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#Post#: 4557--------------------------------------------------
The Gunny's Christmas 2020
By: Thorgrimm Date: December 25, 2020, 8:13 am
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The Gunny’s Christmas
“Huh... it doesn’t feel like Christmas,” Miles said as he
pondered the current situation. He, Jerome, and Ogre were
sitting around a fire near Miles’ M1-E5 Abrams. It was 25
December, 2368.
“Maybe because we spent the whole day getting shot at?” Jerome
said as he raised an eyebrow.
“No, not that, it’s more like we’re missing something.” As Miles
finished his sentence Chris Coleman wandered out of the Abrams,
wearing a threadbare Santa hat and carrying an armful of
packages wrapped in dirty brown paper.
“Merry Christmas!” Chris said with all of the enthusiasm of,
well, a child on Christmas morning as he passed the presents
around.
“Ah, there it is,” Miles said with a rotten smile.
Jerome favored his subordinate with a confused glance. “Miles,
you and Chris have been spending too much time with each other
if you expected that, lieutenant.”
“Ho Ho Ho,” Chris said, with a perfect deadpan delivery. “Santa
says that commanding officers who make snide remarks about his
subordinate officer and his crew do not get anything for
Christmas.”
“Aren’t you a little old for all this, Coleman?” Jerome asked
with a smile creasing his face.
“Aww, c’mon Jerome, it’s Christmas!” Chris exclaimed. He might
have been getting close to thirty, but at that moment he easily
seemed twenty years younger. He tossed Ogre his box and handed
the Colonel his own. Miles grumbled and shuffled around in his
pack, pulling out another half-dozen packages that he
distributed around the circle.
“Now I feel bad, I didn’t get you guys anything,” Ogre said
sadly.
“Don’t worry about it,” Chris said, reassuring Ogre, “It’s
nothing big.”
Ogre opened his packages from his superiors. Both were of
pre-war alcohol, and they must have cost a fortune. Still, he
was a little irked at the implications. "Put together, you two
have more money than God, and you just buy me booze? Who do you
think I am?" Ogre demanded with a smirk.
"The better question is why do we think someone like you can
appreciate pre-war whiskey?" Jerome asked, with a big grin on
his face.
“I don’t know about you, Jerome, but I figured he was
experienced enough with alcohol to at least have some idea of
the quality,” Miles offered, a hint of smugness creeping into
his voice.
“Has it occurred to you two,” Ogre began, “that no one
celebrates Christmas anymore?”
“So? Almost no one prints books anymore either, but it doesn’t
mean it’s a good idea to stop learning how to read.”
Jerome tore open the wrapping paper on the gift Miles had given
him. He let out a low whistle. “Sweet Jesus! Starship Troopers!
How in the hell did you find this? I’ve never seen a copy, and
believe me, I have looked!” Miles just grinned a rotten grin.
Miles opened his gift from Jerome. A copy of The Legend of
Sleepy Hollow.
Ogre groaned when he saw the gifts. “You two and your books.”
“That, PFC,” Miles said, as a way of explanation, “is why you
got booze.”
Porter eyed Miles’ book with open interest. “Can I check that
out when you’re done, El Tee?”
“Maybe you oughtta open your stuff before you ask,” Miles
suggested. When Porter did, there was no mistaking the boyish
wonder that crept over the Private’s face as he saw his own copy
of the book from Jerome, and a copy of Fahrenheit 451 from
Miles.
Ogre opened his gifts. Jerome had gotten him a (no doubt very
expensive) bottle of pre-war after-shave, and Miles had bought a
similarly priced gold pocket watch.
Miles leaned into the turret of the Abrams, and emerged with a
humidor. Inside were his best cigars, each one worth a small
fortune. He opened it and passed them around the fire, until
only three were left in the humidor. He lit up and kicked back,
a wide grin on his face.
“Merry Christmas.”
***
Kevin had been making his rounds when he noticed something that
he thought he would never see again, someone exchanging gifts on
the 25th of December. the Gunny had been led to believe that
nearly all of the people had abandoned all forms of religion.
Something about how a real god would not have allowed hell to
reign on Earth. Kevin had been saddened by that news, but could
not really blame the survivors.
Kevin walked over to the group surrounding the campfire and
caused a bit of consternation in the group.
Jerome got to his feet as fast as he could, damn near burning
himself with his cigar as he did so. He snapped to attention
and, cigar still firmly clamped between his teeth, and managed a
muffled, “Gunnery Sergeant, sir! We weren’t expecting you!”
Miles stifled a laugh, slowly rising to his feet to greet the
Gunny as well.
Kevin just smiled and said, “At ease Colonel. I just happened to
notice you all doing something I never expected to see on this
day, exchanging gifts. I did not know there were any Christians
left, after the purges at the end of the war.”
Jerome just grinned, remembering to take the cigar out of his
mouth. “Well sir, one of my men just pointed that out as well. I
guess old habits die hard in the Forge.”
