Battlespace Nomad, page 11
"Pre-powdered?" Jacobs scoffed. "Show off!"
Jimmy shook his head, applying the moleskin to his blisters before changing into dry socks.
Minutes later, Jimmy was ready to move. He willed his body to stand, feeling every joint in his body protest. Ramirez did the same, but Jacobs was slower to move.
"Where do you think you guys are going?" Etta's voice rang out from a distance. Jimmy looked over and saw the limping form of Etta approaching, with a pained expression.
"Come on, Etta!" Jacobs called out. "You've got this!"
But Etta's face didn't change. He was racked with pain, and his lousy hamstring seemed to get the best of him.
"You two, go on without me," Jacobs said. "I'm going to hang back and stay with Etta as long as possible."
Jimmy was floored by the selfless gesture. "Are you sure? This isn't exactly a team event, man."
Jacobs sighed. "Look, man. I have my doubts about making it to the end. I'm in a lot of pain, but Etta is worse. I can't keep up with you two, but I can help keep Etta's mind in the fight."
"That's what I call taking care of your buddy," Ramirez said sincerely. "Come on, Stiegel. Let's get moving."
Jimmy nodded in agreement. "Let's roll."
They stepped out, each step a herculean effort. The sun rising in the sky sent beams of sunlight down Jimmy's head, reminding him that his helmet was dangling from his hand by the chin strap. His sweat rag in his pocket was soaked through, but it was all he had to keep the sweat from gushing into his eyes.
Eventually, the pain increased to new levels. Jimmy noticed his pace and stride suffered as a result.
"We need to pick up the pace," Jimmy said, but there was no reply.
Curious, he looked to his right, but Ramirez was gone. When did this happen? Jimmy didn't know. All he knew was that his visual field was closing on him, and his throat was drying.
He stopped momentarily, pulled out a canteen, and downed the last swig of water within. His head spun, and he knew the heat was messing with his mind.
How far have I gone? Am I lost? Jimmy had no clue. His mind spun, trying to remember his pace count, but he drew a blank. When he lost count, he reckoned he'd gone about thirty-two klicks, but that had been an hour prior, so he could have gone another five or six kilometers in that time.
Time.
Jimmy lost all sense of time and space. He snapped into reality for a brief moment, remembering the mission. But it was a mission with no end in sight. All he knew was that he couldn't give in to temptation. Every part of his being begged him to stop.
"No!" he shouted aloud. "Move, legs!... Move!"
Overriding his body's desire to stop where he was, Jimmy grunted as his foot fell on the road. He leaned into his stride, with his head spinning.
Mile after mile, Jimmy stepped out. He had no clue where the others were. Not that he could remember their names. Even their faces were drawing a blank. His mind couldn't focus on higher thoughts, as there was nothing but pain in his existence.
"Hey!" he heard a voice call out. He stopped where he was and slowly craned his neck in the direction of the voice. "You're about to bypass the water point, hero!"
Jimmy realized he was about to pass the water point and had never seen it. He stumbled over, dumping his rucksack next to the water tank.
His hands shook as his muscles felt like marshmallows, but he managed to fill his canteens with fresh water. He felt like there was something else he should be doing, but his mind wouldn't coalesce with anything resembling a rational thought.
"Stand fast, soldier," a voice said. Jimmy looked up and saw a familiar face. He didn't know who the shadowy figure was, as his vision was uncooperative, but he felt like he knew this person.
"I never thought you would make it this far, to be honest," the familiar voice said. With a momentary glimmer of reality, Jimmy remembered the cadre NCO who had given him fluids earlier in the selection process.
The NCO seemed to be checking him from head to toe. "How many fingers am I holding up, trooper?"
"Three," Jimmy said. "No! There's four."
The NCO smirked. "Good enough for me. Don't forget to check your feet. You've still got a long way to go, soldier."
Jimmy half nodded as he crouched, securing his last pair of pre-powdered socks. He had no memory of changing his socks and replacing his moleskin as his mind went into a state of autopilot.
