This week we do our week-long piece.
Here's how it works. Each of us finds a pic and posts it (or if you're completely at a loss and/or like someone else's pic better you can use that) and writes the usual ten minutes or so on that pic.
The next day you pick up where you left off. Instead of a while new piece you're going to continue on with the piece you wrote the previous day. The following day, same thing, and so on until the end of the week when we'll each have wonderful five-day-long storyettes.
The consensus seems to be that appending new posts works best, so instead of the usual way of posting, create a new post (that way we can see each day's entry) and modify the time and date of posting so that it shows up right after the one before it.
Now: get to work, you slackers!
Monday, September 11, 2006
Chapter 1: Statue of a Lady
1748 England - I lived in a time and place in which the greatest efforts of my nation were bent to dominating the seas. We at first took on this mission as an effort at self-preservation, but it quickly became evident that military dominance was but a prelude to commercial endeavors. The powers of Europe were bent on the same task. Spain was not the sea power she once was, but was still strong and France was reported to be spending large sums on expanding her fleet.To a large extent the new resources and markets provided by colonial expansion allowed all the powers to grow their economies and England in particular enjoyed this growth. Her colonies provided cotton which the textile mills turned into cloth and linen which was in turn shipped back to these same colonies as well as other countries. England's balance sheet was, as they say, heavily in the black. To keep up with the economic growth, the great shipbuilding yards in Bristol and Chatham were building scores more ships of commerce than warships. Not all the ship's keels were newly laid. In protecting her interests, England's navy was sometimes able to take prize ships which were sent to the shipyards for refitting and a new life under the Cross of St. George.
Without a doubt, life in most English seafaring towns revolved around the sea and Chatham was no exception. I can recollect the day on which the five arrived like it was yesterday. Five prizes taken at once was not a common event. Indeed, one by itself was an event. A prize ship was not only an addition to the fleet, but one less ship in another country's fleet. So it was with no surprise that, though the ships arrived with the dawn, they were greeted by a large part of the populace. The ships had all flags flying and cheer after cheer went up from the docks. This is where my story really begins.
In my opinion, Mary Aster was the loveliest young lady in Chatham. With blue eyes and hair like brushed gold, she stood out from her peers as the sun from the moon. Even so, it was wasn't without the proper introductions to well-placed persons that she was chosen as the sculpter's subject. Her mother had used every possible acquaintance in the effort and when the announcement was made she could not help but be insufferably pleased with herself. After all, the selection of her daughter as the model for Mr. Danglars was sure to place her in circles advantageous for marriage options. To be sure, Mr. Adam Danglars had been chosen by the Lord of the Admiralty himself for the honor of sculpting a new masthead for one of the prize ships that had been reported to be enroute. Befitting the persons involved, an unveiling was performed to the great pleasure of the city's socially elite and the masthead was generally expected to bring good luck to the ship that was refitted with it.
Chapter 2: Ship's boy
There had been considerable speculation as to which ship would be refitted with the masthead of Ms. Aster. After much discussion, the Admiralty decided that the former French ship Pluton would have the honor. She was a seventy-four gun ship of the line and finest of the five prize ships sent to the Chatham ship yards. She was not old as ships go, only five years since christening. As such most of the refitting work was aimed at matching her to the exacting standards of the British navy.The Admiralty had sent a Ship Master to oversee the installation of the new masthead and assume some basic administrative duties related to accepting supplies needed for the refit. However, it wasn't until a captain and officers were installed that the work began in earnest and there was much to do. The docks, which until now held mostly visitors, came alive with carpenters, craftsmen, and persons from the Admiralty. Crew selection was initiated and each day, as more sailors were signed, the work pace picked up. Some of the rigging had been damaged when the ship was captured, so the captain ordered that all of it should be replaced. Provisions and supplies were competely unloaded from the hold to allow an inventory be taken and the hold inspected. I had been around the yards and docks my entire life, but never felt the desire to be aboard a ship until now. As exciting as it was to watch the refitting effort go forward I could only imagine the feeling of pride which seemed to swell in the officers and crew as project after project was completed. She was a proud craft with beautiful lines and standing next to her I was awed by her size. The masts were so tall that sailors checking the rigging and working the top sails were sometimes obscured by low, early morning clouds.
I had become a fixture on the dock and increasingly an obstruction to the inventory and provisioning work being performed. "Boy!", called out an irritated Lieutenant. "I have ten tonnes of crates to move, check, and repack in the hold and you are starting to get in the way. Unless you are the Ship's Boy I will ask you to remove yourself from the docks." I was panicked at the thought of not being near the ship, so asked "Sir, do you have a Ship's Boy already?" The Lieutenant looked thoughtfully for a moment and said, "No. Not yet, but if you have a mind to offer yourself for that post the captain will require permission from your father."
So it was, that after a brief discussion with my father that the appropriate papers were signed and returned to the captain, and I became Ship's Boy. Wasting no time I thanked my father, hugged mother, and ran to my room. It did not take long to lay every possession on the bed. Two changes of clothes (other than what I had on), bible, brush, and a penny whistle. I was briefly concerned on discovering that I had no bag in which to pack my things, but mother anticipated the need and came in with my grandfather's seabag. Hugging her again I stuffed my things into the bag; filling barely a quarter of the space.
As I was preparing to leave Father came in. "Son, since we were unable to place you as an apprentice with any tradesmen your future here would have been bleak. That said, our family has always been around and aboard ships, so it is in your blood and as such I believe you have made a good choice. Be aware that you will face many dangers on the high seas and you must be brave. There is no place to run on a ship and she is only as strong as the people who sail her. When trouble comes and you want to run and hide - hold fast and do what you must!" With Father's words still in my thoughts I tossed the seabag over my shoulder and left the only house I had ever known.
Chapter 3 - Better Follow Orders
Now that I was officially a member of the crew, duties were assigned which I was obliged to carry out. Captain Kelson made certain I understood that orders were to be followed quickly, completely, and without question. The severity of his gaze told me that I would get no special treatment because of my age and there were to be no half measures or punishment could be expected.Having been part of a family with a seafaring tradition I already knew that the safety of a ship was in large part dependant on the discipline of her crew and captain. The British navy had rules and harsh punishments for breaking those rules, but failure to follow orders by neglect or incompetence were at the top of the list. For such an offense a seaman could expect a whipping with the cat-o-nine-tails. This was a whip with nine long pieces of leather, the ends of which were sometimes tipped with sharp metal. Once in a while an indolent person would join a crew and break the cardinal rule. Usually it just took one meeting with "the cat" to set that person straight as well as remind the rest of the crew what happens when a rule is broken. As you might guess, such a horrible instrument ensured that orders would almost always be followed.
While the ship was docked my duties generally consisted of running messages for the Captain or ship's master. To be identified as a member of a ship's crew I was given a blue jacket with copper buttons to wear over my clothes. I chuckled at the looks on the faces of the other boys who hung around the docks as I had. Each looked as though he would have given a sack of pennies to trade places. Often they would follow me from the ship to the offices of the Admiralty and back, but not wearing the uniform of Ship's Boy meant they could not pass the door of the offices nor the gangway of the ship. I believe that while a bit jealous, they still felt a certain pride in knowing that one of their own was Ship's Boy rather than some young stranger from Bristol or London.
