during the battle. Spears, wood splinters, rocks. One of the apparent leaders of the attacking force was waving to one of his men when a bullet hit him in the side of the head. The blow staggered him and sent him reeling sideways. He slammed into a large tree trunk, a trunk that would have been large enough to stop a tank, much less a human.
They struck the Marine lines numerous times, falling savagely on the center and the flanks. Each time they ran into overwhelming firepower forcing them back. Betrayed by their own virtues- ardor and obedience- the short stumpy bearded warriors leaped erect and charged, coming in a swarm to be obliterated by Marine rifle fire or the hosing of the flamethrowers.
A horned rimmed attacker lowered his pike and charged O'Hare with a shoulder height thrust. O'Hare turned his back as he dropped to his left knee, going under the pike thrust. He spun on the knee with his right leg out in an "iron broom" foot sweep that took the attacker off his feet and onto his back, O'Hare struck at the man's throat as hard as he could with the knife edge of his gloved hand. Something cracked. He then jumped up and stomped him with all his might in the groin.
Maniacal voices began bellowing over the field of battle. The ground shook. Flares cast their ghostly light. Short squat men and their armament went flying through the air. The ground to the left front became a "slaughter pen". Within it the short stocky men began to run amuck. They screamed in terror. Those who survived fled back from whence they came, where the Marine mortar pursued and punished.
The several batteries of Marine mortar began firing again, machine guns swept the field and the screams of the attackers were audible to the Marines.
The corpsmen worked throughout the clamor of battle. They laid the men out on stretchers, giving plasma and morphine. Marine riflemen guarded them as they worked, for sometimes the bearded creatures from hell attempted to sneak down to the valley floor and shoot their strong bows into the casualties.
One of them appeared on the left flank brandishing a javelin. A Marine charged him and bayoneted him in the belly and then shot the bayonet free.
If the virtue of these strange warriors from hell was their tenacity, as it was, then the defect of that virtue was their inflexibility. It began to rain in torrents, and the bedraggled squat men charged Brendan's company by the hundreds, so many of them that the ground shook beneath their feet. They hit the barbed wire even as the Marine guns erupted in a bedlam of firing.
Officers of the grazed crowd were at the head of each of their respective sections, shouting and waving their swords. The attack was now veering toward the center of Brendan's line. The hordes were rushing straight into Gunny Smith's machine guns, and his gunners raked them at full trigger. The gun barrels were red and sizzling they were so heated up. But they continued to stutter on, tumbling the onrushing grizzled attackers piling them up so high that the enemy flood began to ebb and flow back across the valley floor.
Sargeant Joseph Downs was known as Jumpin' Joe, after a famous World War II Marine, for his exuberant style in the field. Like his namesake, he looked a little like a buccaneer, big and raw-boned, with a cut-down bayonet knife dangling from his cartridge belt alongside a .38 revolver stick in a special quick draw holster. Under his left armpit was a .45 shoulder holster. If it were not true that Jumpin' Joe had used these weapons, as a Recon Marine in the Gulf War and later in Somalia, the effect might have been a caricature of what is supposed to be a type of Marine sergeant. But Jumpin' Joe was genuine as he walked calmly among his men directing and adjusting their line of fire.
Pfc Fauver peered around a tree trunk and saw two of the strange creatures lying beside each other, firing arrows from cross-bows toward his left flank. He brought up his M-79 and fired. The spin-stabilized grenade landed beside the closest warrior, exploding and knocking one over onto his stunned comrade. O'Hare stepped out from behind Fauver and pumped half of a magazine into the two men, finishing them off.
A half a dozen times those strange creatures attacked the left of the Marine line, and a half a dozen times they were hurled back. The fight raged for hours and was not spent until late in the afternoon before it was over. They finally fell in a hissing volley of grenades. So tightly were they bunched, so oblivious were they to the death that swept among them, that they, at one time, overwhelmed 1st platoon and ripped a hole in the lines. The flanking Marine platoon bent back their flanks and beat back the intruders.
1300
First day
Gunny Smith squinted. The rain had quit but the sky was still low and gray. He could see that there were ragged bodies in the valley and he went to work at once examining twentynine men sprawled about the battle site to his immediate front; many of the bodies mutilated by the grenades and mortar strikes. Some lay on their backs with arms extended in various distorted positions of those who suffer death suddenly and violently. Some lay on their sides, glazed eyes open, stiffened in a fetal position. Quickly he searched the bodies, gathering their swords and shields into a heap. Afterwards, he went around examining the dead ghostly sentinels, tipped his soft cover in respect, thought of his own dead, tested his body, still sound, still trustable through a long night, but weaker noticeably weaker, the heart uneven, the breath failing. But there was at least one good fight left. His mind wandered. He noted that these troops, unlike those encountered in the past several weeks wore strange leggings, they were clad in what appeared to be multiple layers of rags, faded colors of berry-dye fabric peeking out through rents in shapeless garments that might have once been women smocks. In addition, they were covered with animal fur and helmets with horns. There were no weapons other than spears, strong bows, and battle axes. He picked out from the pile of grim weapons several knives, and searching further he found black sheaths. He grasped an arrow by the shaft, twisted it carefully out of the dirt. It was fletched with the split tail-feathers of a woodpecker, he saw, and banded with the blue thread, wrapped in a line half an inch wide below the quills.
"This gear is strange to me."
If he didn't know better these bodies resembled warriors, from another time frame; called Genti, a term the Irish used to describe the heathens or Vikings. It seemed inconceivable, but all appearances pointed to him being someplace where the customs, dress and weaponry still held sway. He would have thought the whole thing a fantasy of sorts, had it not been for the dead and wounded on both sides. The behavior of the attacking force and the weaponry they possessed existed nowhere but in Ireland; in a time gone by. In addition, the accents of the people in battle left no doubt of that. He shook irritably, hugging his elbows against the slight chill air. He couldn't admit for a moment the completely implausible idea that he was in another time frame than his own. Columbia, after all had stood in its present location for centuries. It was there; but the hard evidence before him confounded him.