Freshly shod with dry socks, Jimmy wisely removed his insoles soaked in sweat. Replacing the padded inserts, he then called out in sheer pain as he stuffed his mangled feet into his boots.
"There you are!" Ramirez's voice caught Jimmy's attention.
Her voice was chipper, but her face was pained. "Are you all right?" he asked.
"I'll feel better if I see you keep moving," she said scoldingly. "Go on! I'm fine."
Jimmy nodded. "Dream team."
"Dream team." Ramirez smiled as she dumped her pack.
Jimmy stepped out again, wincing from the bright sun. The endless death march resumed, and Jimmy's entire awareness melted way into an ocean of pain. With his arms as strong as boiled spaghetti noodles, he carried his rifle across his shoulders, holding the stock and the barrel with his hands.
He leaned in, looking at the ground in front of him. He might as well have been trudging in ankle-deep mud as he forced his legs to function through sheer willpower.
The endless trudge continued. The only concept of reality his mind could process was the pain and the mission, the latter becoming more abstract with every passing moment.
What is the mission? Jimmy tried to focus. Why am I doing this to myself? He couldn't remember.
"You know, it's totally fine to quit," a voice said.
Jimmy glanced to his left and couldn't believe what he was seeing. At four feet tall, wearing a bright red pointed cap, was a living, breathing garden gnome walking beside him.
"Are you real, or am I hallucinating?" Jimmy asked.
"Stop changing the subject," the gnome growled, as it kept pace with Jimmy. "You should really stop hurting yourself. Your body is wrecked, and your mind is slipping. There's no shame in quitting."
Enraged, Jimmy mustered every ounce of strength he could, swinging his rifle like a war club at the tiny gnome. But the motion was too wild for his balance to compensate, and Jimmy stared at the sky, flat on his back.
"Dude, you suck at hallucinating," the garden gnome scoffed as he walked away, disappearing in a blur.
Was the gnome right? Could he just quit, and it would be all over?
"No!" Jimmy scoffed, rolling over to plant his knee on the pavement. He pressed the stock of his rifle against the road, pushing himself up to his feet.
The friendly man on the Starliner had told him to not quit. Was his name Frank?
Hank! Jimmy was sure it was Hank. Hank had been a friendly man and seemed wise. Jimmy decided to heed Hank's words. He'd come this far, narrowly avoiding being dropped altogether. But by this point, the pain was a better companion than a toxic garden gnome, so Jimmy embraced the suck one last time.
The endless road stretched before him, but instead of feeling dejected, he felt one last bit of resolve dwell deep inside him. His back muscles ached, and his shoulder went numb from the rucksack's weight, but he pressed on. He staggered down the road like a man possessed.
"Fuck that gnome," he scoffed under his breath and just kept going.
16
Jimmy's pain was his only companion. The hallucinated garden gnome hadn't appeared in hours... or minutes. Jimmy's sense of time and space was nonexistent. The only thing in his awareness was pain and the mission. He'd come too far to give up, but the temptation to quit was ever-present.
One foot in front of the other, he trod. The sweat on his feet mingled with the blisters on his feet, causing them to burn. His legs moved under extreme protest, but his gait was haggard and choppy. His battered feet struck the ground flat-footed as heel-to-toe strides were increasing the rubbing effect.
He dangled the pulse rifle by its strap with his right arm to give his left a break before switching his grip. The eight-pound rifle might as well have been made of tungsten and weighed a ton. Once again, with no shortage of effort, he hefted the rifle across his shoulders, letting his spinal column carry the load.
His vision closed in like a tunnel, but Jimmy kept going. The road opened up to a clearing up ahead, and the visage of an M-37 tactical vehicle came into view.
Was this the end? No. It couldn't be. It was a dirty mind game, Jimmy reckoned. For all he knew, it was just another water point.
Checking his canteens, he found they were half full. His beleaguered mind struggled to piece together a logical thought, but in a brief moment of clarity, he decided to keep moving. With water to spare and no more dry socks to change into, there was no point in stopping. Jimmy surmised that he might not have the strength to stand back up the next time he stopped to rest, so he made the tough call to bypass the rest stop and keep going.
"Hey!" a voice called out. "Where are you going?"