Aboard, the work pace continued to mount. An entire crew had been assembled and was being drilled in various tasks by the Lieutenant's during both day and night. The Captain had ordered that the night time drills in particular should be flawlessly performed. At sea when there was no moon the only light would come from the stars and a few lanterns. The sailors also knew that on those moonless or cloudy nights, from high up in the rigging the lantern light would often be shaded by sails and it would be blacker than a Spaniard's heart. It might be windy too, so a man needed to know with confidence where to put his feet and hands.
Heavy Metal
The smell of hot metal filled the air as I walked through the hangar to the ops room. Didn't look like too much action today; a couple of semis up on lifts, a ground-effect shuttle with its guts spilled out in front of it, and a couple of one-man tanks getting what looked like routine maintenance tweaks. It was even quiet enough to hold a conversation, a rare state out on the floor. I mentioned it to Dex and he nodded agreement.
We carded in through the security door to ops and dropped our gear bags by the lockers. Dex went to check the duty rosters and I wandered over to where a couple of noncoms were doing system checks on Omni - the usual stuff, sensor feeds, network connections, clean self-diagnostics - all the things that kept our computerized coordinator running in prime order. I peered over their shoulders and got a quick strobe-view of a half-dozen active patrols - system status, vid from hull-mounted cameras, crew biometrics. Looked like a pretty quiet day out there.
The sound of maintenance work got briefly louder and I checked behind me and saw that Wilkes had come in. He walked straight to me with a suppressed smile on his face.
"When I was ten my brother hid a snake in my bed," I ribbed him, "He had that same look on his face while we were changing into our pjs."
"Well, sir, I have to say that you always provide me an opportunity to challenge my professional skills," he said in a broad Tidewater drawl. When Dex first met Wilkes he talked to him for a good ten minutes, after which he confided to me, "I think I understood maybe one word out of ten from that guy." The accent sounds curiously like a New England fisherman's speech, but it's all Virginia. Wilkes had spent his entire life in the Norfolk area, and had cut his teeth working on the big warships, carriers and the like. We had him now, and there wasn't an urban patrol vehicle he couldn't spank into shape.
"So is she ready?" I asked. I knew the answer, just wanted to give him the satisfaction of saying it.
"Only one way to find out," he replied.
I called Dex and the three of us headed back out onto the floor, down the corridor into the big bays, and out into one of the monster hangars where she was waiting for us.
I don't know whether or not Wilkes had told us to be there at that specific time because he knew the light was going to be just right but if he had I admired his sense of drama. Dex whistled low when he caught sight of her and we just stood there for a few minutes admiring her glowing in the hazy sunlight that slanted down through the high bay windows.
If your kid made a drawing of an MPAC-15 Urban Pacification Chassis you might guess it was some kind of bug - a sand flea, maybe, something along those lines. But the only bug you'd find this big would be in an old '50's horror movie where some atomic accident had bred giant, mutated ants. The MPAC stood about 22 feet at the crest and had six heavily armored legs that kept it moving and stable. She took the largest crew of the any vehicle in the force and at top speed she could go in one side of any building and out the other like pig fat through a goose and that wasn't even if she used any of her eight weapons systems.
She was beautiful, a monstrous metal work of art. And the last time I'd seen her she'd been about as bad off as I'd ever seen a vehicle that was still capable of moving under its own power - vast swaths of scorched metal, countless divots where shells had impacted the armor - and far too many holes where some of those shells had penetrated.
And, of course, the blood. Most of it not ours, but some of it Parker's. That thought brought my reverie of admiration up short.
"You've done the full diagnostics?" I grilled Wilkes, "Not just the system reinstall routine?"
"Sure did, Cap, and she checks out green on all boards."
Dex said, "Well, she sure looks fine."
"Anyone with a welding torch and a can of wax can make it look fine," I grunted.
Wilkes looked slightly miffed. "I can run another set of routines if it'll make you feel better Cap." He'd do it, too - but he'd be cranky about it. There's a right time to make your chief engineer cranky, but this wasn't it.
I sighed and said, "No, I know you've already checked her over. Besides, if I know you you've already taken her over the course, haven't you?"
The look in his eyes confirmed what I'd guessed; he'd already taken her out for a spin through the training and obstacle course out behind the hangars - probably wasn't hard to crew her up either, just offered a few of the other mechanics a chance to take her out for a jaunt.
He grinned a bit and drawled, "Well, had to make sure she was shipshape, y'know Cap?"
We carded in through the security door to ops and dropped our gear bags by the lockers. Dex went to check the duty rosters and I wandered over to where a couple of noncoms were doing system checks on Omni - the usual stuff, sensor feeds, network connections, clean self-diagnostics - all the things that kept our computerized coordinator running in prime order. I peered over their shoulders and got a quick strobe-view of a half-dozen active patrols - system status, vid from hull-mounted cameras, crew biometrics. Looked like a pretty quiet day out there.
The sound of maintenance work got briefly louder and I checked behind me and saw that Wilkes had come in. He walked straight to me with a suppressed smile on his face.
"When I was ten my brother hid a snake in my bed," I ribbed him, "He had that same look on his face while we were changing into our pjs."
"Well, sir, I have to say that you always provide me an opportunity to challenge my professional skills," he said in a broad Tidewater drawl. When Dex first met Wilkes he talked to him for a good ten minutes, after which he confided to me, "I think I understood maybe one word out of ten from that guy." The accent sounds curiously like a New England fisherman's speech, but it's all Virginia. Wilkes had spent his entire life in the Norfolk area, and had cut his teeth working on the big warships, carriers and the like. We had him now, and there wasn't an urban patrol vehicle he couldn't spank into shape.
"So is she ready?" I asked. I knew the answer, just wanted to give him the satisfaction of saying it.
"Only one way to find out," he replied.
I called Dex and the three of us headed back out onto the floor, down the corridor into the big bays, and out into one of the monster hangars where she was waiting for us.
I don't know whether or not Wilkes had told us to be there at that specific time because he knew the light was going to be just right but if he had I admired his sense of drama. Dex whistled low when he caught sight of her and we just stood there for a few minutes admiring her glowing in the hazy sunlight that slanted down through the high bay windows.
If your kid made a drawing of an MPAC-15 Urban Pacification Chassis you might guess it was some kind of bug - a sand flea, maybe, something along those lines. But the only bug you'd find this big would be in an old '50's horror movie where some atomic accident had bred giant, mutated ants. The MPAC stood about 22 feet at the crest and had six heavily armored legs that kept it moving and stable. She took the largest crew of the any vehicle in the force and at top speed she could go in one side of any building and out the other like pig fat through a goose and that wasn't even if she used any of her eight weapons systems.
