Do Killers Dream of Dead Sheep?

A Military Science Fiction Flick

By Cornelius Hamilton.

Military Science Fiction — Fiction — Drama — Action — Fiction — Science Fiction

Do Soldiers Dream of Dead Sheep?

The morning began with an early mist. It fell heavily over the grass, over the plains teeming with wildlife, over the farmers’ markets, where mothers had awoken early to get their fair share of produce and goods before it ran out. A time where children awoken to switch the television on, where fathers relaxed on front porches enjoying finely-crafted, satiric rhetoric upon a Sunday newspaper. Where milkmen still worked and took their full bottles to homes, and took the empty bottles to be cleaned and refilled. A day where families planned to head off to watch films, or just headed into the sprawling plains to have a nice little picnic with the trees and rolling hills in the distance. A laugh or two. A hug or two.

The mist continued falling, and without notice, they fell to cover it all, and it didn’t matter whether it was truly there or not–the families, the town, the animals, the meadows. As for the-men-at arms, who looked over their holes lined with timber and steel, it was all they could imagine, all they could fantasy.

They hoped it was there; but they knew it wasn’t. That morning was a morning that owed its shades to a grey sky and trickles of a cold, light but seemingly very slow, rain. It fell with a certain majestic and peaceful properties amidst an eerily beauty. As the men took up their arms and readied themselves upon the parapets of the firing line, they tried to think of what it could have been, of what it should have been. Yet it was not there, and they knew it.

Before them, lay an open field, riddled with craters and holes, of abandoned defences and barbed wire, of the scent that emerged from the decomposing bodies of the dead, who had done so in a thousand ways or more; through artillery shell, a machinegun, rifle shot, grenade-blast, mines.

But when they looked up, the rain and the mist and the cool morning breeze continued, however nonchalantly, as it had for a million years prior. The War, their arrival, their departures, their deaths, they all meant nothing to the rolling wheels of fortune that dictated the never-ending cycle that was nature.

The men, as they waited for the whistle held by members of the officery, began to think, something they shouldn’t have done. They started thinking: why was this all happening? Why am I here, millions of kilometres away from friends and family, just to die in this wretched hole of human waste and guts? Why am I here, carrying arms? To kill a fellow man? Or fellow men, were they not?

They liked to assume so. They had to assume so; by law and tradition, they were under orders to assume so.

An officer, in a peaked cap and a beard, in a brigantine vest of permasteel plates, passed behind them. His boots and his body and his coat and his armour weighed heavily over the wooden floor, which was wet, and muddy. Within one hand, he carried a pistol, of the heavy kind; one that could split a man’s guts open, and could kill one with absolute ease. He held it with a grace and style only officers could, despite the filth, despite the dirt upon his warming, knee-length felt coat. He stood with apparent ease and an air of confidence despite the time he spent within the wretched confines of combat trenches.

At least, they would leave now; it was do or die. Into the enemy’s stronghold, or into the hands of the universe, where they would return to the matter they had been born from. lightyears away from their home, the 97th Thesalonian Rifles stood firm for the small arms of the captain’s timepiece to tick 0600 hours.

It moved slowly, as the captain looked at it, then off, then back at it again. A good amount of minutes. Several minutes. Several seconds. A couple of seconds, to the time when the markets would open, the time when the birds would sing, the time when the morning cartoons would appear, the time when the paper would be thrown over to the front porch, so the father could read and giggle at the silly articles. The time that, in a time of peace, would open a new, wonderful Sunday.

Today, when it came, in the form of a small tick upon the captain’s wristwatch, in which he would pull out his whistle, upon which would ring sharply into the ears of his men, his fine, fine men, so brave and young, of whom would clench their teeth and their souls, and tighten the grip on their rifles, and put their feet onto the ladders, and head up, into a Land Owned by None. And to the universe they owed their souls, they prayed and hoped, to hang tight onto what they had left, onto their lives, onto their memories that constituted them. Mars. Fortuna. Iupiter. Gods be with me.

Then, it came. A sharp, whirling sound from above; like a whistle, but not one within the captain’s property. Then it fell, not so far beyond them, perhaps into the enemy’s sphere, into the enemy’s lines, where they too were preparing the same like these very men, just in different uniforms, carrying different rifles, corresponding to different officers, who corresponded to a different flag, that corresponded to a different order of law and ideals. Laws and ideals that could be tested and proven in so many ways but not as truthfully as they would have to today: through the naked truth of conflict.

The shells landed in a far distance, cracking the drums of their ears, and the machineguns began firing; bolts of hot, burning tracers were released, rapidly, and discharged to a random point through the enemy line.

Tall and brave in their heavyset armour, emerged from the lines and up to the surface, carrying with them guns that could destroy whole structures, burn down buildings, and decimate sentient beings into vapour. Rose, they did, and as the men looked at them in both trust and disbelief, they ran forward, their weapons firing blazing, as roaring tides of burning fire and shocking thunder came at them. They did not mind. Their commander, one that too had a face behind all that armour, behind all those servomotors, encased under a helmet lined by horsehair, pulled out his energy sword, and headed forward; “Death or dishonour! Death or dishonour!” a mechanical voice was the representation of his vocal chords under a filter and a mask of steel.

