A plasma coated fragmentation round whined through the air as it descended
into the besieged barricade. Men ducked for cover amid calls of "incoming!"
The whine increased to a scream, nearly obliterating the sound of small
arms fire as the men traded rounds with their enemy.

Most were in good cover by the time the round landed. But a new recruit in
his first action, fearing that his position was the intended target,
panicked and burst from the safety of the piled sandbags and ran for the
blast doors. The blast as the round impacted ten feet in front of him
punched his body back into the fox hole. It lay there smoking slightly,
twisted and torn where lethal shards of plasteel had torn through his body
armor and flesh with frightening ease. Sightless eyes stared up at the
drifting smoke, jaw slack, as if trying to figure out what he had done
wrong.

Sergeant Campbell knew. He knew very well. This was not the first boy to
die like this, and sadly it would not be the last either. Not by a long
shot. But the plasma mortars were not his problem. They were too far away
and too well concealed for him to exact revenge for the lad. Campbell
didn't even know the recruit's name. But then he hardly knew his own name
these days.

A slight, quiet spoken man with a studious frown, he was not what most
people would identify as a 'hero'. But any who saw him in action were awed
by his calm nerves and uncanny judgment under fire. His men worshiped him
as "The father of all space-troupers' and even his superiors treated him
with the respect of an equal. His orders were never shouted, but stated.
No-one ever thought of questioning or disobeying. There was a weight, a
menace to his voice that precluded all argument.

The Silrainian war had waged for three long years, and Campbell had been in
the thick of it from the start. Even before the conflict had been granted
the official status of a 'War'.
He had been involved in many victories, and just as many defeats. His
platoon was one of the few to survive the massacre at Alorius 12, where
twelve thousand souls were lost. Their survival largely attributed to his
leadership skills.

Now here he was again looking at a disastrous defeat.

The space station Zelda 5 had been a refuge from the war for three years.
Here both races had lived relatively harmoniously. Many Silranian refugees
had sought asylum here, much to the disgust of their rulers. Now Zelda 5
was paying the price for taking in those refugees.

Less than a week after Campbell and his men had arrived on a routine
inspection tour, the Silranian strike force had landed. Huge troop ships
had disgorged soldiers into the hangers before any resistance could be
mounted. They killed everyone they saw, human and Silranian alike.

Campbell and his men had no chance of holding them, so they had fallen back
and built hasty barricades to try to check their advance until help could
arrive. The sergeant doubted it would arrive soon enough.

So now in the astro-park, he and his men fought the Silranians where a
week ago children of both races played. The great domed chamber was so
reminiscent of a park on Earth that Campbell sometimes wondered if this was
not all some twisted dream.

Great care had been taken in constructing this park. It was sculpted to
resemble Hamstead Heath in London, England. Sloping hills swept down to a
serpentine lake, with a border of weeping trees. Cement and graveled paths
wound their way through gardens and shrubberys. It was an idyllic place,
once.

Now rows of sandbags and hastily dug trenches carved their lines across one
side of the park where the defenders had dug in to try and hold the
Silranains at bay until Starforce reinforcements could arrive.

Hot rounds scythed over Campbell's head and tore through the wall behind.
The air seared and tufts of sandbags smoldered as his position was
saturated with small arms fire.
"Hell I could be in any number of battles, from now right back through the
Twentieth Century and you would never know the difference. So much for
progress."

Breathing a little heavily Campbell sat with his back against the sandbags
and took a sip of water from his canteen, then wiped his mouth on the back
of a grimy hand. He calmly slapped in another battery magazine into his
pulse rifle
And rolled back into position to face the enemy. It was this steadfast calm
in the face of hostile fire that inspired his men. All thought him blessed,
or without a shred of fear. But in reality he had just stopped caring. Too
much death and destruction, friends lost, lives shattered. It had taken its
toll, but silently, so that now, although he registered death, and was
annoyed by it, he did not grieve for those lost to a bullet, of plasma
round. Even the ignominious deaths from accidents in space failed to touch
him these days.