Marine and attackers were in some cases intertwined and as Smith bent down, he found Grant; he then began to scratch the black dirt into his fingers. Smith lowered his head again to hide the emotions that flooded him. Slowly very slowly words began to flow. No one in front of him was moving. His voice broke, and his eyes suddenly moistened. He said softly, "We all have value; we're worth something more than the dirt. I never saw dirt that I'd die for, what we're all fighting for, in the end, is each other. We are a band of brothers." There was love and mutual admiration between Frank Grant and the gunny, and no abler combination has ever been arrayed for battle. Grant had fought through a lot of engagements in the gulf war, his battle skirmishes numbered twenty, and he was accustomed to attacking at every opportunity. Smith looked around, searching. He wanted a place to be alone. The barbed wire perimeter fence was off to his right. He headed quickly for its solitude. He'd prepared himself a long time ago. It was part of his job. He knew friends would die. It was the price one had to pay for membership in an outfit that dealt in death. He smiled through the hurt. Smitty stopped and took a deep breath. He would return in a few minutes. He would put the thoughts of his friend in a special place. He wouldn't carry his remorse. It affected thoughts, actions, and decisions. It would eat away at a man's mind. He was a man in charge, enlisted wise, of a Marine Infantry Company. He wasn't allowed the luxury of remorse. His mind had to be clear with no distractions. His life, his Company, depended upon it. Smitty raised his head and looked skyward as tears streamed down his face.
Please, Lord, take care of him. There has to be a heaven, Lord, there's just got to be a place where he can fulfill his dreams. Please, Lord, take care of him and the othersmake them happy.
The mist had given the whole affair an air of eerie authenticity so effective that even O'Hare who not only knew that he was in Columbia less than twenty-four hours ago, could almost believe he was watching the real thing. He refused to believe this was real. He shouted to no one in particular, and then covered his face with his hands.
"This is a nightmare!" he cried "A nightmare with no end! God, please let me wake up!"
O'Hare's heart was hammering as if it would burst. He put the flat of his hand against the sound and made himself relax. Closing his eyes, he practiced a mental relaxation technique, focusing his skills on himself as he cradled his weapon waiting for the next assault.
Out of the dust, just before dark, limped the dirtiest Marine Gunny Smith had seen so far. A quarter-inch of grime coated his beardless face while a lock of blond hair hung from beneath his helmet. The youth's name was Alfred Clark and he broke the silence by saying "Somebody give me a pack of cigarettes; there's a machine gun crew out there in a shell hole and there ain't one of 'ems got a butt."
Smitty grinned and the silence was broken.
***
As the corpsmen worked on, they loaded the wounded aboard the stretchers. Others took the casualties to the rear of the front lines. But there were no lines as such; there were groups of Marines who had dug in here or fortified an abandoned foxhole there. There were gaps everywhere. Flanks were dangling. The advance toward the tree-line could be measured in hundreds of yards, others in scores of feet. Some troops were still trapped in the open. By then it was early evening, and the Marines halted and dug in, as drenching rains broke over their heads. The sound of rolling drums beat faster; then it was over the forest and the valley floor and the water was swishing, streaming, and gurgling earthward. It was as nothing these Marines had seen before. It was not a rain storm; a spell of rain, it was hours of it. It was the cloudburst in perpetuity, and it was so constant.
A bitter aching fatigue had come upon them. They had met the enemy in the valley, in the wood-line and atop the ridge; they had defeated him. They had been battered by every weapon these wild-ass creatures could throw at them. They had not slept. They had been ravaged by the rains, weakened by dysentery, nagged by ulcers and had developed foot rot. They had met each ordeal with the hope of victory and survived only to prepare for greater trial.
The attack which had begun in early hours of the morning was over by late afternoon that same day. The descending sun revealed a hideous spectacle on that field of battle. Nothing moved.
***
1700
First day
All through the night, cries of "Corpsman!" "Corpsman!" were raised. Men wounded during the day, men who fought on while wounded, were dying from loss of blood. And there was a shortage of blood plasma, of bandages.
"Doc" Ronald Sinclair had patched up two dozen or so men left of the 40 whom lieutenant Mastrion had led against the central sector. Sergeant Amato Anthony had been shot in the head. Sinclair had fixed up the lieutenant's leg with splints and bandaged the sergeant's head.
In the afternoon as more wounded were brought back to medic station, Doc Sinclair was forced to take medical kits from the bodies of fallen corpsmen. He even stripped dead Marines of what medical supplies they were carrying.
The corpsmen worked through the darkness in a "makeshift hospital." The position had been vacated by the Marines and the corpsmen had set up an operating room inside, and worked on the wounded with the aid of flashlights.
"We're out of anesthetics," one of the corpsmen whispered. Another one shrugged. There were things he had to cut and things he had to sew, and they had to be done, with or without the pain.
They worked on. There were sometimes moans, occasionally an uncontrollable sob, but mostly there was silence while the flashlight beams played on hands and bullets continued to echo in the distance.
The stress of battle brought the sweat oozing from the bodies staining and making blotches on the pale green camouflaged fatigues of the Marines. There was tension in the air. Marines squatted, blacking rifle sights or applying a last light coat of oil to their rifle bores. Machine gunners went over long belts of ammunition coiled wickedly in oblong green boxes, carefully withdrawing and reinserting the cartridges into their cloth loops, making certain that they would not stick and jam the guns. Other men inspected grenade pins or camouflage nets for their helmets. They were ready.
***
Recon Patrol
Brendan needed to know what he ran into and what was in front of him. Thus, his decision to send out a night recon patrol was to find out what was going on. Patrols were the eyes and ears of a line of defense, the feelers went out probing for the presence of the enemy. They went out in squad strength. They were lightly armed men. The men only carried a canteen of water. They fastened their gear tight to prevent tell-tale clinks, they daubed their faces with cami-stick, adorned their blouses and helmets with branches; and moved slowly, hugging the trails to the right and left with intervals of a dozen feet between them, listening for the sudden cry of birds that might betray a lurking enemy, sometimes moving at a crawling, crablike rhythm, at a pace so maddeningly slow that tension became multiplied, all the sounds so magnified that the rustling of a small animal might echo in helmet muffled ears like the movement of a human body.