She was beautiful, a monstrous metal work of art. And the last time I'd seen her she'd been about as bad off as I'd ever seen a vehicle that was still capable of moving under its own power - vast swaths of scorched metal, countless divots where shells had impacted the armor - and far too many holes where some of those shells had penetrated.
And, of course, the blood. Most of it not ours, but some of it Parker's. That thought brought my reverie of admiration up short.
"You've done the full diagnostics?" I grilled Wilkes, "Not just the system reinstall routine?"
"Sure did, Cap, and she checks out green on all boards."
Dex said, "Well, she sure looks fine."
"Anyone with a welding torch and a can of wax can make it look fine," I grunted.
Wilkes looked slightly miffed. "I can run another set of routines if it'll make you feel better Cap." He'd do it, too - but he'd be cranky about it. There's a right time to make your chief engineer cranky, but this wasn't it.
I sighed and said, "No, I know you've already checked her over. Besides, if I know you you've already taken her over the course, haven't you?"
The look in his eyes confirmed what I'd guessed; he'd already taken her out for a spin through the training and obstacle course out behind the hangars - probably wasn't hard to crew her up either, just offered a few of the other mechanics a chance to take her out for a jaunt.
He grinned a bit and drawled, "Well, had to make sure she was shipshape, y'know Cap?"
Heavy Metal Cont'd
-
While Dex went to the MPAC (her technical designation was MPAC-UPC08X929, but Parker had dubbed her "Shelob" and somehow the name stuck - he said it was from some book he'd read) and started unhooking fuel and data feeds, Wilkes booted the warmup sequence from the master panel. I remember the first time I heard that engine rev up - I expected something loud and growly, like a big old eighteen wheeler gearing for a drag or something, but instead it's a low, heavy whine as deep in her guts her nuclear powerplant spills engergy into the massive, magnetically-supported flywheel. There were a few higher pitched whines as corkscrew servos adjusted the tension on the legs and she shifted subtly, coming to life and finding her balance.
Wilkes jabbed at a flashing rectangle on the touchscreen and Shelob popped a small port open under her leading edge. I walked over and dropped a short ladder down and clambered up inside and into the cozy command pod. Unlike the old tank interiors Shelob was designed to keep her crew comfortable, albeit still tight. She had a noise cancelling system that kept the interior quiet enough to speak at a normal volume (except when the big thirty mikes were firing - then all conversation stopped!) and a climate control setup that kept the crew at a comfortable 72 degrees no matter how hot it got outside. The command seat was elevated above Dex's operations panel where he monitored all the life functions of Shelob, and between the two weapons stations. The nav system was behind my seat, back to my back. The driver's station was lowest and farthest forward, down a step in front of Dex's spot. My station was equipped primarily with numerous data monitors, where I could access info on whatever was happening in the vehicle, or choose to use vid feeds from the thirteen cameras scattered over the hull. I could even pop a small port over my head and stand on my seat and get a practical eye view from the top of Shelob if I wanted.
As I settled into my seat and began to configure the pod for my prefs, choosing seat orientation and monitor designation, Dex said,
"Here comes the fun bunch - cam six."
I toggled a touchscreen button on one of the vid-feed monitors and the display showed the view from one of the forward-facing cameras. The rest of Shelob's crew were arriving, clearly as awed by the sight of the repaired craft as Dex and I had been. I slid the mike headset over one ear and held down a switch on the arm of my chair, and my voice boomed out into the hangar,
"All right, don't just stand there with your jaws hangin' - we got work to do."
They hustled on in, squeezing up through the chin port one at a time. MacDonald on port weapons, Sharpe on starboard, Lambert on the nav console and Powell in the driver's seat. They settled into their seats, adjusting them to their preferences as I had and grumbling jokingly about what a half-ass job the tech guys had done putting her back together. I let them bellyache for a few minutes, then told them to zip it and get the beast operational.
Finally my panel showed green on all stations, and Lambert asked,
"So we gonna take her out on the course Cap, or we got a real gig today?"
They had all turned to look at me so when I replied, "We're taking her out on Patrol Six," I could see the grimaces that flashed across their faces. The banter stopped and they each turned back to their stations with a tension that had not been there moments earlier.
Patrol Six. Worst patrol route in our zone. The worst for cover, the worst for tactical advantage, and the most likely to have a raft of bad characters looking to do us some harm. It was out on Patrol Six that we'd taken so much damage the last time out, and it was on Patrol Six that we lost Parker.
While Dex went to the MPAC (her technical designation was MPAC-UPC08X929, but Parker had dubbed her "Shelob" and somehow the name stuck - he said it was from some book he'd read) and started unhooking fuel and data feeds, Wilkes booted the warmup sequence from the master panel. I remember the first time I heard that engine rev up - I expected something loud and growly, like a big old eighteen wheeler gearing for a drag or something, but instead it's a low, heavy whine as deep in her guts her nuclear powerplant spills engergy into the massive, magnetically-supported flywheel. There were a few higher pitched whines as corkscrew servos adjusted the tension on the legs and she shifted subtly, coming to life and finding her balance.
Wilkes jabbed at a flashing rectangle on the touchscreen and Shelob popped a small port open under her leading edge. I walked over and dropped a short ladder down and clambered up inside and into the cozy command pod. Unlike the old tank interiors Shelob was designed to keep her crew comfortable, albeit still tight. She had a noise cancelling system that kept the interior quiet enough to speak at a normal volume (except when the big thirty mikes were firing - then all conversation stopped!) and a climate control setup that kept the crew at a comfortable 72 degrees no matter how hot it got outside. The command seat was elevated above Dex's operations panel where he monitored all the life functions of Shelob, and between the two weapons stations. The nav system was behind my seat, back to my back. The driver's station was lowest and farthest forward, down a step in front of Dex's spot. My station was equipped primarily with numerous data monitors, where I could access info on whatever was happening in the vehicle, or choose to use vid feeds from the thirteen cameras scattered over the hull. I could even pop a small port over my head and stand on my seat and get a practical eye view from the top of Shelob if I wanted.
As I settled into my seat and began to configure the pod for my prefs, choosing seat orientation and monitor designation, Dex said,
"Here comes the fun bunch - cam six."
I toggled a touchscreen button on one of the vid-feed monitors and the display showed the view from one of the forward-facing cameras. The rest of Shelob's crew were arriving, clearly as awed by the sight of the repaired craft as Dex and I had been. I slid the mike headset over one ear and held down a switch on the arm of my chair, and my voice boomed out into the hangar,
"All right, don't just stand there with your jaws hangin' - we got work to do."
They hustled on in, squeezing up through the chin port one at a time. MacDonald on port weapons, Sharpe on starboard, Lambert on the nav console and Powell in the driver's seat. They settled into their seats, adjusting them to their preferences as I had and grumbling jokingly about what a half-ass job the tech guys had done putting her back together. I let them bellyache for a few minutes, then told them to zip it and get the beast operational.
Finally my panel showed green on all stations, and Lambert asked,
"So we gonna take her out on the course Cap, or we got a real gig today?"
