Let me tell you it felt good to be free of my ruck for a few, I won’t lie. Well lets define good. It felt less painful for now, with the ruck off than on. I was like the rest of the team, laden with ammo and water, that was all. I’m tired, I’m worn. Its only a few weeks and we are a sorry ass bunch of blokes already. Older too. Those of us still alive are also a little wiser.

As I glanced around me the pinched, taunt faces show the wear on the rest of my crew. See it’s like this, after two days hard march, even by French Foreign Legion standards, the lads were stretched to break point. They had just moved into their fourth ambush location in the last 12 days. A brief stop for resupply of LRAC and APILA ammo, some rations [American God awful MRE’s] and extra ammo, we had left behind the INCAPs and KIA then we hauled arse South to where I am, laying in warm sun hidden with a view of the road and a quick running stream. If I was wounded, I’d be worried, better to be here, dead tired. CASEVAC right now was hit or miss at this stage of the war. The local doctor would have to do until retrieval could happen for you, assuming the guys made it. Shit the last thing I’d want is to be on a whirlybird being lifted to a hospital. Chances of survival in the air 0.01%…Screw that shit. Too much SAM guided crap in the air.

I came to the Legion to forget. I did. The whole motto b.s. about second chances, what a joke. every merc..ahh excuse me, I mean Legionnaire, every Legionnaire knew it. We fought to survive, for the shitty pay, for the loss of our past. To forget. We believed in the now, in getting it on and in unfair fights. In fact, we specialized in that last part.

Each battle removed just a little more of the memories and the soul. We do remember our fallen however. Always. That is assuming you are around long enough to be ‘known’.

We were all now fluent in French the ADC, the Sgt all us. Not fine Parisian French. More gutter snipe French. The fricken actual native French speakers would not relent of course, picking at our accent, disobeying orders and generally being smart arse buggers. To a man however they fought well. It took a few rounds of bare knuckle fighting to overcome the misunderstanding that a laid back Aussie style was no opportunity for laxity or unprofessionalism. Because that shit will get you killed. After I had smacked the snot out of the biggest of my crew and three time murderer from Algiers, affectionately called Smokestack due to his size and skin colour, things settled down pretty quickly. I always keep a hand near my knife tho, ’cause you never know with that bastard.

Smokestack was an agreeable guy when he was drunk, but a murderous sadistic bastard who had been tortured by his parents, and then the rector at the orphanage. Sober he was just dangerous. Now the Legion had him and their brand of discipline and propensity for violence suited him just fine. It suited me fine too. But I still kept my eye on him.

After ten years in the Legion I have seen it all, been everywhere, killed, lost too many men and remembered their stories so I could forget mine.

For now though I had to wait. The plan was simple, it’s the way I like to run shit. This would be a fast clean hit; well it should be a fast clean hit, its what we do, in fact damn it, am I getting excited about this? Damn I am, Ha. Maybe it’s the excellent lines of sight, or the perfect killbox, best of all a rapid extract after we popped a few trucks full of Soviet supplies. Then back to the rendezvous, gather rucks and haul arse, like a ‘roo on the run. But all that was really wishful thinking. It always goes sideways. That is why we load out like a beast.

I was looking at the stream down slope as it burbled, bounced and ran hard, flush with summer rain from yesterday. We had sighted in the APILA weapons system and ADC Mitchell had that platform down cold. Shit we would likely crap all over them before they knew what hit them. That water sure looks nice, though, a wash would be pretty bloody special right about now. Bugger, I’m losing it. Daydreaming, did I close my eyes? Did the lads see that? Trucks someone whispered. Sure enough. Right on time. I snapped eyes front and forgot about being clean or the feel of fresh water on my face.