With that the recon patrol plunged into the darkness. O'Hare left the tracking to Golightly, whose wound was now heavily bandaged. There was little for him to see. The floor of the forest was dry and covered with a drift of leaves; but guessing that the enemy would stay near water, he returned often to the banks of the stream.
Dusk deepened. Mist lay behind them among the trees below and brooded on the pale margins valley, but the sky was clear for now. Stars came out. The waxing moon was riding in the west and the shadows of the rocks were black. The moonlight made walking deceptive; though they could see every detail of the ground, they had no depth perception; flat plants and jagged stones looked the same height, causing them to lift their feet absurdly high over nonexistent obstacles and stub their toes on protruding rocks. They walked as fast as they could, listening for the sounds of the night. The dark bulk of a mountain rose to the east, while far below to the south the foothills ran out into a vast barren moorland. The top of the rocks sloped inwards from all sides, forming a shallow dish. In the center of the dish was a blackened circle, with the sooty remnants of charred sticks. They were not the first visitors there.
The dale ran like a stony trough between the ridged hills, and a trickling stream flowed among the boulders at the bottom. A cliff frowned upon their right; to their left rose gray slopes, dim and shadowy in the late night. They walked three more hours, down into darkness. Rain started up again, a steady drizzle that soaked them through and made it impossible to keep dry. They moved warily concerned about possible ambushes. They continued to climb, past the spot where the rude path petered out into clumps of gorse and heather. They were among foothills there, and the granite rocks rose higher than O'Hare's head. There in the cool wet hour before dawn they rested for a brief space. The moon had long gone down before them, the stars glittered above them; the first light of day had not yet come over the dark hills behind them.
***
O'Hare awoke to a gentle tap. Golightly was kneeling next to him, putting on his ruck. O'Hare slipped his arms through the lightened pack and rose slowly. Within minutes they were walking next to the trail and river. They moved for fifteen minutes, when Golightly stopped and snapped his fingers lightly. O'Hare starred at Golightly who was slowly lowering himself to a kneeling position on the ground and motioning the corporal to come close to him.
The recon patrol saw what they at first took to be boulders, lying at the foot of the slope, instead they were huddled bodies. Five dead people lay there. They had been hewn with many cruel strokes, and two had been beheaded. The ground was wet with their dark blood.
"In the wrong place, at the wrong time;" whispered a member of the patrol.
Both men were soaked with sweat. Walking with such concentration drained a man quickly, but their senses had been fine-tuned, and they'd learn the trail. They now knew its natural sounds, the creaks of the old trees and the swishing of the tall grass. Every nerve ending tingled. It was a sensation most men would never feel. It was like fear but not fear, like elation but not joy, a high without a stimulus. It was like a hunter that could attack unseen and unheard. They walked a tightrope on which their balance was instinct and senses. If either failed, they would fall to certain destruction.
***
Cut off from battalion, Brendan and his men passed an anxious but uneventful remainder of the night, and in the morning, while the mists began to shred over the forest roof, Brendan was glad he had sent out patrols.
***
They were among hills again, and traveling on a track wider than any they had seen for the past several hours. Not only that, but it showed signs of recent use-heavy use-so much, in fact the patrol moved off the main road into the forest. The walking was much more difficult there. Wide-eyed in the bushes, the patrol knew for the first time what it meant to be paralyzed by terror. They spotted Genti on horse, their armor clanked as they rode. Leather tunics wrinkled like heavy skin, and capes swelled behind like bats' wings. Helmets slung from their saddles grinned like monstrous skulls. Most hideous were their weapons. Quivers of iron-tipped arrows rattled on their backs, and great bows of horn and sinew curved across their shoulders. Maces and spiked chains swung from their saddles. All carried swords hooked at the end, for gutting; apparently hot on the scent of some unfortunate devils whose path had crossed their own.
"Take the point, Tonto," O'Hare called to Golightly as he stopped to fix something on his pack.
Swiftly now the patrol turned and followed the path that contained many footprints; and with adrenalin pumping they sprang from stone to stone. Golightly, the point man of that patrol was a twenty-first century gladiator, a man who fought a war at its most personal level. And like the gladiator he could lose the game but once. If the pilot of a drone was on one end of a war's spectrum, the point man was at the other end. Tonto, as he loved to be called, was filled with the sense of power he always felt while walking point; the power of knowing he held death in his hands and would be the first to use it. He loved that feeling. He was considered a 'somebody' when he walked point. He was the man he always wanted to berespected, tough, and indispensable. At last they reached the crest of the gray hill, and a sudden breeze blew in their face and stirred their damp uniforms, the chill wind of dawn. Golightly slowed as he saw the smoke drifting upwards.
It looked clear, just mountains and valleys of undisturbed green. He led the patrol downhill about twenty yards, then along the slope, trying to parallel the direction of the proposed march. The terrain leveled out slightly where two mountain masses joined. Golightly glanced back to make sure the others were keeping up. He moved cautiously, feeling cold chills run up his back. Before him the gritty mist was dissipating and revealed the broken, shattered earth. He stopped as his stomach knotted uncontrollably. He could smell and feel the unmistakable aura of death.
***
0445
Village of Rawa
Second day
Turning back the recon patrol saw day leap into the sky across the far hills. The red rim of the sun rose over the shoulders of the dark land. Before them in the northwest the world lay still, formless and green; but even as they looked the shadows of night melted, the colors of the waking earth returned.
They now tracked their evasive foe by the clear light of day. It seemed that the aggressors, for some strange reason, had pressed on with all possible speed. Every now and then the pursuers found things that had been dropped or cast away. The patrol went in single file like hounds on a strong scent, and an eager light was in their eyes. Nearly due west a broad swath of trampled grass was bruised and blackened. These were the tale-tale signs of the enemy force as they continued on.