“Ah, I figured as much. Maybe one day someone will fill me in on
the local history, but not today. Today is a holy day. A time
for reflection on what this day really means to us.”
“So I’ve heard,” Jerome said with a grin.
Kevin smiled at Jerome’s reply, “To each his own Colonel.
However, I do wish to tell you all a tale about an act of
courage and valor that had happened on this day, so many years
ago.” You could almost see the Gunny beginning to fade into the
past to retrieve his tale.
“It was the year of 2061 and the Chinese had invaded North
America through Alaska and the AADP was caught flat-footed by
this invasion. The only troops available were the US Marines of
the Sixth Marine Division...”
***
A deep booming roar could be plainly heard. Climbing up on the
side of the armored car, the Gunny looked forward. Another line
of Chinese infantry was setting up astride the track a hundred
yards forward. Moreover, beyond them, not a half a mile away,
barely visible, Kevin saw the sharp flashes of rifle and
machine-gun fire. Several seconds later a patter of bullets
flashed past.
A gust of wind swirled through the light scattering of trees,
drawing the mist away. An entire Regiment of Marines, in a
hedgehog formation, had been formed down in the gentle drop of
the valley ahead. Kevin unsnapped his field glasses and then
raised them, ignoring the hail of bullets flashing past him from
the Chinese infantry, who were trying to surround the relief
train.
From all sides of the hedgehog, down in the valley, the Chinese
were surging in, assault rifles firing. In a measured pace rifle
fire rippled down the line, holding the Chinese at bay. In the
center of the hedgehog Kevin saw a cluster of men around their
command LAV’s, which had run dry of fuel. The guidon of the 6th
Marine Division was fluttering alongside the dark blue flag
marked with the two stars of a Major General.
“General!” The Gunny screamed out, slamming his fist against the
side of the armored car in impotent rage.
The men working on the track struggled to pound the spikes in,
to anchor the rail in place so they could advance the last short
distance and rescue the trapped Marines. Rifle butts shattered
from the blows, barrels bent, but ever so slowly the spikes
inched their way into the ice covered wood.
With every passing second more and more Chinese infantry
filtered out alongside the trains, and dense infantry columns
moved in to fill the few hundred yards that separated the Marine
Regiment from safety. Kevin swung his glasses to the south,
coming across the field he saw the Chinese setting up battery
after battery of light mountain guns, just waiting to tear the
Marine Regiment apart.
Tears of frustration clouded Kevin’s eyes.
From across the field, screened by a column of infantry, a long
line of more mountain guns were being set up, to prevent any
movement by the Regiment or the relief attempt. The hedgehog
began to move. Another flurry of artillery fire crashed into the
line as two more guns opened up. Casualties went down, men broke
formation to help the wounded.
“Walk or die, no helping the wounded!” Kevin heard the
Divisional commander say to his troops, they were that close,
yet that far. On the flanks the Chinese charged in, regardless
of losses, their officer’s bugles ringing out. A vast formation
turned and started from the south racing to close with the
Marines.
The Marine rifle fire rose to a crescendo. Chinese infantry
dropped, flailing in their deaths. The other troops charged on,
leaping over the dead and dying, screaming their battle cries.
The charge crashed into the southwest corner of the hedgehog,
the line collapsed and the Chinese poured into the hole. Part of
the reserve, turning about face, raced back in a solid line,
assault rifles at the level, desperate to seal the breach.
Like carrion drawn to death, the Chinese charged towards the
breach, struggling to crack the line clean apart. A second line
of mountain guns was setting up, behind the first. The artillery
Crews swung their pieces to face east, back up the hill towards
the train.
Kevin could see that the breach was closing, but nearly an
entire Infantry Battalion was gone. The hedgehog curved in as if
a surgeon had sliced off a part of a body to save the rest. A
knot of survivors, outside the protection of the formation,
fought on and were finally swarmed under. The hedgehog lurched
forward, although it was starting to come apart as it swept up
the slope, racing to beat the guns before they were ready to
fire.
Groaning in anguish Kevin could not look away, The entire east
side of the hedgehog seemed to go down, and the formation
stopped cold, as if it had struck a stone wall.
At that moment the second line of mountain guns opened fire, the
artillery rounds screamed up the slope. The firing line in front
of Kevin was riddled, bodies disintegrating, tumbling in the
air. An explosion of sparks shot off of the locomotive as it was
hit by shrapnel from the Chinese artillery fire. All Kevin could
do was watch in numbed silence.
The hedgehog was going fast. The southwest corner was torn open
again, with Chinese pouring in. The eastern line was gone, the
field a carpet of white-clad bodies, their winter clothing
stained red. Hundreds of wounded were screaming, crawling
towards the rescuers. The first line of artillery kept up it's
deadly fire.