They had all turned to look at me so when I replied, "We're taking her out on Patrol Six," I could see the grimaces that flashed across their faces. The banter stopped and they each turned back to their stations with a tension that had not been there moments earlier.
Patrol Six. Worst patrol route in our zone. The worst for cover, the worst for tactical advantage, and the most likely to have a raft of bad characters looking to do us some harm. It was out on Patrol Six that we'd taken so much damage the last time out, and it was on Patrol Six that we lost Parker.
Heavy Metal part 3
I scanned over my readouts to triple-check all the systems. As I surveyed all the status indicators Dex's private comm channel began flashing as he keyed me a private message.
*how did omni authorize us on p6 this soon?*
I'd thought about this all morning, ever since I'd checked the assignments and seen that they were throwing us right back into the fire.
*unsure. guess psych profiles recommend a "get back on the horse" approach*
I couldn't see Dex's face from my vantage but I knew he was rolling his eyes.
*did you say anything to anyone? did they even consider the cherries?*
Sharpe had joined Shelob's crew to fill Parker's seat and Powell had replaced Vance Perry, our last driver. Perry had requested a transer out of Urban Armor after the last mission. They were "cherries" - neither one had ridden in the MPAC on a real patrol, neither one had seen real fire yet. They performed fine in the sims, but the sims aren't the streets.
*omni must think they're ready. are we good for go yet?*
Dex dropped it and did a quick scan of his monitors, then gave me a thumbs-up. I checked through the crew for go/no go and, after getting the go-ahead from everyone, toggled my comm channel to Ops.
"Ops this is MPAC X Nine-two-niner, all systems go and green on all boards. Requesting permission to commence patrol."
"Roger nine-two-nine. We have confirmation on all systems. Please verify tac orders."
My mind flashed back to a morning two months ago when I'd heard those exact same words. That morning I'd replied eagerly; this time I found it a lot harder to respond. Finally I forced it out through my clenched teeth:
"Tac orders: follow patrol route six. Survey and pacify as needed."
There was a long moment of silence - longer than usual - then finally Ops came back.
"Roger nine-two-niner. You are cleared for patrol."
Ops clicked off and my rear-facing monitors showed the big bay door behind us starting to crawl up and open.
"Take us out," I ordered, and Powell executed a one-point turn that faced us out into the sunlight. She glanced over her shoulder at me for confirmation and, at my nod, slid the twin joysticks forward slightly and Shelob rolled out into the day.
*how did omni authorize us on p6 this soon?*
I'd thought about this all morning, ever since I'd checked the assignments and seen that they were throwing us right back into the fire.
*unsure. guess psych profiles recommend a "get back on the horse" approach*
I couldn't see Dex's face from my vantage but I knew he was rolling his eyes.
*did you say anything to anyone? did they even consider the cherries?*
Sharpe had joined Shelob's crew to fill Parker's seat and Powell had replaced Vance Perry, our last driver. Perry had requested a transer out of Urban Armor after the last mission. They were "cherries" - neither one had ridden in the MPAC on a real patrol, neither one had seen real fire yet. They performed fine in the sims, but the sims aren't the streets.
*omni must think they're ready. are we good for go yet?*
Dex dropped it and did a quick scan of his monitors, then gave me a thumbs-up. I checked through the crew for go/no go and, after getting the go-ahead from everyone, toggled my comm channel to Ops.
"Ops this is MPAC X Nine-two-niner, all systems go and green on all boards. Requesting permission to commence patrol."
"Roger nine-two-nine. We have confirmation on all systems. Please verify tac orders."
My mind flashed back to a morning two months ago when I'd heard those exact same words. That morning I'd replied eagerly; this time I found it a lot harder to respond. Finally I forced it out through my clenched teeth:
"Tac orders: follow patrol route six. Survey and pacify as needed."
There was a long moment of silence - longer than usual - then finally Ops came back.
"Roger nine-two-niner. You are cleared for patrol."
Ops clicked off and my rear-facing monitors showed the big bay door behind us starting to crawl up and open.
"Take us out," I ordered, and Powell executed a one-point turn that faced us out into the sunlight. She glanced over her shoulder at me for confirmation and, at my nod, slid the twin joysticks forward slightly and Shelob rolled out into the day.
Heavy Metal Part 4 - The Sprawl
Shelob rolled out into the dark and the rain, across the wet tarmac that cast specular reflections of the massive tower lights that surrounded the yard. We headed toward the lock-gates, Dex uttering a clearance-coded request to Omni that the gate be opened.
"Nice night," Parker murmured. I glanced over at him and he turned slightly to grin up at me, his dark face glowing warmly in the green glow of his nightscan monitors.
"Rain keeps the rats in," he clarified. I nodded agreement and turned back to watch the big gates sliding open on my main hud.
He was right - the rain would indeed keep the rats in, though there was likely little enough to worry about from them even without it. Increased ration drops over the city had dulled some of the freeform hostility that we usually ran into, and Intel and Recon reported that recent raids on weapons and ammo smuggling ops had reduced the sprawl rats' ability to inflict any real damage on us. I&R seemed confident that the threat level was low in the field, so any apprehension my crew had felt about drawing Patrol Route 6 was alleviated.
The enormous inner gates rumbled to a stop and Shelob slid smoothly into the space before the heavier, more armored outer gates that opened out into the sprawl. The lock was tight for Shelob; she was, after all, the biggest armored vehicle on the force. We caught a lot of ribbing from the crews of other smaller, lighter armors but they never seemed to mind Shelob's size when she rolled up, guns blazing, to help them out of a tight spot.
A red light flashed on my readout, then went solid as the inner gates closed again behind us, then an adjacent light began flashing green as the outer gates began to open. As they parted to the sides the hulking shape of the sprawl came into view on our nightvision displays.
Imagine Dresden after WWDos, or Beirut in the late 20th. Now imagine a whole new city had sprung up out of the ruins, only instead of clearing the wreckage they just scavenged it or built over it. Now: knock that city down. Repeat the process. Do it again. Repeat one more time and you've got the sprawl: the corpse of a major global city, now reduced to rubble and the husks of skyscrapers and malls and office parks. Any urban integrity this city had once held was gone; there was no business, no suburbs, no shopping. No infrastructure, no support, just a decaying pile of rubble stretching off dozens of miles in every direction.
And the inhabitants - the sprawl rats - were little more than feral scavengers. They organized into loose tribes, huddled for shelter in spaces they found or dug out of the ruins, and fought each other over territory, food, goods they dug out of the wreckage, and pretty much anything else that felt like a good reason for fighting at the moment. About the only thing they agreed on was us: they liked fighting us more than anything else. And they were surprisingly well armed: smugglers brought in a steady stream of arms and ammo, paid off in lost wealth the rats dug out from the rubble. It was not uncommon to see a naked, filthy child of ten aiming a state-of-the-art rpg at you.