They pressed on until they reached a causeway across a vast and steamy peat bog. Creatures from another age bellowed in the distance, their howls swirling in the mists so that they seemed to loom over them. Twice, when leathery birds swept past on creaking wings the patrol ducked for cover. Past the marsh, the road wound through a range of flat-topped hills and at last reached a broad plateau. Here in the morning of the following day, they came to a crossroad; a place of death.
The smoke, they spotted earlier, rose to their immediate front. Signs pointed to a huge battle having been fought in the surrounding area. Many men had died. So steeped was the place in horror that the patrol could feel it, even while they stood on the last slope looking down. They could feel the charge and the clash of cavalry. They could hear the terrible song of arrow volleys, the hiss and smack of swords on leather armor, and the shrieks of slaughtered horses and mangled men. They could hear merciless laughter and screams as captive throats were slashed and torturers set to their grisly work. They could smell blood, and flayed flesh, and the stench of burning meat. Even from where they stood they could see the mounded graves, the scattered bones.
"Water can't be too far ahead. I hear rushing water." Golightly whispered
They heard it before they saw it. It was further on over a jumble of stone and through a crevice, into the head of a tiny glen, rock-walled and leafy. It was filled with the gurgling of water from the burn that spilled from a dozen small falls among the rocks and plunged roistering down the length of the defile into a series of rills and pools below. The rushing water fell fifteen feet before crashing onto huge glistening boulders that smoked with a thin cloud of mist. Miniature rainbows appeared in the wet cloud. Swallows dipped low over the water to drink, and plovers and woodcocks poked long bills into the muddy earth at its edges, digging for insects. Golightly stopped near the pool and dropped to one knee. It had been a tough hour of moving since their last break. His fatigues were soaked with sweat. He motioned to O'Hare to come forward. Golightly's camouflaged-painted face was streaked. O'Hare knelt beside him. He didn't have to whisper; the crashing water made it difficult even to talk normally. "We'll take fifteen and give everybody a chance to catch their breath.
A few members of the patrol clambered on to a great tree-root that wound down into the stream, and stooping drew up some water in their cupped hands. The water refreshed them and seemed to cheer their hearts; for a while some of the patrol wadded into the stream, cooling their sore feet and legs.
***
O'Hare stood from where he had been filling his canteen and carefully moved around the pool looking for telltale signs. The M-79 seemed ridiculously small for him. He held it in one hand easily. The M-79 was a small but lethal single-shot, breech-loading weapon that fired 40mm spin-stabilized grenades with a bursting radius of about five meters. The launcher also fired other types of rounds: high explosive, smoke, signal, gas, and buckshot. No sign of anything. The stream broadened and became slow moving and tranquil on its meandering trek to the river. Only a few tenacious rays of light penetrated the cloud cover above, and the small gold spots they made on the earth seemed to smoke as notes of dust rose upward and were softly illuminated. The dank smell of damp rotting organic life was pungent and seemed heavy in their lungs. A pair of iridescent butterflies fluttered in front of him as he waded carefully through the pebble-strewn stream. The sudden absence of sound was unnerving. They had become used to the gurgling, laughing water that rushed over the rocks from pool to pool.
It was quiet. Uneasy, the patrol moved cautiously, trying to peer through the dazzling clouds of mist. Golightly thought of home and how morning was the nosiest time of the day. Fish jumped in the lake, dogs barked, cattle moaned to be milked and fed, and myriad birds greeted the dawn from high perches. But here there was no sound, except the distant rumble of the river and the crackling sound of fire. No children shouted from the village, as they approached, no animals announced their presence.
On the other side of the moorland was a stretch of twisted rocks, pitted and gouged by the advance and retreat of glaciers long gone. Rainwater filled the deeper pits. And thistle and tansy and meadowsweet surrounded these tarns with thick growth, the flowers, reflected in the still water. They were in sloping foothills, now, thick with heather. Just beyond, the countryside changed abruptly, surrounded by clusters of sycamore and larch. They came over the crest of the hill, and left the plovers crying by the tarns behind them.
Sterile and fishless, these pools dotted the landscape and formed traps for the unwary, who might easily stumble into one.
Before entering the village, O'Hare and Henniger, the RTO stripped down to just their weapons, and moved across the open field facing the village and vanished into the mist like animals, soundlessly, crouched low. Henniger whispered into his radio handset to the remainder of the patrol left behind.
"Recon I this is lone wolf. How do you hear me? Over"
"This is Recon I, we have you Lima Charlie; Over"
"This is lone wolf. I got you same same. Out"
Recon I didn't wait too long. In a few minutes lone wolf was back.
"It appears deserted; however, there is death all over the place," he reported.
"Every last house; plates are still on the table, and weapons on the wall." He led them into the center of the village.
The sun was rising, reflecting off low clouds, and the afterglow drenched the place in red. Close up, it was even more horrible than it had been from the hilltop. The contorted remains of horses and men lay everywhere some mere skeletons, some dried black, some fresh and putrefying.
Death and destruction abounded. Men, women, and children were butchered; the village smoldering.
***
The Marines moved cautiously through the village to discover there were still some living beings.
The village was a shambles. It was a poor village; far poorer than anything they had seen so far. The houses were small, the barns dilapidated. The Marine recon patrol moving through the place was leery of every sound in that awful hellhole; the creaking of shutters banging in the wind, the grumbling of enormous frogs in the bog beyond the crossroads, the howling of wolves or dogs far away. Except for a few ambulatory people left, nothing lived in that place. The horrible remnants of the battle lay where they had fallen. Corpses sprawled everywhere, people slaughtered even as they were stripping off their leather aprons and reaching for their swords. The bodies of the women and children hunched where they had been dropped. Those remaining uttered plaintive cries as they drifted above the carnage. But in spite of the surprise the villagers had acquitted themselves well, for there were many Genti corpses too, their gruesome fingers splayed, their faces frozen forever in grimaces of death.
The few people left were hurrying about, avoiding the corpses that lied everywhere; as they gathered in a meeting hall. This was the largest and oldest building in the village, what was left of it. The landscape was the bleakest and most awful any Marine had ever seen. Great fires must have raged there, leaving charred rock and cadaverous forests. No flowers grew; no birds sang. Noises echoed down the valley distorted and magnified like the groans of Earth itself.