Jimmy stumbled to a halt. He then shuffled his feet to turn with choppy steps before locking eyes with the cadre NCO.
"I have water, and I'm out of socks," Jimmy mumbled with labored breath. "I need to keep going."
"This is the finish line, genius," the NCO said sarcastically. "Hand me your rifle before you drop it on the road."
Jimmy blinked in confusion. Was it another trick? Was the death march truly over? Unconvinced but unwilling to argue, Jimmy rolled the rifle off his shoulders and held it out for the NCO to take it from him.
"Drop your gear over there and go inside the classroom," the NCO said, snatching the rifle from Jimmy.
"What classroom, Sergeant?" Jimmy asked incredulously. From his narrowed field of view, he saw the vehicle and a few neatly arrayed sets of rucksacks with field gear lying on the grass nearby.
"Turn around, soldier," the NCO said flatly, betraying no emotion.
Jimmy craned his neck to see a nondescript building across the field. It was a typical military construct with a building number on the side of a placard. Still in disbelief, Jimmy limped over to the row of rucksacks. There were three of them, meaning he'd reached fourth place. He didn't know if that was good, or if he'd arrived too late.
He slowly unstrapped his gear from his body, feeling the sudden relief of pressure off his back.
He then shuffled his aching feet to the building, his pain denying him the pleasure of a victorious smile. He slipped inside the building to find a typical classroom. Rows of desks and chairs filled the space. Three soldiers were seated quietly up front.
Neither spoke nor moved a muscle as Jimmy approached the others, finding a desk in the second row. The other three candidates were in various stages of fighting sleep. One nodded off and caught himself, while another stretched his arms above his head to keep the blood flowing. The third candidate was lying face down on the desk in a puddle of his own drool.
The lights were dim in the room, and the air was pleasant. Had it not been for his pain level and his sweat-soaked fatigues, Jimmy would have been perfectly happy to stay in the room indefinitely.
Eventually, the room began to fill with other candidates as they trickled in from the death march. Ramirez popped in with Jacobs in tow. Jimmy locked eyes with Jacobs as the tall man sat toward the back of the classroom.
"Where's Etta?" Jimmy asked.
Jacobs merely shook his head with a solemn expression. That told Jimmy all he needed to know. Only three out of five of the original dream team had made it to the end.
Sergeant First Class Ferguson entered the room from another door at the fore of the classroom. He was accompanied by cadre NCOs with data pads stacked in their arms. The NCOs fanned out, distributing the data pads to each candidate and placing them on the desks before them.
"Do we have everyone?" Ferguson asked the other NCOs.
"Copy that," one of the NCOs, a staff sergeant, replied.
"All right, people. Listen up." Ferguson shifted his attention to the candidates. "In front of you is a data pad. Your last task in selection is to summarize your experience during selection in three to five paragraphs. Tell us what you thought about the course, anything you learned, or any advice you might offer to someone who is considering going to selection."
Ferguson melted out of the room without another word with the NCOs behind him. The last NCO out of the room toggled the dimmer switch, causing the lighting to dim to a soft glow.
Jimmy did as he was told. He powered on the data pad and found it had defaulted to a text screen. With shaky fingers, he wrapped his fingers across the virtual keypad. But his mind was blurry, and he could barely think. He wrote of his team and how they worked so well together. He wrote about the constant pain and the ever-present urge to quit.
Then he passed out.
"Wakey-wakey, people!" SFC Ferguson's voice cut through Jimmy's slumber. His head shot up from the desk, and he winced from the brightness of the lights. "Listen up for your names. It's time to find out if you all got selected."
Everyone perked up when Ferguson spoke. It was the moment of truth, and Jimmy felt fear set in. After everything he'd been through, completing the course but not being selected would be the worst thing possible. His adrenaline spiked slightly, eliminating a portion of his profound fatigue, and his eyes locked on to Ferguson like a heat-seeking missile.
"When I call your name, stand and exit the door behind me. Cadre NCOs will tell you what your next steps will be," Ferguson said.
The names were called one by one. As a candidate heard their names, they got up and walked out the door.