So why we were even there? If it was so savage, what's the point of a Military/Police presence at all? That's a question constantly under debate in the House of Senators - the argument "for" is that the sprawl rats ARE well armed, and that if they were ever to unite or organize (as they did once before) they might present a real danger to the peace of the OutCity. Those opposed maintain that the walls that surround the sprawl are enough to keep it contained, that the MiliPolice presence could be redeployed to wall duty to strengthen its defenses, and that the threat of the sprawl dwellers could be undercut by more effect and aggressive action against the smugglers who arm them. It's a pretty standard election-year issue, hasn't changed much in the last twenty years or so. We pretty much just end up going where we're told to go, though I can say personally that I'd rather be here in my command seat than busting my dogs walking up and down that huge steel wall that stretches hundreds of miles around the ruins of the city.
The flashing green light on my display went solid as the gates stopped.
"Take us out, Perry," I said and we moved forward into the rain and the dark. I flicked a few toggles and Shelob's lights flared up, surrounding us in a cocoon of illumination that beat back the darkness for fifty yards on all sides. We moved out on what was left of roadway - not so bad here, close to the base, but which became progessively worse and worse until we'd have to switch from wheels to legs.
"You have your route, Mr. Perry - Patrol Six."
"Nice night," Parker murmured. I glanced over at him and he turned slightly to grin up at me, his dark face glowing warmly in the green glow of his nightscan monitors.
"Rain keeps the rats in," he clarified. I nodded agreement and turned back to watch the big gates sliding open on my main hud.
He was right - the rain would indeed keep the rats in, though there was likely little enough to worry about from them even without it. Increased ration drops over the city had dulled some of the freeform hostility that we usually ran into, and Intel and Recon reported that recent raids on weapons and ammo smuggling ops had reduced the sprawl rats' ability to inflict any real damage on us. I&R seemed confident that the threat level was low in the field, so any apprehension my crew had felt about drawing Patrol Route 6 was alleviated.
The enormous inner gates rumbled to a stop and Shelob slid smoothly into the space before the heavier, more armored outer gates that opened out into the sprawl. The lock was tight for Shelob; she was, after all, the biggest armored vehicle on the force. We caught a lot of ribbing from the crews of other smaller, lighter armors but they never seemed to mind Shelob's size when she rolled up, guns blazing, to help them out of a tight spot.
A red light flashed on my readout, then went solid as the inner gates closed again behind us, then an adjacent light began flashing green as the outer gates began to open. As they parted to the sides the hulking shape of the sprawl came into view on our nightvision displays.
Imagine Dresden after WWDos, or Beirut in the late 20th. Now imagine a whole new city had sprung up out of the ruins, only instead of clearing the wreckage they just scavenged it or built over it. Now: knock that city down. Repeat the process. Do it again. Repeat one more time and you've got the sprawl: the corpse of a major global city, now reduced to rubble and the husks of skyscrapers and malls and office parks. Any urban integrity this city had once held was gone; there was no business, no suburbs, no shopping. No infrastructure, no support, just a decaying pile of rubble stretching off dozens of miles in every direction.
And the inhabitants - the sprawl rats - were little more than feral scavengers. They organized into loose tribes, huddled for shelter in spaces they found or dug out of the ruins, and fought each other over territory, food, goods they dug out of the wreckage, and pretty much anything else that felt like a good reason for fighting at the moment. About the only thing they agreed on was us: they liked fighting us more than anything else. And they were surprisingly well armed: smugglers brought in a steady stream of arms and ammo, paid off in lost wealth the rats dug out from the rubble. It was not uncommon to see a naked, filthy child of ten aiming a state-of-the-art rpg at you.
So why we were even there? If it was so savage, what's the point of a Military/Police presence at all? That's a question constantly under debate in the House of Senators - the argument "for" is that the sprawl rats ARE well armed, and that if they were ever to unite or organize (as they did once before) they might present a real danger to the peace of the OutCity. Those opposed maintain that the walls that surround the sprawl are enough to keep it contained, that the MiliPolice presence could be redeployed to wall duty to strengthen its defenses, and that the threat of the sprawl dwellers could be undercut by more effect and aggressive action against the smugglers who arm them. It's a pretty standard election-year issue, hasn't changed much in the last twenty years or so. We pretty much just end up going where we're told to go, though I can say personally that I'd rather be here in my command seat than busting my dogs walking up and down that huge steel wall that stretches hundreds of miles around the ruins of the city.
The flashing green light on my display went solid as the gates stopped.
"Take us out, Perry," I said and we moved forward into the rain and the dark. I flicked a few toggles and Shelob's lights flared up, surrounding us in a cocoon of illumination that beat back the darkness for fifty yards on all sides. We moved out on what was left of roadway - not so bad here, close to the base, but which became progessively worse and worse until we'd have to switch from wheels to legs.
"You have your route, Mr. Perry - Patrol Six."
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Campaigners
Tavin stopped halfway through the entrance into the chamber and scanned it thoroughly from floor to lofty ceiling. It had the look of an ancient cell, though the girth of the enormous chains dangling from the ceiling and walls led Tavin to wonder what prisoners it was meant to hold. He felt a chill as he noted that some of the chains appeared to have been snapped off.
The room itself was small but high. A warm golden glow spilled into the chamber from somewhere above, the illumination welcome after the hours they'd spent picking their way along dark passages by torchlight. The floor was a screen of thick oaken beams - seemingly strong, but with a large opening in the middle. Whether it descended to another chamber or to a vast drop Tavin could not tell.
At his back Halbarad shifted and muttered,
"If we do not hasten my beard will be long and grey before we reach our prize!"
Tavin glanced briefly back with a scowl and returned,
"If your wish is to find all the traps and pitfalls in our path, by all means proceed with good speed!"
Halbarad grumbled but stood where he was, his broadaxe planted between his wide feet. Behind him Pikolo smirked but stayed silent - the thief had no desire to antagonize the hulking northman again.
Tavin returned his attention to the chamber. The doorway that left the room stood midway along the adjacent wall, the orange glow of a torch beckoning, but Tavin's instints had him wary and on edge. Something was wrong.
He closed his eyes briefly, performed a quick three-breath clearing ritual, and muttered a low incantation.
When he opened his eyes the room swam in a haze, as if he were observing through clear winter ice. As he turned his focus to parts of the chamber they snapped into clarity far sharper than any normal vision - every spot, every scratch, every stain standing out and crying for his notice.
He moved his gaze through the room trying to isolate that which had him so nervous. A skull. A metal plate. A massive, heavy chain.
And finally, there it was. Not something that bothered him; rather, something missing.
He allowed the focus spell to disperse and scanned the room to verify what he'd thought: every chain, every wall sconce, even the bars of the gate that blocked the next corrider, were covered in a noticeable layer of ash and dust.
The floor, however, was bare and clean.
Just as he was about to speak Halbarad exploded, "Enough! The room is safe!" and began to move towards the opposite door.
Tavin slapped a barring arm across his leather breastplate and brought the burly warrior up short.
"Look!" he whispered.
Halbarad seemed to shrink as Tavin pointed out the unnaturally clean beams; the tiny, almost imperceptable wires that held all the seemingly random debris on the floor in place; and the thin, innocuous seam that ran from one corner of the floor to the opposite wall.