All light bantering ceased. The patrol turned aggressive and savage. Marines hoped openly for battle, and because they had also not yet known it, talked loudly of wanting the enemy to come because they wanted to kill him and chop him up with his own swords and pikes.
***
0530
Company HQ
Second day
Brendan called his platoon leaders together; he spoke quickly and bluntly bringing them up to date on what Recon I reported. They were completely alone and God only knew if or when they would receive support from Regiment.
***
The recon patrol moved on, and as the Marines continued to patrol the outskirts of the village, the point man of the patrol froze and the rest of the patrol followed suit. Silhouetted against the sunrise on the opposite ridge line was a troop of mounted men, the gleam of metal on both the horses and riders suggesting they had a military nature. The horsemen after hovering for a moment came down the hill approaching slowly.
Chapter Five
Treating the wounded
Remember that death is lighter than a feather,
But that Duty is heavier than a Mountain
- Motto of the Sendai Division
Re-script of Emperor Meiji
0600
Outskirts of Rawa
Second day
Suddenly the valley came alive. With a surging cry members of the recon patrol threw off their coverings and lunged up out of shallow pits where they were laying. So fast were they, and so complete was the surprise that before Alfrey and Iarnkne could do anything the first of the recon patrol were upon them.
Muirgel saw them emerge; huge men with green faces. She shut her eyes then opened them quickly. They were still there. She tried to raise her head. Pain raced through her body, making her shudder and moan uncontrollably. Her eyes squinted as she gritted her teeth. She forced her eyes back open and watched the giant men.
Alfrey, Iarnkne and Muirgel were taken back when the strange men appeared out of nowhere with even stranger sticks pointing at them. No matter how skilled the knights were they were completely outnumbered and surrounded by these odd looking warriors.
"Stand back. My lady is injured" screamed Iarnkne as he instinctively drew his sword.
***
0615
Company HQ
Second day
"Alpha six, this is Recon one, over."
"Recon one, this is Alpha six, read you loud and clear."
"Six, we have picked up several friendlies, one is wounded."
"Recon one, stay where you are and tend to the wounded, we will see you in three."
"Roger that six."
***
0730
Village of Rawa
Second day
Inside, it smelled of wood smoke and fleece, and although cool from the draft, was warmer then Brendan expected without a working fire. The only source of light was the doorway and a small window as they allowed the gray day to pour into the hut. Framed in that watery light, Muirgel huddled across the chamber from the doorway. Furs were pulled tightly around her. The wall she leaned against lacked the whitewash and mud plaster applied to its exterior.
The only sound was the patter of rain on the window's shutter and the hiss and pop of the coals in the brazier's brass pan beneath it. Curled in furs, her splendid red hair tumbling free, she looked innocently beautiful. Even if one had not been bedazzled by magical fairy dust, it would have been hard to believe that she was so young. It would have been hard to imagine her dead. She radiated life; glowing, pure, and exuberant. She was eighteen, handsome with the aloof confidence of a woman who lived out-of-doors. Her arms and face, and the V at her throat where her garment opened, were slightly tanned. She did not freckle in the sun, despite her pale skin and her red hair. The brazier, a flat copper pan lifted on a tripod, gleamed as ruddy as the coals within it.
She turned restlessly in her straw bed. She shoved the blanket away and felt the cool breeze from the rain touch her lightly. She put aside the linen, letting the moving air caress her body. She dreamed of peaceful pursuits. She was restless and breathing heavily from her exertions. Her body was covered with perspiration which had soaked her short garment, causing it to cling to her in the most revealing ways. A strong 'fall' smell emanated from her body.
"If you dress that way, woman you might just as well be wearing nothing at all." Brendan prudishly told himself.
He crouched before the hearthstone and brought out his zippo lighter which performed the miracle of bringing forth life-giving warmth from dead wood. Moments later, knife-edged shadows danced against the hut's walls. Smoke curled its way up to the blackened spot in the thatch. Newborn heat reached out to envelop him.
Brendan froze where he stood. The fire's golden light gleamed against her damp skin and her hair was silhouetted against the fires glow. It didn't detract from her beauty.
Muirgel woke up coughing. Her body was in a cold sweat, in spite of the slight breeze, due to the stuffy air of the tiny thatch hut in which she had been taken. She choked back the sound, as if fearing to wake others. Lying perfectly still, she tried to sort out the terrors of the dream from the terrors of the waking world. Despite the dampness, sweat continued to pour from her body. She was afraid to sleep because her dreams were so terrible. Yet if she did not sleep, the next day would be even worse. She had barely been able to move at the end of yesterday. Would she be able to get up when the pale light of day appeared? The terror of yesterday, the strange looking inhabitants who helped her, her wound from yesterday; horrors everywhere; she rolled over restlessly on the straw bed.
As if she felt someone's attention on her, she opened her eyes. Their gazes met and held. Muirgel loosed a startled breath as something stirred within her. He made sure the front door was ajar because life and health demanded it. Just as the fire needed a draft to breathe, those inside craved the draft to carry the smoke from the interior so they didn't choke.
Brendan thought the woman's recuperative powers were astonishing. She was wounded and battered from the viscous attack; but after a few hours of tender loving care by the Marine medics she appeared to have her energy and enthusiasm back. She and Brendan were alone in the darkened thatched roof house. The brief shower that was beating loudly on the thatched roof had stopped. She was conscious of the smell of the smoldering embers in the fireplace, the smell of the outdoors wafting from Brendan, the fresh smell of the stopped rains, and wet woolen garments. She cowered back against the rough wooden wall, head down feeling that she was naked before this strange invader. He, on the other hand, was grinning at her like a pleased little boy.
"I am glad to see that you are feeling better. We had a close scare and thought we lost you, in which case that would have been a terrible tragedy. Does it hurt?"
"Yes"
"We must care for the wound before it becomes worse than it already is."
