men, one by one, after him. Ali, himself, took up the rear.
The sergeant stumbled down the trench without really seeing it. He almost, but not quite, sensed a series of shadows leaping over it, above him. One or two of the shadows dropped something in the trench at the sergeant's feet. Grenades.
With the explosions ahead the Sumeri troops scampered back to their bunker. Ali ran back to his own.
VIII.
There was little firing and most of that seemed to be friendly to the signifer in charge of Second Century, Second Cohort. Indeed, the war pipes scattered across the face of the hill were louder than the firing. Even so, there was no sense in taking chances. The officer gave the signal to begin the clearing of the trenches. The century got down and began a wholly unnecessary fire at the top of the trench ahead of them. In the center of the century the signifer and half of one section crawled up to within a few meters of the trench. A half dozen grenades made sure there were no living Sumeris waiting for them. Then they slithered on their bellies over the lip and down. The signifer landed across the inert legs of Sergeant Robles.
It took the officer a few moment to realize that he had landed on a body. A brief moment of horror followed as he noticed the small modified Balboan flag-red, white and blue with a gold-embroidered eagle-sewn to the corpse's sleeve. 'Shit, we killed them.'
'No, sir,' answered a corporal. He fingered the rope twisted around and cutting into Robles' neck. 'The fuckers murdered them.'
The signifer took stock of the scene. There were five bodies, it seemed, all partially covered with dirt thrown up by the shelling. He and the corporal brushed away at the dirt until they could see that each man showed obvious signs of having been garroted.
The other men of the century, waiting at the ready, grew impatient when his signifer didn't signal the rest of the century forward. Then the man's head popped over the side of the trench, signaling the rest to come into the trench as rehearsed. When the first man in dropped down to the trench floor, the signifer stopped him.
'See that, Sergeant?'
The sergeant looked for a moment in the dim light, before exclaiming, 'Jesus!'
'That's right. It's our lost recon team. The cocksucking Sumeris strangled them. So pass the word to your men. No prisoners.'
Forward Trench, Stollen Number Three,
0816 hours, 13/2/461 AC
Carrera did three things when he heard that Parilla had been hit. First, he radioed to make sure one of the Crickets configured for medical evacuation, or 'Dustoff,' was en route. Second, he called for an Ocelot to pick him up and take him up the hill as far as it could go. Lastly, he cursed up a storm that his friend and comrade had been hit.
He needn't have worried about the dustoff. The legion's medical century already had a conveyor belt operation ongoing, whereby the Crickets landed near the bridge over the river. From that point, they were physically turned around into the wind and flew the most severe of the casualties directly to the Aid Station. From there the hurt men could be triaged and evacuated further south to the 731st Airborne's more completely equipped facilities. Less badly hit men were evacuated by ground; the bridge was safe for transit now. There had been relatively few casualties, in any case, so the evacuation capabilities being exercised were more than actually needed.
The Ocelot arrived and picked up Carrera, Soult and one radio. It then sped past the dustoff point, to the bridge, crossed that and cut sharply to parallel the base of Hill 1647. Then began a tortuous climb, zigging and zagging up the uneven slope through the breaches in wire and mines. About a third of the way up Carrera spotted four men carrying a stretcher. A fifth, wearing a medical armband and holding a transparent plastic bag overhead, walked beside. Carrera directed the track commander for the Ocelot over.
It was Parilla, alive but barely conscious. Carrera jumped down from the track and ran to stand beside his friend and nominal commander.
Carrera took one look and shouted, 'Jamey, call the CP. I want a dustoff bird there '-he pointed at a spot a few hundred meters down the slope-'now. If I don't get it, people will die… and I don't mean just the wounded.'
The medic spoke up, 'I shot him up with morphiate, Legate. We've stopped the bleeding, but he lost a lot of blood before we could.' The medic's glance went significantly to the plastic bag and down the tube that led from it to a vein in Parilla's neck. 'One lung's collapsed but I sealed it off… the entrance wound I mean. I think he'll make it but we have to get him to a surgeon quick.'
'Five minutes, Boss,' Soult shouted over the rumble of the idling Ocelot's engine.
Parilla stirred. 'Sorry… I got… hit… Patricio.'
'Never mind that, Raul. A good commander leads from in front. You're good, friend.'
'Thanks… compadre. You need to… get up top, now… I think.'
'You take good care of him, Doc. We need him back on his feet, soonest.'
Then, patting Parilla's shoulder very gently, Carrera climbed aboard the track and directed it upward. As the track reached the top of the trail it slowed down to allow the passengers to jump off. Carrera looked up after landing and saw a Balboan machine gunner blasting away at an improvised white flag sticking out of a bunker. A flame-thrower team moved to a vantage point facing the bunker. A tongue of flame licked out, pouring fire into the entrance. Inside, men screamed like small children, burning alive.
Furious, Carrera stormed over to where a Balboan signifer crouched. 'What the hell is the meaning of this?'
The junior said nothing, but pointed down into the trench behind him. Carrera and Soult gazed down at the bodies of Robles and his men.
Carrera remembered something Sitnikov had once spoken of, back in Balboa. Pashtia started like that, the Volgan had said. We didn't go in there trying to kill everything that lived. Hell, we went in as liberators. But one day two young troops from my battalion came up missing after a patrol. We found them, days later, about a kilometer from our base camp. Their hands were bound, eyes gouged out. They'd been castrated and had their throats cut. Not knowing the guilty parties, higher headquarters wouldn't permit retaliation. Can't say I blame them. But the troops retaliated on their own, anyway. I can't blame them, either. Then the Pashtun hit back, raiding a hospital and slaughtering the wounded. Soon enough, atrocity became established policy on both sides.
Carrera pondered for all of five seconds before telling Soult, 'Give me the radio.' Then he made a call to the entire command net.
'This is Legate Carrera. Duce Parilla has been wounded but is expected to live. I am in command. On Hill 1647 we have found that the enemy has murdered five of our men. I am, therefore, and in accordance with the laws of war, ordering that no prisoners will be taken on Hill 1647. All are to be killed in a legitimate reprisal.
'Let me be clear about this. The normal rules of war remain in effect everywhere but Hill 1647. Enemy who clearly indicate they wish to surrender elsewhere will be taken prisoner and will be well treated. This reprisal only affects the enemy on Hill 1647. All parties, acknowledge.'
Ali al Tikriti's Bunker, Hill 1647, 0849 hours, 13/2/461 AC
Ali clearly heard the screams leaking in from men hiding all around him. He heard some of them begging for their lives as they were shot down on the spot. He looked around frantically for something white to wave. Finding nothing, he stripped off his uniform trousers and removed his underpants. He hardly noticed that the white briefs were stained where he had shat himself. He took the briefs and tied them to his riding crop. Then he dragged the boy, still hiding under the bed, out and forced the crop into his hands.
'Wave this,' Ali said, as he pushed the poor child out of the bunker. The boy flew back, bloody and ruined, when an enemy machine gun opened up on him. Aghast, Ali retreated back into his bunker, whimpering.
A small dark object flew in. Ali ducked behind his field desk, which he frantically turned over for cover from the expected blast. The explosion, when it came, burst both the Sumeri's eardrums.
Maybe they'll think everyone in here is dead now. Maybe…
Ali's thoughts were cut short as a stream of liquid fire bounced off one wall by the bunker's dog-legged