Tavin stood, quietly pleased with his discovery.
"Proceed if you must, Master Halbarad, but I must warn you: as soon as you open that rough gate beyond, I am quite certain this floor will drop from under you like the deck of a ship on stormy seas."
"And I feel confident that you will not like what you find below."
The room itself was small but high. A warm golden glow spilled into the chamber from somewhere above, the illumination welcome after the hours they'd spent picking their way along dark passages by torchlight. The floor was a screen of thick oaken beams - seemingly strong, but with a large opening in the middle. Whether it descended to another chamber or to a vast drop Tavin could not tell.
At his back Halbarad shifted and muttered,
"If we do not hasten my beard will be long and grey before we reach our prize!"
Tavin glanced briefly back with a scowl and returned,
"If your wish is to find all the traps and pitfalls in our path, by all means proceed with good speed!"
Halbarad grumbled but stood where he was, his broadaxe planted between his wide feet. Behind him Pikolo smirked but stayed silent - the thief had no desire to antagonize the hulking northman again.
Tavin returned his attention to the chamber. The doorway that left the room stood midway along the adjacent wall, the orange glow of a torch beckoning, but Tavin's instints had him wary and on edge. Something was wrong.
He closed his eyes briefly, performed a quick three-breath clearing ritual, and muttered a low incantation.
When he opened his eyes the room swam in a haze, as if he were observing through clear winter ice. As he turned his focus to parts of the chamber they snapped into clarity far sharper than any normal vision - every spot, every scratch, every stain standing out and crying for his notice.
He moved his gaze through the room trying to isolate that which had him so nervous. A skull. A metal plate. A massive, heavy chain.
And finally, there it was. Not something that bothered him; rather, something missing.
He allowed the focus spell to disperse and scanned the room to verify what he'd thought: every chain, every wall sconce, even the bars of the gate that blocked the next corrider, were covered in a noticeable layer of ash and dust.
The floor, however, was bare and clean.
Just as he was about to speak Halbarad exploded, "Enough! The room is safe!" and began to move towards the opposite door.
Tavin slapped a barring arm across his leather breastplate and brought the burly warrior up short.
"Look!" he whispered.
Halbarad seemed to shrink as Tavin pointed out the unnaturally clean beams; the tiny, almost imperceptable wires that held all the seemingly random debris on the floor in place; and the thin, innocuous seam that ran from one corner of the floor to the opposite wall.
Tavin stood, quietly pleased with his discovery.
"Proceed if you must, Master Halbarad, but I must warn you: as soon as you open that rough gate beyond, I am quite certain this floor will drop from under you like the deck of a ship on stormy seas."
"And I feel confident that you will not like what you find below."
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Rebuilding
A few months before the place had been a wreck. Buildings had been changed from places of work and living space to great piles of bomb-blasted concrete and twisted rebar. The smell was what really got to you though. The concussion of the blasts had broken underground pipes allowing raw sewage to bubble and flow up to the street level. Worse, somewhere under the heaps, dead people and animals rotted away. Everyone working clean up wore surgical masks. They didn't keep out the smell, but did a good job with the flies.
All that was starting to change though. Once the inhabitants had died or run off, the insurgents also left. I guess they didn't like not having people to hide behind. It certainly took away the one advantage they enjoyed. Soldiers were now abundantly evident. Martial law was the only way to keep the place under control, so patrols were constant and a curfew for the workers was enforced.
It had taken an incredible amount of effort, but the thousands of tons of wrecked buildings had been removed or crushed to create the foundation for new structures. As part of the effort massive stone blocks had been trucked in and were stacked along the dirt road through the construction area. In the distance I could see a concrete minaret being constructed. For the first time since arriving I started to feel things would work out okay.
All that was starting to change though. Once the inhabitants had died or run off, the insurgents also left. I guess they didn't like not having people to hide behind. It certainly took away the one advantage they enjoyed. Soldiers were now abundantly evident. Martial law was the only way to keep the place under control, so patrols were constant and a curfew for the workers was enforced.
It had taken an incredible amount of effort, but the thousands of tons of wrecked buildings had been removed or crushed to create the foundation for new structures. As part of the effort massive stone blocks had been trucked in and were stacked along the dirt road through the construction area. In the distance I could see a concrete minaret being constructed. For the first time since arriving I started to feel things would work out okay.
We
The wall that lined the road to the Factory was built of square blocks roughly stacked. They had the look of something churned out in vast quantities by equipment ancient and decrepit; though less than twenty years old they were pocked and chipped as if by decades of weather and wear.
The road itself was hardly any better - a rutted dirt track, at times kicking up vast dust clouds and at others a filthy mud trail.
The road curved around and between the barren slopes that surrounded the Factory. Grigor often thought that those hills looked like manifestations of his state: humble, low, and bent. Even so, he always tried to position himself by the tailgate of the military-surplus truck that ferried him and his fellow workers to the Factory, just so he could look at something other than the worn and dejected faces of his comrades. He would spend the entire trip to the Factory - the whole hour and a half ride - staring out at the bleak scenery. No trees, only the occasional nondescript shrub. More often than not the weather was grim too; cloudy but not storming, just a persistent, even, drenching rain. But still Grigor would stare out over the landscape and dream. Until the Factory came into view.
Though the road led to the Factory, its route was so curving that on at least half a dozen points on the road they would be travelling directly away from the hulking building. The first few turns revealed only the chimney, that single heavy column that belched black filth into the sky night and day, but then the Factory itself would rise above a hillside and Grigor would feel the fear settle into his heart again, as it had every day for the last eight years.
When the truck would finally rumble to a stop in the weed-strewn yard Grigor would be the first out, though he was likely the least eager to enter the Factory. He would turn to face the building: a broad face, stained with the acid rain created by its own waste, grime-sheeted windows (many broken or cracked) mocking the notion of transparency. Grigor would wait until the last man had passed and would join the line that slumped through the massive iron gate to their twelve hours of toil.
The road itself was hardly any better - a rutted dirt track, at times kicking up vast dust clouds and at others a filthy mud trail.
The road curved around and between the barren slopes that surrounded the Factory. Grigor often thought that those hills looked like manifestations of his state: humble, low, and bent. Even so, he always tried to position himself by the tailgate of the military-surplus truck that ferried him and his fellow workers to the Factory, just so he could look at something other than the worn and dejected faces of his comrades. He would spend the entire trip to the Factory - the whole hour and a half ride - staring out at the bleak scenery. No trees, only the occasional nondescript shrub. More often than not the weather was grim too; cloudy but not storming, just a persistent, even, drenching rain. But still Grigor would stare out over the landscape and dream. Until the Factory came into view.
Though the road led to the Factory, its route was so curving that on at least half a dozen points on the road they would be travelling directly away from the hulking building. The first few turns revealed only the chimney, that single heavy column that belched black filth into the sky night and day, but then the Factory itself would rise above a hillside and Grigor would feel the fear settle into his heart again, as it had every day for the last eight years.