"Worse than it already is?"
"Yes, that is, I mean, inflamed, you know, with pus and swelling and fever."
"Oh, yes, I know what you mean. But do you mean to say you know what to do for that? Are you a charmer?"
"No not me, but I have men with me who are called medics and they know how to deal with that."
He approached her to examine the wound. They were close enough that he could smell the scent of flowers from her skin. Her eyes narrowed. Sensing her concern, "If I were a bad guy I would have carried you away on sight. But I am only a Marine company commander trying to figure out what the hell is going on and you are safer with me in this house than if there were a bevy of nuns here."
He thought of opening the shutters on the tiny window to let in the sunlight that was trying to break through the clouds but decided against it. The gloom of the candle flame fit his dark mood more than the implacable August sun.
"I can see you are the leader of theseehstrange men. Are you a King?" Muirgel asked softly.
"I am the leader of these men but I am not a King. Who are you and what is your name?"
"My name is Muirgel, daughter of King Maelsechlainn (Mal-sec-lane) of Meath"
"Meath, as in Ireland?"
"Yes"
"What the hell is going on? What are we doing here? This must be a bad dream."
Just then a woman of the village, knowledgeable in herbs, entered "Now, child, rinse your mouth with this. It will cleanse the cuts and ease the pain. Willow-bark tea," she explained in an aside to Brendan, with a bit of ground orrisroot." Brendan nodded, in agreement recalling from his botany classes that willow bark in fact contained salicylic acid, the active ingredient in aspirin.
"Wouldn't the willow bark increase the chance of bleeding?" Brendan asked. The woman nodded approvingly.
"Aye, it does sometimes. That's why you follow it with a good handful of St. John's wort soaked in vinegar. That stops bleeding, if it's gathered under a full moon and ground up well." Muirgel obediently swilled her mouth with the astringent solution, her eyes watering at the sting of the aromatic vinegar.
The woman then busied herself in preparing for the washing of Muirgel's wound. She laid out a large linen cloth in front of her, placing on it three copper basins filled with water. She proceeded to take two heated stones from the hearth and put each in a basin to warm the water. She then sat on the floor in front of Muirgel.
Coals again glowed in the brazier's pan, but that didn't stop Muirgel's breath from clouding in the air before her, even though Brendan had successfully started a fire. With the wind thrusting icy fingers through the cracks in the shutters, the draft was so bad now that little heat stayed and the stuffiness started to dissipate. Dozens of candles stood around the room. Although their flames fluttered and danced, the light was strong enough to force the shadows into soft piles in the corners.
Muirgel had green eyes, sun bleached red hair; she was indeed very pretty. Brendan felt something stir within him. He had not been with a woman in a long time. Every movement of her subtle body was an invitation. Brendan felt a thump, a flutter in his chest. It was as if the heart was turning over. He put his hand there and passed one small breathless moment.
Outside the sun was beginning to beat against the wooden roof of the hut. The turf of Tara would be wet and muddy once again.
***
It would take the better part of two days for the word to spread and people to emerge from hiding and for the Marines to organize the villagers, to distribute food and give medical treatment to those that were still alive. Seeing the medics attend the wounded, feeling flesh and bone beneath their fingers, taking pulses, inspecting tongues and eyeballs, all the familiar routine, had done much to settle the feeling of hollow panic that had been with the Marines since the strange mist engulfed them. However strange their circumstances, and however out of place they might be, it was somehow very comforting to realize that there were truly other people; warm-fleshed and hairy, with hearts that could be felt beating and lungs that breathed audibly. Bad smelling, louse- ridden, and filthy, some of them, but that was nothing new to the medics. It would be a tense two days. No one could forget the ferocity of the Genti attack. The memory was too vivid, the graves too fresh, for anyone to feel secure. O'Hare had his men continue to patrol the perimeters of the village until the time came to leave.
The sun climbed to the noon and then rode slowly down the sky. The road past the main gate to the village led up and over a small hill. Light clouds came up out of the sea in the distant south and were blown away upon the breeze. The sun sank. Shadows rose behind and reached out long arms from the east.
***
0540
Village of Rawa
Third day
By dawn on the third day, all was ready. They gathered, as the mist was rising, at the burial ground of the old settlement. The few remaining women wrung their hands and wept inconsolably, knowing they would be leaving this hell-hole and the loved ones they left behind.
Up and about, Muirgel was feeling stronger.
"Does Muirgel believe in fairy lands and fairy princesses?" asked Brendan.
"Maybe" she then proceeded to describe to him all the wonderful mystical things that go on in her land. All the while her feelings stirred.
She spoke to Brendan about leprechauns and legends, wonderful tales about the banshees being tricked or bribed to go away, and then, when she'd been older, true tales of the fight for freedom against the Vikings. She was keen and wise and had seen the battlefield of her Country torn to sheds, yet had somehow maintained a love for all humanity around her.
***
Iarnkne's lieutenant, Alfrey, offered his hand to some of the people, speaking in Gaelic their native tongue. Perhaps it was what Alfrey said, or perhaps it was that recognition. Whatever it was, the women accepted the soldier's hand, letting him pull them to their feet.
The dead had been buried, and the sally ports and main gates of Rawa had been sealed. Iarnkne and his beloved Muirgel, along with Brendan's men, moved northwest, toward Meath.
Chapter Six
Lost Contact
Corpses drifting swollen in the sea depths
Corpses rotting in the mountain grass-
We shall die, we shall die for our Emperor.
We shall never look back.
- Ancient battle oath, Umi Ukaba
Regimental HQ
Rain Forest
Northeastern Columbia
"Alpha six this is Papa Bear do you read?" The exasperated regimental RTO turned to his Commander.
"No answer sir; but I did hear what sounded like gunfire before in the background." The colonel paced back and forth before looking at the map again.
"Have we sent up any micro-mechanical drones to find out what is going on?"
"Yes sir, we have but to no avail. There seems to be a dense strange mist over the area in question."
"They may have run into an ambush themselves. Get me Delta Company. I'm going to commit my reserve."