“Rapax! Rapax! Up! Forward!”

With each step they took, the ground seemed to shake; not with the weight of their armour, but with the weight of their inhumane determination to kill.

It was time, the captain thought, and from the far end of the line, among the whistles, the bustle, the chaos of the morning–just like it was in a morning market that should have been–a loud, tearing sound. A whistle rang.

He put his upon his mouth. A long, tough, blow; it howled and stroke into the ears of his men. They clenched their teeth, their rifles, and their souls.

“Up and over, lads! Up and over!” a sergeant yelled. And they hurried, with both arms they held their weapons, and yelled, and ran, catching after the line of the legionaries of steel, some moving from cover to cover, amidst the craters, the barbed wire, the wooden defences erected perhaps years ago. A mass of bodies poured out of the trenches, one of many across the hundreds of miles of the Front, and all of them headed one way. That way, that way, one man yelled.

The captain spit onto the ground, and yelled encouragements; up lads, up; give them bastards your best; until it was, eventually, his turn. He went up the ladder, and followed suit, pistol in hand.

He could see that it was a magnanimous sight. It should have been; a meadow filled with flowers and rolling hills over in the distance, with blue skies and shimmering sunlight. Now the flowers had turned to ash, and the sunlight had turned dim, and the mist had set in, and he walked into no man’s land with a nonchalance displayed well; an officer was supposed to display no feelings; the commission pinned on his shoulders was a reflection of a position detached from his humanity. He had to, so his men would believe him — a semblance of order amidst the beautiful chaos of war.

And order had the face of a stone and a thousand books of law.

He went forward, his pistol in one hand, heading after his men, going from one crater to the next, the mud thick upon his coated elbows. He went on his feet again, chasing after his men, who started to disappear in the deep mist. Flashes of fire–coming from muzzles of bolt-discharging guns–lit up at the far side; the enemy tried to tear through the mist. Guns opened up, and bolts, whether from weapon or wizardry, were discharged. The loud, discharging sound of energy bolts, the smell of burning air it caused when it passed, the damp scent of mud and the cursing dead.

Shells whistled, far above his head, and onto the group of men he led. It landed; two men were caught with one shell, they were blown away, maimed.

“Go on! Go on!” he yelled. So, his men did. Amidst the falling shells all around them. Amidst the tracers that went his way. He ran, and slid into another crater, where a machinegun nest had been set, and was firing back. There were five other men.

“Come on, lads! We need to take that trench!” The captain yelled; he pulled a man’s collar and put him to his feet. Just not a moment later, the head above the collar he held shattered; turning from bone to a mist of blood and guts. A bolt struck him, disintegrating upon his bone and flesh. He fell like a sack of grain.

“You!” he took another man up. “Move! Move!” He pushed him up the crater, and the rest followed, dodging bolts here and there, dishing and dashing about. Before they disappeared into the mist, he could see one falling to the ground; struck by a bolt.

Near him, a machinegun discharged bolt after bolt for supressive fire. Turning to them, he saw their ferocious stand: overcoming all fear, their teeth were clennched together, one carried the ammunition, the other fired the weapon, laying fire within a tight arc to cover the advance. They had to move closer. They had moved every couple minutes, and with every re-emplacement, closer, and closer, and finally into the enemy trenches.

“Keep up the good work. Cover us!”

“Queen and country, captain!” he yelled, albeit in a rather nonchalant, even sarcastic tone.

The captain smiled at the notion. “I’ll be moving up. See you on the other side, lads! Godspeed, son!”

“Aye, sir!” they answered, and amongst the rarities that came upon the battlefield, a smile was one. They uttered that.

He raised to his feet, and plotted his ran to the next crater, where a section of riflemen were taking cover. He picked himself up, through the mud, through the light rain, which was growing heavier by the second. He felt his forelegs sticky, wet, and progressively heavier with mud. Then there was a whistle, arcing over his head; and a red, hot, explosion from behind him, pushing him off his feet and throwing him onto the ground. He looked back; the fire from the two machinegunners were no longer there.

No! he felt he had yelled; he ran back, and the two gunners were there all in but name. Names he could barely remember; they were probably replacement troops who had just came in two weeks ago. Two weeks ago. It was the first fight his company had seen in the last two weeks; for them, it was their first action, and they were gone. He tried to scrape for their tags. A leg was there, in mud and blood. Their blood and their ruined figures were everywhere. He found a detached torso and two arms, and even up to his death, his rifle still laid firmly in his hands. He held what used to be a shoulder, and pulled away his metal tags.

“Captain…” he heard a man say. “Captain Axelson,” it was faint and tired. He looked around him. “I’m here.”

He still had his arms, although his face was covered with a confusion of dirt and his own blood. Axelson looked down; what was left of it was a mix of cloth and flesh fused that dragged in meaty strands — bone, skin, blood, had been completely shattered and loss. He wiped the man’s face clear with his gloved palm. He remembered his face. It was Rifleman Pearson, one of the new fellows part of the new shipment.