When the truck would finally rumble to a stop in the weed-strewn yard Grigor would be the first out, though he was likely the least eager to enter the Factory. He would turn to face the building: a broad face, stained with the acid rain created by its own waste, grime-sheeted windows (many broken or cracked) mocking the notion of transparency. Grigor would wait until the last man had passed and would join the line that slumped through the massive iron gate to their twelve hours of toil.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
1000 yard stare
Remember that we are not starting the long form until NEXT week. Just 10-minute efforts for this week. Welcome to the group Skipernicus!
Shell Shock
I don't know of a single field surgeon who hasn't seen shell shock, at least none who've served under fire. Sometimes they're catatonic, sometimes they're rocking back and forth screaming or crying for their mothers. It's all the same - overload, the mind snaps under the burden of what a soldier's been through. And I don't care how many movies you've seen, unless you've been there with shells blasting sand into your eyes and nose and mouth and ears, unless you've stepped in a pile of guts that are spilling out of a Kansas farm boy who's still alive, you don't know anything about it. At some point it's just too much and the thinking, rational part of your brain shuts off and you go somewhere else.
I remember the kid with the faraway eyes. It was day three on Tarawa, on the beach at Red two - the bodies were piled up and the trees were blown down and every man on that beach knew they'd seen horrors beyond anything they'd experienced in that whole war, and most of them had served in the Pacific theater for months at that point. I was crabbing along the trenches - or what was serving as trenches given the constant fire we were under - trying to fix up who I could. Evac was flat impossible at that point and field surgery was more dangerous nine times out of ten than whatever wound the marine was suffering - they'd either end up with sand caked deeper in their wound, or with a deep septic infection that would set in and rot them out from the inside. The best I could do was douse the wounds with sulfa and bandage them as tight and thick as I could.
The kid was sitting with his back up against a palm stump. There was a small thicket out on the beach and though most of it had been blasted away by nip 50 cal, there was enough trunk left that four or five guys huddled behind it for shelter. One of them was screaming for a medic so I scuttled over to check on him. He'd taken a round through the meat of his calf - painful but in this place not much more than a paper cut. I hit him with the sulfa, jabbed a morphine styrette into his leg, and started to wrap his leg in bandage.
As I worked I looked at the other marines huddled there. Two or three of the others were alert, scanning the jungle line for telltale muzzle flashes and opening fire on anything they saw, but there was another, a kid, who sat with his back to the stump staring out at the sea. At first I though he was looking at the armor abandoned on the reef, tanks mired in sand and water, but as I worked on the other guy's leg I saw that the kid wasn't blinking. He wasn't looking around, he wasn't flinching when a mortar shell went off, wasn't showing any signs of movement at all. In fact I'd reached the assumption that he was dead when a fly landed on his cheek and an involuntary muscle spasm twitched the fly away.
The fellow I was working on had calmed down, sinking into a morphine cocoon, and I asked him,
"Who's the kid?"
He looked over at the catatonic marine and shrugged.
"Dunno. He was here when me and the boys dug in back here."
"How about you boys, any of you know this guy here?" I asked the others.
They all glanced briefly at him, then shook their heads.
Done with the bandaging, I reached over and checked the kid's tags.
Pfc Will Stewart. That was his name.
I remember the kid with the faraway eyes. It was day three on Tarawa, on the beach at Red two - the bodies were piled up and the trees were blown down and every man on that beach knew they'd seen horrors beyond anything they'd experienced in that whole war, and most of them had served in the Pacific theater for months at that point. I was crabbing along the trenches - or what was serving as trenches given the constant fire we were under - trying to fix up who I could. Evac was flat impossible at that point and field surgery was more dangerous nine times out of ten than whatever wound the marine was suffering - they'd either end up with sand caked deeper in their wound, or with a deep septic infection that would set in and rot them out from the inside. The best I could do was douse the wounds with sulfa and bandage them as tight and thick as I could.
The kid was sitting with his back up against a palm stump. There was a small thicket out on the beach and though most of it had been blasted away by nip 50 cal, there was enough trunk left that four or five guys huddled behind it for shelter. One of them was screaming for a medic so I scuttled over to check on him. He'd taken a round through the meat of his calf - painful but in this place not much more than a paper cut. I hit him with the sulfa, jabbed a morphine styrette into his leg, and started to wrap his leg in bandage.
As I worked I looked at the other marines huddled there. Two or three of the others were alert, scanning the jungle line for telltale muzzle flashes and opening fire on anything they saw, but there was another, a kid, who sat with his back to the stump staring out at the sea. At first I though he was looking at the armor abandoned on the reef, tanks mired in sand and water, but as I worked on the other guy's leg I saw that the kid wasn't blinking. He wasn't looking around, he wasn't flinching when a mortar shell went off, wasn't showing any signs of movement at all. In fact I'd reached the assumption that he was dead when a fly landed on his cheek and an involuntary muscle spasm twitched the fly away.
The fellow I was working on had calmed down, sinking into a morphine cocoon, and I asked him,
"Who's the kid?"
He looked over at the catatonic marine and shrugged.
"Dunno. He was here when me and the boys dug in back here."
"How about you boys, any of you know this guy here?" I asked the others.
They all glanced briefly at him, then shook their heads.
Done with the bandaging, I reached over and checked the kid's tags.
Pfc Will Stewart. That was his name.
The Hero
What a crappy couple of weeks. A motorpool was a dicey place almost by definition, but add the word Army in front and it became downright scary. It wasn't that the vehicles came back shot up; this was Biloxi for christsake. Okay maybe they did come back shot up once in a while, but that was just dumb yahoos feeling their soldierly oats. The point is that the vehicles were always in bad shape. We never had enough parts, let alone the right kind. The only stuff we had in abundance were creative mechanics, baling wire, and some wonderfully sticky tape.
We needed that stuff too. Two weeks ago for instance. The general's jeep needed a new fuel filter; the old one was so clogged the engine wouldn't start. We hadn't changed it for a couple of years cause there was never one around when it came in for service. Well the captain that towed it in said the general wanted it fixed chop chop. I told him there wasn't a filter available and you want to know what that SOB did? He walks over to the shelf I've got all my filters on and grabs one off and tosses it to me. The box label says Fuel Filter - Sherman Tank. "Uh, sir....", but he cuts me off with a glare, says "Make it work and that's an order", and stomps off to the Officer's Mess.
Funny thing about orders. The best ones usually give some leeway in how to perform a task to the guy who will actually execute the work. That said, specific orders aren't necessarily bad and dumb orders by themselves aren't necessarily bad; specific AND dumb orders though... Well, you know its bound to go wrong.
To make a long story short the tank filter was a damn site too big so I had to take a cutting torch to the jeep hood. Some baling wire and a couple rolls of that sticky tape made the thing stay in place, but boy it leaked like a sieve. It looked kind of funny with four inches of fuel filter coming out of a hole in the hood, but all in all it seemed to fit.