Colonel Hull was an imposing man. He was big and broad-shouldered, with light brown hair and fierce blue eyes set in a fighting face. He was a man of quiet confidence who gave the impression of great strength, both moral and physical. He was one of those men from class and wealth who chose the military as his calling. To such officers the civilian world, the outside, was a repugnant place filled with cunning, brash, pushy, ruthless, selfish and ambitious men, while the military, "the inside," was an eminently satisfying sanctuary in which one encountered other high-principled men embodied with the same qualities of modesty, manners, morality, chivalry, courage and a sense of duty.
***
Isolated
"What am I doing here?" Brendan asked himself for the hundredth time. "Here in this strange place, unreachable
from everything familiar, from home and friends, adrift and alone among what amounted to savages?" After the initial shock wore off, he had begun to feel strangely secure and even intermittently comfortable during the last twenty four hours; but now he realized that the comfort was likely an illusion, even if the security was not. Brendan, like his father, was a history buff and vaguely remembered a major battle in Irish history that concerned the Vikings and the Irish in and around the year 800 and something. Brendan himself was concerned about the fact that if he indeed was in the year 800 plus where was his regimental commander? " What would he do when he failed to locate one of his infantry companies? Would Brendan ever see him again?"
The feeling of "isolation" spread among the Marines. There seemed no way out, around or through. This was like a bad toothache, which can never be understood but only felt. It was a long shuddering sigh of weariness with which men rehearsed in their minds what had gone before, wondering dully, not that it had been sustained, but in what hideous shape it would reappear. It was a sense of utter loneliness made poignant by their longing for some sign of help from their regiment, which did not seem to be forthcoming. It seemed to these men that some supernatural being set them down in another time zone in the midst of an enemy they did not know and left them there to go it alone. They could not understand, had no wish to understand, why this was happening. They reasoned only as they fought that they were alone.
So they turned in upon themselves. They developed that vacant, thousand yard stare-lusterless unblinking eyes gazing out of sunken red-rimmed sockets. They drew in upon themselves for strength. It was them against the world; and it was up to Brendan and his leadership to keep them from becoming unglued.
Chapter Seven
Encounter
Conquest, Famine, War, Death,
- The four Horsemen of the Apocalypse
0950
Third day
Murphy's three rifle platoons pivoted to the north, while Nichols' weapons platoon advanced northeastward along the east bank of the Irish Sea behind and slightly to the rear of third platoon. The unit on the far right, third platoon, led by Lieutenant McMillan, encountered the first sizable resistance northwest of the village of Rawa; the village that had been torched by these strange men. The Genti or Viking force reacted to the encounter with the 'customary head-long assault' much like a World War II Japanese 'Banzai' charge; which was cut down by the Marines.
Moving quickly to encircle the new threat, the company commander, leading forward elements of his second platoon, came upon a clearing filled with several bearded dirty men screaming and attacking a young girl. They had pinned her to the ground; her gray dress ripped open. She struggled as they pressed her to the ground and tried to pull up her shirts. They slapped her hard across her face, ordering her to be still. Their filthy fingers were digging into her thighs wrenching them apart. They were bending over her, fondling and tormenting her. These berserk Vikings, northern devils, had burst from their dragon-ships into the mists of the ancient Irish coast, to kill and plunder and burn. These were men who would kill with the last ounce of their strength. Who would use that last strength to rape and sow their violent seed in the bellies of the conquered. They had ignored all rules of engagement in their frenzy and turned their attention to raping. Brendan charged blindly into the body of men his M-16 on fully automatic. They went down like wheat. As he reached the hysterical female more filthy screaming creatures, from an era-gone-by, came at him. His rifle jammed but the attacking madmen were cut down by the withering fire from men of his trailing second platoon.
Brendan knelt beside her, pulling her out from under the corpses. She was shaking with nerves and shock, and she clung to her unknown savior without speaking for minutes. Her eyes were blue and perfectly set. They were so angry. Her thin nose was slightly upturned, and her long thin neck was elegantly chiseled. Still without speaking he picked her up; in the din of battle, remaining still he looked around, and carried her away. He didn't seem to notice her weight. They said little to one another, conserving their energy for the task of slogging through the enveloping wetness. She, on the other hand, sobbing slightly, as her fingers splayed across the edge of his armored vest jacket, thought that although this strange man appeared slim, he was built like a rock; a lean machine, of pure, supple muscle. He turned to avoid a dead horse, still not seeming to notice that he was carrying her. The crown of her head barely touching his cheekbone she looked up into his face. Ignoring her movements, he carried her to an improvised aid station where his dead and wounded were now gathered. He gently put her down on the ground beside a thatched roof house, one of the few still standing on the outskirts of Rawa, for his medics to look after her. She tried to move and couldn't. She ached in every joint and muscle. She felt a chilly isolation, as though the autumn wind blew through her bones. Her head throbbed as he she'd been hammered with hardwood mallets. A small sound escaped her, while her head was bowed, but her shoulders were set in a harsh line and her profile could have been chiseled from granite.
Her clothes had been ripped and torn; loosened by the struggle with the rapists. Tantalizing wisps of golden blonde hair now escaped her plait. They clung to the curve of her cheeks and trailed in seductive promise along the slender length of her neck. She was beautiful, medium height, with blonde hair a far softer shade then deep gold. She had blue eyes and a face of sheer light and beauty. Her ears, nose, and mouth had been created with a stunning sense of proportion. As she lay on the ground she felt Brendan's presence so close to her. Tall, straight, striking in his camouflaged fatigues, face somewhat taut, eyes enigmatic as he trained them out into the distance on the scenery they just traversed. She saw his hand as it lay on the strange weapon he held. He had powerful hands. She was tempted, at first, to reach out and touch it. She bit her lip. His shoulders appeared broad in the strange clothing he was wearing. He had an exceptional build, lean, wiry, not an ounce of fat on his frame. He possessed a very strong jaw-line and striking features. Her shoulders trembled; she was tiring rapidly as a Marine medic drew a heavy black mantle around her pale gray dress. She had no more strength than rainwater in a barrel. He lowered his lips to her concealed ear trying to whisper something to her. She drew back another shuddering breath. There was nothing of revulsion in the sound, only deep stirring. She was near collapse, when she finally touched Brendan's hand, and Brendan felt his face getting warm in a way that had nothing to do with the heat from the fires and adrenalin pumping through him from the battle. He would try to tell her that he was glad she was all right, but before he could say anything, she was asleep.