His own death was something foggy, just out of reach, but longed for with
whatever passion remained. The release of eternal sleep. Freedom from the
faces of those lost, and those killed by his own hand. From the fear he
could not acknowledge that gnawed constantly at his gut. He had tried
suicide, pointed his rifle at his own head and caressed the trigger. But he
had been unable to go through with it. Some sense of duty to the men he was
in charge of, prevented him from taking the easy way out. Nor could he just
stand up in the middle of the fire-fight and wait to be cut down. He had
some survival instinct left, and it was finely honed. All he could do was
continue to live the nightmare and pray that it would end for him soon.

A man to his left popped up and sprayed the far end of the park with
sporadic plasma pulses, more in frustration and fear than in hope of
actually hitting anything. But the tell-tale flare of the returning fire
located the enemy for Campbell, and he used it to deadly effect. Firing
triple bursts, he sent death out into the bushes that lined the park's
perimeter, and had the satisfaction of seeing two Silranians fall. The next
time the young trouper popped up to plaster the far wall with wasted
rounds, no fire answered him from that quarter.

More plasma frags rained down on the beleaguered defenders positions,
blasting any that were not in secure cover. Screams and curses filled the
air. Cries of 'medic' became and almost continuous chant to the back beat
of explosions and gunfire. Acrid smoke billowed across the park as the
ventilation systems worked overtime trying to clean the air. They were not
designed for such a load and the filters began to clog. Soon the system
would cease to function. Both sides would then risk suffocation from the
deadly build-up of fumes.

Out of the corner of his eye Campbell saw movement that was not military,
nor was it panicked as any civilian would be. Alerted, he twisted his body
to get a better look, ready to bring his weapon to bear in a heartbeat. The
movement repeated. A small black and white shape wormed its way across a
section of churned earth and debris, and jumped clumsily onto the back of a
fallen infantryman.
It sniffed curiously at the gaping hole in the man's back before scampering
off.

A dog. A puppy to be precise. Campbell remembered it from a couple of days
ago. The same puppy had wandered through their barracks looking for
tid-bits. It was very cute and even Campbell had softened, and fondled the
little dog's ears. A brief ray of sunlight in the desolation that was his
soul. What it was doing out here on the battlefield was any body's guess.
"Poor blighter. Lost in a hell he can't possibly understand, and all he
wants is his master, or some food." Campbell turned his attention back to
the battle. "Well there'll be plenty for him after this."

Another movement, also not military, caught his eye. This time Campbell
cursed. A young Silranian male child, stumbled through the carnage and torn
dirt as seemingly oblivious of the battle as the pup. At this age there was
little difference between him and a human child. This one even wore the
cast off jeans and shirt of some human family obviously well off enough to
discard serviceable clothes. Through the debris and fallen bodies he chased
his puppy as it dodged through the barricades. Bullets sizzled past them
tearing at sandbags and ricocheting off the plasteel walls. The child
ducked and dodged as best he could while keeping his eyes firmly on the
scampering black and white shape scrambling its way out of yet another
smoking hole.

"Here's your chance" said a little voice inside Campbell's head. "Run to
their rescue. No-one could survive a dash across the open to reach them.
Die the ultimate hero's death; trying to save a child and his pet." The
warrior saving innocents, giving his life in the heat of battle. "Yeah that
sounds good."

But as he made to dash out of his position, to make his final dash in this
life, a more caustic voice barked at him, "Yeah save the little bugger and
what will he do? In two years he'll be blowing the survivors of this mess
to smithereens while they sleep in their barracks. Sod him, let the
bastards kill their own. It'll save us the job."

He turned his attention back to the battle just in time to catch a flash of
reflected light from the little ditch that drained water from the lake. The
water in it was long gone, the result of a high explosive round. The decks
below were flooded as the bottom of the lake was blown out. Campbell had
ordered the ditch filled during a lull in the fighting, but it had not
been done. The reasons why were irrelevant now. The enemy had discovered
it, and they were making good use of their find. The ditch wound
dangerously close to the defender's barricade. The Silranians would have a
reasonable amount of cover right up until they were within charging
distance of Campbell and his men.
Growling softly to himself he grabbed a bag of grenades and took a deep
breath.

Bunching his legs under him, with the bag in one hand, pulse rifle in the
other, Campbell sprang for the rim of the sandbag barricade. He rolled
across the top a heartbeat before the incoming rounds tore through the
sacking, shredding the top layer and sending fountains of sand into the
air. The sergeant lay panting on the other side as sand dribbled down on
him. He smiled and muttered, "Too slow buddy" before starting his
tortuously slow crawl towards the next trench.