“Pearson. Thank God you’re still alive.” He said.

“Sir, am I still… good, sir? I… can’t feel my legs.”

“You’re alright, lad. You’ll get home. You’ll get home, alright.”

“Where’s Toby, sir?”

“He’s alright. He’s alright.” Said he. “Listen, son. I’ll put a strobe on you, and some people are going to come for you, alright. Don’t worry. Don’t worry.”

“Alright, sir, alright sir.”

“I’ll be tying you down for a moment, alright?” Axelson took his first aid kit and pulled out a tourniquet. He tied it each down to his thighs, to slow the bleeding; his legs below the knees were completely severed. Pearson was too numb and in shock to feel anything. The captain took something from one of his other pouches; he pressed a button on it and handed it over to him.

“Hold this tight, alright, Pearson?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s an order. And stay awake. You’re going home.”

Confused, confused, bloodied, he replied. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Axelson said. He gave him a good, hard, brotherly pat, and a nod. Axelson then picked himself up and went forward again.

Walking past the dead bodies–new or old mattered not; they have been fighting here for a year, all bodies going through the grinder. Mindless. Mindless killing. Passing wounded men who were under treatment, he encountered a man, weaponless. He had left it on the ground next to him. He was on his bottom, sitting, his hands atop of his helmet. He went on one knee and looked at him. He was crying, and he was yelling, although his yells were dimmed out of the voice of rifle-shot and cannons.

The steel-cladder legionaries were not far ahead. They were shuffling closer, slowly, into enemy lines, taking shot, spell, and blast.

The soldier looked into the sky, and screamed. A silent scream. A silent, silent scream, amongst the mud, amongst the zapping bolts, the artillery shells; amongst the dead, amongst the bodies, amongst the weapons of killing. Axelson went forward, linking up with the rest of his men, who had piled up upon puddles, laying down fire, as the steel-clad soldiers advanced, deflecting rounds, laying down hell.

He slid into a puddle; the cold, chilly brown water digging into his trousers and the slits in his trenchcoat. He asked one of his lieutenants, who was present within the puddles, who brought with him also a communications operator. They explained the situation to him.

“Then get a strike into that goddamned hole.” Said the captain.

“We’re calling it in, sir. It’ll come any moment now.”

It did. The aircraft, loud and fast, zoomed past not far above them; jettisoning two objects, that exploded in an expressed time of five seconds. Fire rose from the ground, up into the sky as the craft flew with speed and away from the battle. The pilots did not want to see what they had caused, but they knew it was something for the better. Tongues of flaming inferno filled the tight corridors of the trenches, and those inside tried to hide, but it was no good. Soldiers ran out of the trench, some up into no man’s land, in the line of fire of the Thesalonians. They opened up, with pleasure; though some did out of pity. Nobody wanted to die that kind of death; burned, the fire creeping slowly into your guts, blacking your skin and tearing your senses apart.

As the napalm and the fire calmed down, Captain Axelson readied himself for one, last charge. He readied his pistol, and, reaching into one of his other holsters, he pulled out a hilt. With a button and a swing, a tight, well-crafted sheet of metal appeared from it, and on its edges, projected itself a burning light of red, which formed the sharp edge of the blade.

As it grew silent and calmer, the captain went on one foot, and yelled: “Into the breach, lads! Thesalon!”

“Thesalon!” They roared, they ran; with steel-tipped bayonets, the officers with their heated sabres, they charged into one faithful frenzy of hate, anger, and fury. Into the breach they went, into the trenches. They maimed, they killed, they slaughtered anyone in their path; only those who dropped their arms were spared, though not even all of them.

***

By eight that morning, what had been an enemy strongpoint within the gap that enveloped the Imperial Division were now only filled with lifeless heaps of flesh and bone; some even lacking it. Many were burned and charred, some laid around with holes through their chests.

Axelson stood upon a chair, his sword in one hand, his face bloodied by blood that weren’t his. He took out a pack of cigarettes, and lit one up. Still tied to his arms, the tags of the soldier, Toby.

He sucked the cigarette, and put his back to the wall. He looked up into the sky. A squadron of birds flew past. Calm, ignorant. Nonchalant. As the sky grew from a dead grey to an expressive blue, as the shooting stopped for a while, he closed his eyes. Peace and calm are things relative to the mind and soul, thought he, next to him the body of a dead man, in his hands the personal effects of a dead man, and upon his dirtied clothes, the blood of dead men.

Before anything he noticed a man appearing in his peripheral vision. The steps were muffled by the wet ground. “Captain Axelson?”

He looked away from the sky, away from his thoughts. It was a young woman, in damnably clean clothes, in terrible contrast to his, which were drenched in a terrible mix of mud, sweat, rainwater, and blood. “You are speaking to him. You are…?”

“Lieutenant Helbig, sir.”

“And what does the lieutenant need of me?”

“Colonel Rochefort would like to see you, sir.”

Axelson threw away his cigarette, only to burn a new one. “Most certainly.” He put on his cap and rose to his feet.

“If you would follow me.” Said the young lieutenant. She turned around; Axelson followed.

***