SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

Captain Mulgrave’s tank was the first to break ground through to the clearing ahead of his troop. The M48 main battle tank powered across the creek line and halted ahead of the carnage before it, tracks ploughing into the soft earth, turret traversing left and right as Mulgrave scanned the area. Each MBT fell into position beside their troop leader, Cadillac Gage engines growling like the hunter killers they were, ready to strike. But at what?

Mulgrave’s heart still pounded in his chest as he stared through the gun sight at Panther Troop’s armoured personnel carriers scattered motionless across the clearing, the multitude of bodies strewn everywhere. His last radio contact with the remaining APC was thirty minutes ago, and as he listened to the ensuing battle it slowly became evident that the lone troopers had little to no chance after defending their vehicle to the last. The MBTs spared nothing to get to the rendezvous point, charging line-ahead like the modern cavalry they were towards the besieged Panther Troop. However, after the turmoil of battle, the last transmission became abruptly calm, as if the crew were suddenly resolved to their fate.

“We’re done for, Captain,” came Trooper Jenkins voice. “That’s the last of the ammo and now they’re all over us… forcing the hatches…” There was a spasm of static before the transmission was cut, but not before a curious final statement. “What the fuck,” said Jenkins. “Out there… Who is that…?” Then nothing but dead air hissing in Mulgrave’s headsets.

The jungle surrounding the clearing was eerily quiet and still when they arrived, as if pausing for breath. Mulgrave continued staring through his gun sight, everything clear beneath the bright hunter’s moon.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered to himself. Reaching up, he unlatched the combat lock of his turret hatch and opened up, standing in the hatch ring, witness to the carnage. The moonlight glistened off the tarnished surface of the mummified soldier’s armour, their bodies torn apart, scattered among the dead of Panther Troop, their weapons and shields broken and discarded.

“Je-sus,” he whispered again, ordering his gunner to switch on the searchlight.

The light beam fell on Sergeant Carl Fisher’s vehicle, the image strangely bizarre and surreal. Clearly exhausted, Jenkins and Fry were slumped atop the stricken APC, their arms raised over their eyes against the tank’s harsh searchlight. But Fisher, an upturned Guardian’s helmet in one hand, clear water lapping the rim from time to time, and a broadsword clasped tightly in his other hand, stared directly into the light without blinking. The mummified bodies of the forgotten crusaders were piled all around the vehicle, pyramiding to where Fisher stood victorious atop his vehicle.

“You’re a little late,” cried Fisher. He raised the helmet full of spring water above his head. “I have our sample,” he said. He then brandished the sword over the killing ground surrounding him before pulling the handle back to his chest in a bizarre salute. “And so much more, Captain,” he added.

As Mulgrave searched for words, each of the other tank commanders surfaced from behind their armour, their bleak expressions mirrors to the battlefield’s bloodshed.

“How?” It was all Mulgrave could utter.

Fisher just smiled. “Eight-hundred years can take a lot out of a soldier,” he said. “They’d grown slow, and in the end, weary.” Fisher raised the sword over his head and roared, the sound echoing through the jungle. It was part challenge; part warning. “WE OWN THE NIGHT!”

Fallen Lion Jack Hanson

“I only recognized the solitude I lived in when I saw it in another. I only knew what ’to thine own self be true’ meant when I saw it exemplified by this same Old Blood.”

Marshal Ripper, By Fang and Rifle: A Memoir

The Lancer snorted and ran his claws along the composite decking under his feet, his annoyance getting a hold on him for a second. The smell of coppery blood was bothering him, made worse by the humidity in the air that was conditioned to Old Blood and Illurian preferences. Yet to the Triceratops known as Brokehorn, it only made the smell more cloying and aggravating.

If the dhimion leading the briefing had not been someone Brokehorn respected, he might have said something to the Bladejaw standing next to him in regard to the Tyrannosaurus’ hygiene. It would, however, be poor precedent for the human janissaries standing in front of them at parade rest, sweat running down the backs of their necks into their gray battle armor. Brokehorn held his tongue.