Bullets whizzed over him, seeking his flesh. But piled sand and dead bodies
provided enough cover for him to crawl, albeit slowly. A frag round
exploded near him, causing him to duck reflexively as fragments showered
all around him. Campbell was only too away that each time he stopped the
enemy crept ever closer along the ditch. Soon they would be close enough to
charge the defenses, and he knew there was no way his men would be able to
repel their numbers. So he gritted his teeth and continued dragging himself
through the blood and gore splattered mud.

Acrid black smoke billowed over him invading his lungs and causing him to
cough violently. But it was a God-send, for it obscured him from the enemy
long enough for him to surge to his feet and run for the trench.

But the gifts of the Gods are fleeting and fickle. Campbell dived for the
security of the earth as the curtain parted, leaving him in full view of
the enemy. The air burst from his lungs puffing sand into his face. The bag
of grenades dragged on his arm and the sharp edges on his rifle gouged
into his chest. Pain seemed to infuse his body, and with it a tiredness
that begged for rest. He lay gasping and cursed the folly that made him
join the army ten years ago.

Movement and a groan brought his head up, and he found himself staring into
the eyes on a man from his squad. Pain filled those young eyes, but now
hope too as his sergeant crawled closer. Campbell returned the man's smile
as he recognized him. The best point man in the platoon. Many times his
keen senses and quick reflexes had saved the men following. This was not
someone to leave out in the open, a man worth saving.

He crawled to the wounded soldier's side and placed a reassuring hand on
his shoulder. The sergeant barely heard the rattle of gunfire, but he saw
and felt the impact as the rounds meant for him slammed into the young
infantryman. The soldier arched in a brief spasm of pain, then the hope
faded from his eyes, along with his life.

Campbell choked back an anguished sob. It had been two years since he had
cried over the death of one of his men, and this man if there was any,
deserved tears. But many more would die if the Silranians in the ditch got
close enough to the barricades to swarm over it. So without a backward
glance he continued crawling towards the trench. It was close now, the
trench that wound nearest to the ditch, soon it would be near enough for a
hopping dash.

More smoke billowed past, but it was not thick enough or low enough to
provide cover. Two high explosive rounds in close succession landed just
outside the defender's perimeter. The earth heaved, slamming Campbell in
the guts and sending him flying. The little air remaining in his lungs
grunted out as he impacted on a pile of sandbags. The bag of grenades
landed on top of him, but wasn't felt. Blood oozed from a wound in his side
and from cuts on his face.

But the fortunes of war smiled, if a little grimly, on the battered
sergeant. The blast had taken him to the very rim of the trench he sought.
He lay now head and shoulders hanging down inside the wall, while his legs
lay pathetically limp, still exposed above.

Consciousness returned like a blessed curse and with it came pain. Pain
everywhere but mostly in his side. Despite his grogginess the sergeant's
survival instinct told him he was not safe yet. Clenching his teeth against
the agony, he pulled himself further into the trench until his lower body
flopped over the side and slid to safety at the bottom. The stabbing flash
of pain banished the fog, reminding him of the wound in his side.
His other wounds were superficial and could be tended to later, if he
survived.

Sitting with his back to the sandbag wall, trying not to pant too much, he
slowly groped up his left side with a shaking right hand. A blinding flash
of pain told him he had located the wound. When the whiteness had receded
and he could breathe again, he resumed his finger search confirming his
suspicion.
A long twisted shard of plasteel was lodged halfway up his rib-cage.
Shrapnel from the mortars. It had to come out. Not the right thing to do,
he knew. It could be twisted inside him and drawing it out could do more
damage. It would almost certainly increase the bleeding. But he could not
fight with it sticking out like that, and calling for a medic would
probably cost that man his life. Campbell would not let that happen.

His men called him fearless and brave, but at least he had a weapon and he
could answer incoming fire. The medics had nothing except a single-minded
devotion to their duty as a shield. Campbell thought they were all slightly
insane, you'd have to be running around a battlefield without a weapon. But
he had the highest respect for them and never stinted on giving them the
best possible covering fire when they were at work tending the wounded.