Yep, here they come, the rough overworked, poorly maintained trucks could be heard nearly a click out, if I had to guess. The BTR nipped along nicely but the trucks lumbered up the rise, gears crunching from inexperienced drivers, that shit always makes me wince, poor transmission. Yet another sign that all would be well, these were conscript rear echelon pukes. The Soviet war machine was running through soldiers faster than a Vindaloo curry out your arse, but you don’t need to know so much about my issues with hot Indian food, or the bitch that used to cook it for me. What was important was that each raid, and ambush operation we ran had been easier than the last. Yeah, aren’t we heroes? None of it matters. Just today, just the killing.

More lead, less dead. If we got the edge we kept it. These idiots have no idea what’s coming.

Crap. Not that any of that mattered. One more fight, then another until I’m a vessel no longer of use, chipped, worn and cracked beyond repair. Or dead. Perhaps this would be the last war. An end to the stories, the blur of towns, broken bodies, bloodied recruits and the smell of cordite. ” Lets get it on fellas.” I said to no one in particular.

I love this part. The opening salvos, the looks of surprise, then fear. Men rag doll in so many unique ways especially when cast upon the bloom of an exploding fuel truck. The Soviet convoy dipped down to the stream, the trucks naturally braked and slowed, shifting down gears, easing into the curve. They never stood a chance. Bracketed at short range the trucks one visibly laden with troops burst into flames as the disconsolate troopers lolled back and forth on the benches, now rising in a shower of parts, viscera and splatter. The trucks rolled along, into ditches or rolled to a stop. Bodies fell from the sky. Funny if it isn’t you I suppose.

That thick oily smoke billowing up and out in black clouds after the initial explosion, might be a problem, it was making shots hard to sight. Now munitions began to cook off in secondary blasts. What a sight. As I flicked the selector to burst, I tagged two squirters.

Ahh it makes me smile, better to be the giver than the receiver, so said some smart bastard sometime…Amen bitches.

I punched the comms “Fabi, phase 2, hit it.” A double click was the all the response I was looking for. I rose, tapped ankles of the men as I picked up the pace and sped by leading the way. I told the men; “Marche ou creve” move or die. Move or die indeed.

I looked at the vehicle racing up..a shilka, their quad cannons could spit 1000 rounds per minute. In practice the cyclic rate was about 200, as the 50 round magazines had to be changed. Ejected casing tinkled, bounced and clanged off the Soviet vehicles hull. The vehicle commander was screaming into his comm unit, waving what looked like a bottle in one hand and gesticulating wildly at where 2^nd Demi  [a demi is a squad you heathens, probably don’t know your French right?] was situation, hunkered down. Hmm, this might get interesting. I don really like that. Boring and deadly. That works for me. No fear tho, Mitchell had already sighted it.

 

The Shilkas rounds kicked up dirt all around, for Thierry, it did not look good. But he was up and at ’em rallying the men to get their arse in gear. Hmm I really ought to promote him. He is Legion all the way.

I punch transmit. “2^nd demi section exfil now, repeat break contact! ” WTF…silence? I wait for two clicks….and wait. Nothing came. “Dubourg, don’t be a douche. Exit, 1^st section and the rest of second, have this under control. EXFIL, EXFIL, secure our exit. OUT”

A dejected, oui was returned to me. “Fucker” I mutter to myself. Always playing some sorta hero.

Dubourg was a cool cat, tall balding for a young man, with a thick middle and long arms. He was constantly pushing his wire rim glasses up his nose. Constantly calculating the odds of cheating you out of something. Or being first to the bodies to pilfer. His Sous Lt had died under mysterious circumstances. It was not part of the story that DuBourg shared one morning before a recent op. No instead he recalled a life of crime, of mistrust, broken allegiance and some distinct connection to a Parisian crime boss. So today, he obeyed and would safely guide 2^nd section out of the op area.

Next I pinged Sous Lt or the sarge as the yanks would say. “You need to scoot mate.”

“hmm, well as luck would have it Lt, I drew the short straw for this one. They BMP and BRDM both want a slice of my fine St Louis hide. The boys are jumpy. We will catch you at the exfil or not. We got troops and vehicles closing in, under fire. We missed the BRDM and he is hauling ass.” He finished.