The captain came back after a couple of hours and I thought he was gonna have a heart attack while looking at the hood. Next thing you know the air raid sirens are shrieking and people start running around in a panic! The captain jumps in the jeep, starts the engine, and gets about five feet before the engine catches fire. He stands up in the seat and knocks the hinged windshield right on the filter which was made of glass and of course shatters and causes a small explosion from all the fuel in it! The captain catches more smoke than fire, but after jumping out of the jeep and rolling in the dirt he looked a serious mess.
Well, finally the air raid sirens got turned off; seems it was just a drill put on for a Movietone camera crew. Well these camera boys followed the firetrucks to the jeep and start taking shots of the captain and filming the jeep. I didn't see too much more because some MP's marched me straight to the stockade; never mind it was that damn captain's fault. Two weeks I was in there before they let me out. The capper of this shitty story was catching today's Stars And Stripes. There's a shot of that captain's dirty mug topped by the headline "BILOXI HERO FOILS NAZIS". Seems the propaganda guys were short on news with the war just about over so they wrote up this bullshit story. Now that SOB captain is scheduled to go around selling war bonds with Audie Murphy. Goddam army.
We needed that stuff too. Two weeks ago for instance. The general's jeep needed a new fuel filter; the old one was so clogged the engine wouldn't start. We hadn't changed it for a couple of years cause there was never one around when it came in for service. Well the captain that towed it in said the general wanted it fixed chop chop. I told him there wasn't a filter available and you want to know what that SOB did? He walks over to the shelf I've got all my filters on and grabs one off and tosses it to me. The box label says Fuel Filter - Sherman Tank. "Uh, sir....", but he cuts me off with a glare, says "Make it work and that's an order", and stomps off to the Officer's Mess.
Funny thing about orders. The best ones usually give some leeway in how to perform a task to the guy who will actually execute the work. That said, specific orders aren't necessarily bad and dumb orders by themselves aren't necessarily bad; specific AND dumb orders though... Well, you know its bound to go wrong.
To make a long story short the tank filter was a damn site too big so I had to take a cutting torch to the jeep hood. Some baling wire and a couple rolls of that sticky tape made the thing stay in place, but boy it leaked like a sieve. It looked kind of funny with four inches of fuel filter coming out of a hole in the hood, but all in all it seemed to fit.
The captain came back after a couple of hours and I thought he was gonna have a heart attack while looking at the hood. Next thing you know the air raid sirens are shrieking and people start running around in a panic! The captain jumps in the jeep, starts the engine, and gets about five feet before the engine catches fire. He stands up in the seat and knocks the hinged windshield right on the filter which was made of glass and of course shatters and causes a small explosion from all the fuel in it! The captain catches more smoke than fire, but after jumping out of the jeep and rolling in the dirt he looked a serious mess.
Well, finally the air raid sirens got turned off; seems it was just a drill put on for a Movietone camera crew. Well these camera boys followed the firetrucks to the jeep and start taking shots of the captain and filming the jeep. I didn't see too much more because some MP's marched me straight to the stockade; never mind it was that damn captain's fault. Two weeks I was in there before they let me out. The capper of this shitty story was catching today's Stars And Stripes. There's a shot of that captain's dirty mug topped by the headline "BILOXI HERO FOILS NAZIS". Seems the propaganda guys were short on news with the war just about over so they wrote up this bullshit story. Now that SOB captain is scheduled to go around selling war bonds with Audie Murphy. Goddam army.
Friday, September 01, 2006
Gentlemen (and lady!), prepare your engines.
First things first: welcome our newest member, Skipernicus, known to some (including the IRS) as Mike Sonesen. Skip-dog was the feller who first introduced me to Mike Kaluta, without even knowing that Mr. K and I are almost relatives from Way Back When.
Skip's thrown down his first piece, and is now a Fellow of the Order of People Trying to Be Real Writers (or some such).
A brief history: Mike Brown and I conceived this project at Opal Divine's in Austin after a night of beer and darts. We had reached the point of the evening where thoughts turned deep and serious (or at least as deep as you're capable of after a pitcher or three of 1554) and we found common ground in our dissatisfaction with what we perceived as a lack of lasting achievement. We both found that we'd thought we had the chops to be writers if we ever got off our expanding duffs and did something about it, and thus the concept was born.
Initially the project was conducted via email; Mike and I would send each other a pic each day and commit to ten minutes of writing. Though we began by just opening the image and typing madly away, we both soon found that we were looking at the picture, then spending some time thinking about it. After a few weeks we discovered that we were starting to really think of each assignment as a short, contained piece (as opposed to the simple story-excerpt feeling we'd had with the early pieces).
Our initial notion evolved to where we would pick one story piece a week that we particularly liked, and flesh it out in outline form as if it were to be written up as a full story. Then, once a month, we would actually pick one of the outlines and go ahead and write that puppy up.
Noble dreams...sadly unseen. So far, only one of us (ahem) has finished a full short story, and perhaps the best thing that can be said about it is...it's finished.
So we've developed a new approach, one which we will premiere this coming week: since we appear to be intimidated by long-form pieces we are going to try to back into it instead. We will each pick a picture, one per person, and instead of writing ten minutes and being done, we are going to use that as the story basis for the entire week. Each day we will write ten MORE minutes continuing the story we started, and hopefully after a few iterations of this we'll be more comfortable with longer-form pieces.
Since we had a new member, no one expects that Skip will hop right into this (unless Skip wants to). Otherwise, starting Tuesday...long form begins!
Skip's thrown down his first piece, and is now a Fellow of the Order of People Trying to Be Real Writers (or some such).
A brief history: Mike Brown and I conceived this project at Opal Divine's in Austin after a night of beer and darts. We had reached the point of the evening where thoughts turned deep and serious (or at least as deep as you're capable of after a pitcher or three of 1554) and we found common ground in our dissatisfaction with what we perceived as a lack of lasting achievement. We both found that we'd thought we had the chops to be writers if we ever got off our expanding duffs and did something about it, and thus the concept was born.
Initially the project was conducted via email; Mike and I would send each other a pic each day and commit to ten minutes of writing. Though we began by just opening the image and typing madly away, we both soon found that we were looking at the picture, then spending some time thinking about it. After a few weeks we discovered that we were starting to really think of each assignment as a short, contained piece (as opposed to the simple story-excerpt feeling we'd had with the early pieces).
Our initial notion evolved to where we would pick one story piece a week that we particularly liked, and flesh it out in outline form as if it were to be written up as a full story. Then, once a month, we would actually pick one of the outlines and go ahead and write that puppy up.
Noble dreams...sadly unseen. So far, only one of us (ahem) has finished a full short story, and perhaps the best thing that can be said about it is...it's finished.
So we've developed a new approach, one which we will premiere this coming week: since we appear to be intimidated by long-form pieces we are going to try to back into it instead. We will each pick a picture, one per person, and instead of writing ten minutes and being done, we are going to use that as the story basis for the entire week. Each day we will write ten MORE minutes continuing the story we started, and hopefully after a few iterations of this we'll be more comfortable with longer-form pieces.
Since we had a new member, no one expects that Skip will hop right into this (unless Skip wants to). Otherwise, starting Tuesday...long form begins!
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