His right hand trembled annoyingly as it lightly grasped the plassteel.
Campbell could feel it shift inside him, grating on the bone. "Oh man, this
is going to hurt." Everything in him screamed to rip the bloody thing out
in one quick, violent move, but he could not. Instead he drew it out in
short teasing moves that racked his body with white hot waves of pain. The
sharp edges gouged into his fingers, still he felt nothing but the burning
agony in his side. And then it was gone.

Sergeant Campbell sagged back against the wall panting like a dog who has
run a marathon in the hot sun. his stomach clenched, threatening vomit, but
he forced it back down. The world spun back into focus, and with it came
the sounds of battle. It was not over yet, but from a quick glance the
experienced man could tell his side was winning now. That would all change
if the Silranians in the ditch reached the trenches.

Brought back to his mission Campbell gritted his teeth and picked up the
bag of grenades. It seemed to have grown in weight and banged heavily
against his legs, gone rubbery from fatigue. A quick drink seemed to help a
little, and he stumbled along the trench trying not to look at the men
lying torn and still, their blood turning the muddy bottom into a foul
smelling quagmire.

The enemy was close now. Campbell could hear chittered orders being passed
down the line. At any moment they would sweep out and swarm the defenders.
With steady fingers he flipped open the bag and drew out a handful of
grenades. The pain subsided to a dull ache as adrenaline started to flow
once more. He quickly set up a ragged line of grenades in front of him and
risked a quick range-finding peek over the wall of the trench.

The fighting had all but ceased in this sector, the survivors rushing to
help others had left the defenses here weak, just as the enemy had planned.
Two men, both wounded, manned a machine gun but had little to fire at,
while a small group of others tried to patch each other up as best they
could, and gave thanks for their survival. Neither group could see the
Silranians and would not know of their presence until it was too late.

Screaming for covering fire sergeant Campbell launched to his feet and
threw the first grenade. It was still in the air as he threw a second after
it. The others, shocked by their sergeant's sudden appearance, sat stunned.
They did not fire, as there was nothing to fire at. All stared at the man
desperately flinging grenades into the ditch.

All doubts were silenced as the first of the Silranians scrambled to get
clear of the bombs. He was too slow. The explosion tore through him from
behind rending him like wheat under a millstone. Screams followed as
explosions ripped through the air, blasting the Silranians packed tightly
in the concealment of the ditch. It became their grave as they panicked and
fought each other to break free from the slaughter. Those who made it to
open ground were cut down by the machine gunners and riflemen, now fully
joined in the fight. The slaughter was complete, none survived.

Seeing their gambit foiled, the rest of the Silranian force panicked and
fled back towards the hangers to re-group, pursued by yelling and whooping
infantrymen. Only small pockets remained to snipe from their concealment.
These pockets were systematically weeded out until no Silranains remained
alive.

Sergeant Campbell dragged himself from the trench and stood gazing at the
carnage with a face carved from granite. The bag of grenades was empty, his
pulse rifle lay in the muck in the bottom of the trench. Smoke billowed
around him like a funeral shroud. He turned his back on the gore and walked
slowly back towards the command center.

The men watched him in awe. Like a giant figure out of legend he stalked
through the debris and bodies, untouched by all around him. Occasional
bullets whizzed past him, and some would swear later that they saw some
bounce off him, as he searched through the ruins. Drawn like moths to a
flame, his men followed, but at a distance, as if afraid his dread look
would be turned upon them. Hushed questions passed from one man to another
as they followed entrapped by the spell of the man's stony calm.

They watched him in silence as he stood and looked down at a small crumpled
heap of blood stain rags. A gentle boot flipped it over and the men cringed
as a child's arm flung back, lifeless. The sergeant nodded to himself and
turned away.

Then they all saw him stop, and stoop hesitantly to uncover another body.
This one was smaller, and splotched black and white, crushed under the
weight of a fallen infantryman. The men stared in total surprise as the
sergeant sagged to his knees, then sat cross legged beside the crumpled
body. Tenderly he reached out and gathered it up. Clutching the small
pathetic bundle to his chest, the granite cracked, then crumbled altogether
as the tough sergeant broke down and wept over the death of a puppy.

The brief ray of sunlight vanished from his soul as if it was never there,
the desolation of Sergeant Campbell was complete.

The End

Copyright c) 2000 T S George