SNAFU: Wolves at the Door

Neidermeyer blew air out his nose. “Yeah, I guess I did.” The others in the unit began to disperse now the tale had reached an end. Neidermeyer admired the tips of his boots. “I realize you feel you have to put the new guy through his paces, but you should know I’m less naïve than the average FNG.”

“Good to know,” Wolfman said.

“So with all due respect,” he looked to the weathered soldier.  “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, son.” One side of Wolfman’s lips raised in a lopsided smile revealing yellowed teeth and an unnaturally long canine that gleamed almost as bright and sharp as the knife the soldier had been toying with.

Ancient Ruins John W. Dennehy

The Amtrack amphibious assault vehicle grumbled over rubble during another hot summer night. Lance Corporal Simmons breathed the stale air and adjusted his flak vest, wondering when the Marine Corps would get around to issuing the Kevlar body armor he’d heard about. Packed in tight with twelve other marines, he jostled on the bench seat as the tracked transport creaked over crumpled buildings.

They were on routine patrol through the outskirts of the ancient city. Simmons had been on numerous others without incident. His helmet was set on the deck at his boots; the steel-pot similar to those issued in the last big wars. His M16-A1 rifle barrel was pointed down with the pistol grip turned away. Simmons held the stock tightly, even though he didn’t expect to use the weapon. As the Amtrack came to an abrupt halt, his stomach turned and his pulse quickened. The intercom crackled with static as his staff sergeant attempted to communicate with the Amtrack crew.

“What’s the hold up?” asked Staff Sergeant Watson.

“There’s a dog or something blocking the way,” the driver responded. “Some kind of animal.”

“What?” Watson snapped.

“All set. It ran off.”

The Amtrack lurched forward then came to another jerky stop. Watson swayed forward and back. As he reached for the intercom button ready to chew some ass, the fifty-caliber machine gun let rip.

Simmons felt the turret shifting to the left, then another volley of rounds.

“What the hell is going on out there?” Watson barked.

“We’re taking fire,” the driver responded. “We’re taking fire!”

Watson turned toward his marines. “Seems it may be the Palestinians. Our orders are to fire only when necessary.”

Simmons and the others stared at their staff sergeant blankly.

Watson looked back at them sternly. “You got that?” he demanded.

“Yes, Staff Sergeant!” they called out.

“So, what are we doing?” This from Corporal Anderson. “We’re just sitting here waiting to get nuked?”

Automatic weapons rattled away outside the Amtrack. A few dings sounded from the armor-plated vehicle. The fifty cal roared from the turret overhead. Between the blasts of the turret gun, Simmons tried to place the enemy position. The shooting sounded faint through the dense armor, likely off in the distance to their left.

The Palestinians were surely entrenched in a hillside. They were probably engaged in a firefight with ground troops, maybe the French. His routine patrol merely happened upon the conflict. Simmons doubted it would amount to much more than the Amtrack providing support for the Multinational Force.

“What are we doing just sitting here?” Anderson griped.

Staff Sergeant Watson waved him off. “Just hold tight. We’ve got rules of engagement, and we really don’t know what’s going on out there.”

Never expecting to disembark from the Amtrack, Simmons leaned back and took a deep breath. He thought about his new bride living back at the base. Then he saw Watson picking up the field phone.

* * *

Watson hung up the phone. “Listen up!” he barked.

Everyone’s eyes were glued to the staff sergeant.

“The captain has authorized us to engage the enemy. Palestinians are firing at friendlies from a nearby hill.” Watson looked them over. “We’re going to disembark from the assault vehicle with Marine Corps precision. You got that?”

The young marines looked up at him, baffled. Finally engaging the enemy?

Watson towered over them with both hands on his hips. Simmons had gone out on numerous patrols, and even heard the fifty cal light up a few times, but they hadn’t been authorized to engage. Ever.

“Do you hear me?” Watson screamed. “Because I certainly can’t hear you!”

“Yes, Staff Sergeant!” they yelled. “Understood, Staff Sergeant!”

“Now lock and load,” Watson barked. “And don’t let me catch any of you using full auto.”

Simmons and the others pulled out ammo clips and slammed them into the receivers. They pulled back the charging handles. When they were released, the chargers snapped back, chambering rounds with an ominous clang that rang out in unison. Privates Collison and Harmon were to his left and Private First Class Wells sat to the right.

Staff Sergeant Watson eyeballed them fiercely. “And make sure your moonbeam lenses are set to red,” he snapped.