Brendan never needed any stimulant; life intoxicated him. He drank deep of it and had a gusto for it all- the simple things of life and the beauty of women and the gallantry of men, the rich splendor of the seasons in New England, the crash and excitement of battle, and the bright face of danger. It followed that he exacted a very high quality of obedience; and men loved him, or hated him, or envied him, and no doubt some feared him: but they were never indifferent.
***
1120
Third day
"Better, ma'am?" The corpsman pushed back the curtain of her hair to peer at her face. "You look like you have seen a ghost. Here have a little bit of water."
She shook her head at the proffered canteen full of water and sat up, wiping the damp rag he had brought across her face.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes I'm okay but who are you and where did you come from?"
"We are United States Marines ma'am; and we are suppose to be in Columbia; but we doubt that after today. What is your name?"
"Moira" replied the young woman softly. "You wear strange clothes and carry around funny looking sticks that spit fire."
"I could say the same about you but these are battle fatigues and we are from the year 2005."
"You must be mistaken, this is the year 837 and this is Ireland."
"Yes we know that now but believe me we do not understand why we are where we are."
"What is your name?"
"Jesse Fontenot ma'am" he realized that if he gave his rank and told her he was a Navy corpsman assigned to the Marines she wouldn't have a clue as to what he was talking about so he just dropped that part of the conversation for now.
Their conversation was cut short as the tall rangy captain came back to check on her.
"I have to leave and attend to more serious cases now; but I will come back and check on you again." The corpsman got up and excused himself to the captain.
"Her name is Moira skipper;" as he left.
"Well Moira I see that you are feeling a little better."
Her face was very fair, and her long hair was like a river of gold. Slender and tall she was in tattered gray clothes; but strong she seemed and stern as steel. Thus Brendan for the first time in the full light of day beheld Moira, and thought her fair, fair and cold, like a morning spring that has not yet come to womanhood. And she was suddenly aware of him.
As the initial shock wore off small talk mellowed into the glow of companionship. They continued to talk about the country-side through which the Marines were passing, at first. Then, cautiously, about Brendan, and where he had come from; she was fascinated by Brendan's descriptions of modern life, though he could tell that most of his stories seemed like fairy tales to her. She loved especially the descriptions of automobiles, tanks and airplanes, and made him describe them over and over, as minutely as he could. She believed he came from the land of the fairies.
***
When she was well enough to walk, Brendan escorted Moira to Iarnkne's party. When Muirgel first saw them together, she reacted strangely; almost like a jilted lover. Later, when Muirgel realized that whatever the initial bond between Moira and Brendan might be, it was not the sort that made them potential lovers. Brendan treated Moira with great respect. The girl was obviously more than a woman than Brendan was willing to see.
***
Road to Meath
At what was latter dubbed the 'battle of the Borne valley', Murphy's Marines had received a shocking introduction to a warrior with strange garb. He was a tough and fanatical foe who often displayed a total disregard for his safety in battle. When defeat seemed certain and escape impossible, he invariably fought to the end, preferring death to surrender.
***
1545
Third day
The Marines rested, some settling on logs while others sat on the ground, and they read and reread old letters from home, then committed them to memory for they had begun to fall apart. They thought of writing letters themselves, but the paper was sodden, their pencils had swelled and burst, the ball point pens had become clogged and their points had separated. They pried apart their pocketknife blades which had rusted together and scrapped the mole off their clothing and off their rifles and slung their rifles upside down under their ponchos, while debating whether or not to keep a ruined wrist-watch or heave it into the marsh. They removed their precious cigarettes from beneath their helmets and lit them with matches kept dry inside a contraceptive and smoked them with cupped hands. They badgered their NCOs for dry socks or a cartridge belt to replace those now decomposing. They ate hot chow of which the rain made a cold wet slop and they were very grateful for the coffee kept hot in covered GI cans; sometimes so hot that it heated the lips of the drinkers. They went through the motions of pretending this was a bad dream; because if they didn't they would lose their minds.
"You gonna eat your bread?"
Golightly looked up at O'Hare's inquiring face. "Man, I'm sure glad I ain't your mama and gotta feed your big ass. Here." He tossed the slice of bread at the grinning face across from him.
"Thanks, Golightly, but you gotta watch your language. It's getting real bad."
Golightly rolled his eyes back. "Sure, Corporal, I'll work on it for you."
The squad broke up in laughter.
Some birds were active in the bush behind them, a siskin, they supposed or a thrush. They listened to their dilatory rustlings, watched the small fluffy clouds float by, and pondered the etiquette of the situation. They came into a country entirely different and strange to them, where the damp heat of the lowlands sapped their vitality, and the narrow roads, deep with sand-like dirt, muddy along the streams, and winding between forest walls that cut off light and air, were heavy under their feet. They were in a time warp. That said, the next morning they cleaned their rifles, made certain that grenade pins were not rusted tight, checked for extra ammo, and then they got ready to do what they have done so well for so long FIGHT.
***
Anxious to reach Castle Meath before being intercepted by Tuirgeis and his men, Iarnkne, accompanied by several of his new found friends called Marines, kept to a fast pace and a grueling schedule. Allowing the main body of Marines on foot to lag behind they made much better time, despite bad roads. Iarnkne along with Brendan pushed them, though, stopping only for the briefest period of rest. In Brendan's eyes, Muirgel needed to get to a place of rest, where the Marine medics could further work on her.
***
1840
Third day
Within a few hours the lights of Castle Meath shone through the darkness to welcome them. Muirgel had never thought she would consider the bleak edifice an outpost of advanced civilization, but just now the lights seemed
to be those of a beacon of enlightenment.