"Specialist Jacobs," Ferguson called out.
Jimmy felt a pang of relief knowing his teammate's name was called. Jacobs had grown on Jimmy despite hating the man initially, and Jimmy was glad to see his name called.
The room was left with fewer than six remaining candidates, including Ramirez and Jimmy. Dejection set in. Jimmy's world seemed to spin, and he shot Ramirez an empathetic look. She reciprocated, shaking her head somberly.
He'd failed in the end. All he had to do was complete the course with a favorable rating, but Ferguson put down his data pad and would call no more names.
Jimmy buried his face into his palms, trying not to sob. He never failed to accomplish anything he tried in the Army, but his streak of success melted away before his eyes.
That's when the door creaked open, and a familiar face appeared.
"Are you done, Sergeant?" Captain Hawthorne asked
"All done, sir," Ferguson confirmed.
Hawthorne then scanned the room, found Jimmy with his eyes, and grimaced. Jimmy felt like he had disappointed his own father. He knew the captain was counting on him to get selected so he could deploy, but he'd evidently let the man down in spectacular fashion.
"Stiegel, come in here," Hawthorne ordered before slipping back out the door. Jimmy willed his body to move, trudging his way to the door with burning muscles. He walked through the door and into a small hallway beyond.
"Let's go collect your gear," Hawthorne said.
"Are you taking me to the spaceport, sir?" Jimmy asked, fighting back the tears of failure.
"What?" Hawthorne tilted his head.
"My name never got called, sir. I didn't get selected," Jimmy said.
"I'm here because your name wasn't called," Hawthorne said with a furrowed brow. "The ones left inside that room all got selected. Not the other way around."
Hawthorne handed Jimmy a data pad with a document on the screen.
Jimmy rubbed his blurry eyes and glanced at the screen. They were deployment orders with his name on them.
"I-I don't understand," Jimmy was incredulous.
"You will soon enough," Hawthorne said, beckoning Jimmy to follow. Jimmy stepped before Hawthorne stopped dead in his tracks and spun about. "Oh, I almost forgot."
Hawthorne pulled a tiny object out of his pocket and handed it to Jimmy. When Jimmy's hazy vision finally focused on the object, he saw three chevrons denoting sergeant stripes.
"You're out of uniform, Sergeant Stiegel." Hawthorne winked.
17
Jimmy limped inside the barracks, dragging his gear like a toddler trying to pull his favorite blanket across the floor. Captain Hawthorne was waiting outside, but allowed Jimmy to shower before collecting his effects.
The bunks were all bare except for the five others who'd beaten the odds and gotten selected. Those whose names were called had already been cleared out.
Jacobs, Etta, and Stoltzfus' beds were stripped, and their wall lockers had already been cleaned. Jimmy frowned. Then he noticed Ramirez's wall locker was left open, and the shower was already running.
Jimmy grinned, knowing she'd made it to the end. He stripped to nothing, stuffing his sweat-soaked fatigues into a laundry bag before grabbing his hygiene kit and slipping on his shower sandals.
He limped into the shower room and saw Ramirez leaning with her hands planted against the wall, letting the water splash down over her back while her wet hair drooped forward.
"Can I get your back one last time?" Jimmy asked.
Ramirez's eyes shot at Jimmy, and she looked genuinely surprised, her expression a mix of shock and disbelief.
"I thought you didn't make it!" she gasped, before hobbling toward him and hugging him deeply. Even though neither wore a stitch of clothing, there was nothing awkward about the gesture. She released her grip and then slapped a soapy washcloth into his hand. "Get to work, Corporal!"
"It's ‘Sergeant,’ actually," Jimmy said. "I just got my promotion orders."
Ramirez's eyes fluttered, and her smile broadened. "I knew of all people, you would make it through this. That's why I chose you to be the only one to help me wash my back."
She turned about, pulling her short black hair forward and out of the way. Jimmy started to gently scrub her back, careful not to get too close to the red marks left behind from the rucksack strap that had dug into her shoulders.
"That's why?" Jimmy was astounded. "I figured it was because I wasn't a creep."