Kevin could see all that was left was a small knot of men,
grouped around him, the Divisional commander, the last of the
reserve, and the survivors running in from the disintegrating
lines. The Marine Officers struggled, pushing their men back
into a firing line, trying to plug the holes with bodies. The
air was alive with rifle and artillery rounds. The artillery
facing the trains continued to pound the line cresting the hill.
Kevin watched as the Chinese finally overcame the Marine
defenders of the hedgehog, and all he could do as they killed
his father was watch, watch and weep. The Gunny watched as they
charged in, rifles firing. A final defiant fusillade flashed out
from the Marine defenders, but its firepower was very weak. For
a moment Kevin saw him, standing alone, his assault rifle raised
in defiance, and then there was nothing left but the flashing of
the Chinese rifle fire.
“Come on, to hell with the M307’s, run for it!” Kevin shouted
out. The city of Anchorage was in flames behind him,
illuminating the nightmarish scene. The long line of trains was
finally ready to move, the wreckage cleared, the track repaired
farther up the line where several Chinese infantry detachments
had been dropped by helo in a vain attempt to cut the rail line.
Behind him, the 6 M307’s were still firing down the slope at the
advancing Chinese infantry, all the while Chinese infantry was
moving in on all sides. A mile farther out, a Chinese column was
racing parallel to the rail line. The M307 crews fired one last
barrage, then abandoned the guns and ran frantically towards the
train.
Kevin looked back at where his father had died, and except for
the occasional flash of rifle fire, he could see nothing. He
waved to the engineer leaning out of the locomotive cab, a
shudder ran through the the train.
“Goodbye,” was all Kevin could whisper as he climbed onto the
car.
***
The Gunny’s eyes cleared once more and he began, “We had gotten
out, just barely though. I was on the last train out of
Anchorage, and I felt sick at the thought of it. The bastards
had taken most of Alaska, for almost nothing, and over fifteen
thousand US troops were either dead or missing.
"The troops on board the trains had been talking excitedly about
their escape, finally able to breathe easy after the last tense
hours of holding till the rest of the AADP armed forces could
withdraw. I knew that once the excitement of the escape had worn
off, the cold reality would settle in. Our forces were in
disarray, and in headlong flight.
“I remember looking forward. All the way to the horizon, moving
off into the evening, was train after train, diesel exhaust
billowing along the path. and because of the sacrifice of my
father and his troops nearly ninety thousand men were riding
east, escaping, at least temporarily, the death closing in
around them.”
They could actually see a faint light glowing from Kevin’s eyes.
He always loved to tell this tale, it gave him courage to keep
the faith and to do what was right.
Jerome was the first to recover from the Gunny’s incredibly
depressing tale. “That was uh... quite a story, sir.”
“Yes, yes it is. It always inspires me, so I love to tell it
whenever I can. Especially on Christmas. However, for some
reason I did not seem to get many party invites. Oh well, their
loss.” Kevin said with a big smile on his face.
“Keep the faith Colonel. Moreover, a very merry Christmas to you
all,” With that Kevin once again began his rounds whistling
Jingle Bells.
***
Ogre put his arm in the air. “Anyone else insanely depressed
now?” Slowly, Jerome and the rest of the tank crew followed
suit.
“I’m willing to bet oh, let’s say, all of my money on the reason
he was never invited to many parties.” Miles said with a smile.
“Even if I had the money, I wouldn’t take that bet. That’s a
sucker bet if there ever was one.” Jerome said with a grimace.
“I think I finally get why people always get depressed around
Christmas... I think we can trace it all back to him... or at
least his stories,” Jerome offered.
“I think, or at least hope, the Gunny means well. I mean, he
wouldn’t come here to depress us... would he?” Miles asked in
confusion.
“I didn’t realize people wearing Santa hats could be depressed.
How in God’s name did you find such a thing, anyway?” Jerome
asked.
“And are you aware you look ridiculous in it?” Ogre inquired.
“Yes, and it took some scrounging," Chris said with a smirk.
“However, since Christmas was right around the corner at the
time the bombs hit, it was easier than you’d think.”
“It looks beat to hell.”
“Not a lot of pre-war stuff doesn’t look all beat to hell,”
Jerome offered.
“Anyhow, I’ve got a cure for Gunny-induced depression,” Miles
said with a smile. “Ogre, pass some of your booze around. Let’s
drink ourselves happy.”
“But I don't wanna share it!” Ogre moaned.
“It was 'just booze' a second ago,” Jerome pointed out.
“But it's still expensive booze!” Ogre shot back.
“C'mon Ogre, 'tis the season, after all.” Chris said with a
greedy smile.
“Start sharing, or I'll have the Gunny tell you some more of his
war stories,” Jerome said as he threatened Ogre.
Ogre grumbled, but gave in. “Fine,” Then mumbled something that
sounded suspiciously like, “Hope you choke on it.”
Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year!
Cheers, Thor
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