Shit. This is where it gets hard. Mission or men or both. Not always compatible if ever. “yeah well, Brown, you divert if you can and let’s see you at RV Alpha. Don’t be late, those bastards won’t wait. Out.” It usually better that way. The expectation of the later, the implied, ‘yeah you will make it, we will see you then’, right?

From the rise I could look down on Mitchell. Trees splintered, rocks exploded, and men cowered under the relentless gunfire. Brown could not rouse the men, it was time to go. They were last for a reason. Their job was to hit the lead unit, blocking the road, failing that draw fire away from the main ambush. Well that part was going too f$uking well. Then over comms it came. “Corporal, split the squad, get them bounding to the rear. Go Go.”

“ahh sure brave American, you fucking go first… then we shall go.” That was Rosseau. Selfish, lazy Ross. I was tempted to break in.

But I could almost see Mitchell rolled his eyes…again with the hysterics he will be thinking. Brown comm’d open channel “Ye Ross I forgot, you want to surrender instead, yes? Stupid me. Will the Russian treat you better than that bit&ch of a mother that popped you out, and dumped you at the Friar house eh? She said to say hello by the way, and thanked me for the 20 Franc I gave her for the blow job.”

Now it was Ross’s turn. I know… right. In the middle of being overrun? This is what we do. We are Legion… We hate each other almost all the time. Ross spat back…”yes, American it is always the mother joke with you. F@uk you and your jokes. ”

“Covering fire, I go , go…”

Hmm well what do you know, they didn’t stab each other, maybe we will get out of this yet. I could see Brown pop up to join the fray, dumping a full mag in controlled three round bursts at the enemy. They were moving to our exit.

Ahh fuc#k I spoke too soon didn’t I. “choppers..” I punched comms. ” heads up, all units exfil now. QRF inbound. Mitchell, target that fucker ASAP. Everyone else, move, move. We have been had.”.

See this didn’t add up. There is no way QRF reacts that quick. We had been played, or we trying to be played. They were on to us. Now we were the hunted. No job is ever the same twice, and no gig comes without a surprise.

You gotta admire the calm tho, these lads are some cool killers. This was when all that Legion training kicked in, men dumped controlled magazine loads and eased back from the fire versus pressing in. Well except for my strike team on the hill. They were still getting hammered hard, and now pivoted to take on the chopper…in the open. Bad choice. But what ya gunna do? No one asked for a hero, just do your job, and get out. The best these guys could do, was the best that would be done. That was all folks.

The helo was swooping in about to drop a world of hurt on us in the form of elite Soviets, and a actual shit tonne of rockets, and machine gun fire. “No pressure Mitchell, anytime now.” I murmured to my self, resisting the temptation to scream fire, fire fire… for Gods sake FIRE. Instead I took a knee, and peppered the pilots armoured glass. It wouldn’t kill, but it might distract.

Not this boy though, he was one cool helo jockey. A fast steep decent, a real hard shot to make for Mitchell, that pilot though he was liming up to fire then drop his load of death on us. I think I’m holding my breath….

BOOOOOM!!! “Scratch one whirly fucker”, was all he said.. I hung my head for a second, breathed in gasoline fumes and let the fireball’s heat wash over me. More lead, less dead. Same shit for rockets too. ” Move out.”

“Hey Sharp.” Came the garbled comm. ” we ain’t making it mate. I know you are too far away, we will hold them up. Remember us, Brown out.”

I just double clicked affirmative. Not that I’m all that hard and get it on guy. I just had no words. What do you say anyway?

He failed to kill the BTR, the BRDM was gunna finish him and his squad off. ‘goodbye’ felt trite, so did ‘roger’. I turned my back on the hill, and join the rest of the Legionnaires.

We don’t look back.

But we do remember.