Someone Like You

By Rapscallion - 27/07/2004

The stench of diesel fumes, belched out by numerous supply wagons, filled the air, but it couldn't mask the air of excitement. John could smell it, even if no one else could.

He stayed on the sidewalk under the shade outside the recruitment office, wondering where he should go. He had a new uniform, a unit to join, and freshly minted dog tags that felt cold against his chest. He didn't have any directions, though.

He pulled the dog tags out. "John McGreggor, US 12th Infantry, #20236781" Maybe he could get them to take out the extra 'g' later. Maybe it wouldn't matter. He was in the army now, and that was all that mattered. Which part, though? It said 'infantry', but was that the regular troops or the marines? He wanted to be a marine - they got all the girls.

He looked around. A few faded posters on the wall of the recruiting office told how they needed 'people like you' to fight in the south, to defend the USA from the Mayans. The street outside, though, was full of people and vehicles. He had been told to find someone to point him to the 12th Infantry, but how could he choose from all these?

A group of marines thundered past at a run, their boots smashing into the ground in unison. A camp follower dodged out of their way, her half-closed eyes sizing him up as she slowed. Something about her face suggested an exotic origin, and his heart began to beat faster. He flushed and looked away. Mother had warned him about women like that. She shrugged and walked down the street, and he tried to stop his eyes following her. Girls certainly looked different away from home. Other people walked around - no, marched around. Enlisted saluted officers, and officers ignored them as they saw fit. An officer would know where John should go, but he wouldn't know how to talk to one.

He spied a group of privates sat down next to the edge of the road, and approached them. "Howdy," he said. They broke off their conversation and looked up, one of them grinning broadly.

"Howdy?" he asked. "We got us a real country boy here, y'all," he mocked.

"Beg pardon," John said. "I'm just looking for the twelfth. I need to be assigned my unit and-"

"I can smell the animals on you," the grinning private said, and his friends guffawed with him. "I bet you get real close to them on a cold night, eh?"

"Now that's not nice!" These were the marines? John wondered what sort of girls they would get.

"Not nice?" The soldier stood up slowly. He peered down at John. "This is a man's army," he said, poking John in his chest with a thick finger. The badge of the marines showed brightly on his chest. "We don't need people like you."

"The posters said-"

"We need men," the private said. "Twelfth?" he asked. "Bunch of panty-waisters, aintcha? First to flee from battle, I heard." He breathed heavily, daring John to say anything out of line.

"I'll find them myself," John said, turning to walk away.

"Go find your panty-waister friends," the private sneered, and John walked faster, ignoring the laughter behind him.

Face flaming, he walked on. So what if he came from a farm? He was willing to fight! At least he had manners, unlike that lot. He walked away, desperate to get out of sight of the marines before asking someone else.

People marched in all directions. Few walked. Many carried weaponry and equipment, some loading and others unloading. There were few signs, but John read each one, trying to gain any idea of directions.

The camp follower had stopped ahead, talking to a number of men. Other ... followers were with her. The men were showing the girls their weapons - some sort of heavy machine guns. He'd seen the like in the newspapers - one of the new wonder weapons that would win the war against the Mayans. They were even setting their guns up on tripods, showing them off to pretty faces. Pretty arms wrapped around burly shoulders, pretty mouths whispered into calloused ears, and the soldiers were grinning foolishly. Mother had warned him about girls and what they would do to an unwary man.

John watched open-mouthed as the men continued to explain how the guns worked. They seemed oblivious of the world around them, their attention fixed on the girls whose deft fingers touched their ears, arms, and ... lips.

John gulped as he watched, unused to such blatant behaviour. Something was wrong, though. The mens' eyes seemed blank, as if they weren't thinking. They were even loading the ammunition belts into their guns.

John held his breath as the ... followers walked away, blowing kisses in their wake, and the men began to wave the barrels of their guns around, still grinning foolishly. He looked around wildly. The marines had decided to follow him for what they thought of fun.

"Everyone down!" John shouted, his voice shrill. He flattened himself against the ground, the only action he could think of.

"Panty waister!" he heard, but the voice vanished in a roar of noise as the machine gunners opened fire.

John cringed as he breathed quickly, feeling the passage of the bullets just over his head. The noise of the machine guns was bad, but the screams were worse. He turned his head to see the marines. Not one remained standing; all lay dreadfully still.

The roar of the guns ceased, and John heard the moans of the wounded as the machine gunners began to reload. He looked around, desperately trying to find something to hide behind. A crate, once carried by two now-dead soldiers, attracted his attention. He scrambled to cower in its shelter.

The roar of the machine guns came again, and John cowered as splinters and bullets flew all around. For a long minute, he held himself in a ball, whimpering. Bullets thudded into his shelter, and he knew it was only a matter of time before it would give way. How long would it hold? He opened his eyes long enough to examine it, noting briefly that one of the planks had fallen away from its fellows. Something long wrapped in oilcloth had fallen out, and he took hold to pull it further out. If whatever the crate held was solid, he had a better chance.

A rifle came out of the cloth, smelling of fresh oil. A magazine of ammunition was inside a smaller pouch inside the cloth. John stared at it dumbly. It wouldn't provide much cover.

The roar of the machine guns stopped, and John could hear nothing save the mechanical noises of the gunners reloading. The crate would give way this time, he thought.

He glanced at the gun again. He'd used something like that to bag gophers back on the farm. It worked the same way, and he fumbled to get the bullets put in. They slid in neatly, and he stared. He may only have seconds left...

John stood and poked the gun over the top of the crate. He took careful aim, and fired.

A machine gunner fell.

John ejected the shell case and aimed again. Another gunner fell. The pair next to him turned their gun toward him, and he dove behind the crate again.

The roar began once more, but it was much muted this time. The crate might hold.

"Oh Jesus," John whimpered. "Oh Mary, Mother of God." He began to pray, fumbling with his weapon until the roar and vibration ceased again.

He leaped to his feet and aimed over the crate. Two more gunners fell in quick succession, betrayed by their need to reload.

Silence. John stared at the bodies of the men he had killed. None moved. He looked around at the bloodied ground and wrecked vehicles. He tried not to see the corpses. He tried not to be sick.

He failed.

"Got one," a voice said, and rough hands grabbed him, wresting the gun from his hands. They bundled him away. He didn't care. "Take him to the cells."

"You've got the wrong man!" he gasped, trying to clear his mouth. "She didn't even speak to me!"

"We've got the right man," someone snapped, and something smashed into John's head.

.....

John woke, slowly coming to terms with the pain in his head. He tried to move, but he was tied. He was sat on a chair, ropes binding him to the wooden frame. He could see nothing in the dark.

He tried to speak, but a harsh light forced his eyes closed. "Raw recruit or spy?" a voice demanded.

John paused, trying to clear his mouth. He could still taste the vomit. "I only just got here," he mumbled. He tried to open his eyes against the light.

"What were you doing?" the voice demanded.

"I was trying to find my regiment. The twelfth," John said. His head hurt worse than the morning after the time he had found the still.

Something clinked in the distance. "Tags check," the voice said. "I guess you're genuine, and witnesses say that you were responsible for stopping the traitors. We'll have to get the spelling on those tags changed, though."

The harsh light flicked out, and John slumped. Overhead lights came on, and he blinked around. A man in a camouflage uniform watched him warily from the doorway, his hand still on the light switch. "You wanted to be a marine?" the man asked.

"Yes, sir," John replied.

The man came over and pulled out a wicked-looking knife. The ropes parted easily, and he helped John to his feet. "You did well," he said. "I'm Captain Jackson, Special Forces."

John shrugged. "Sir," was all he could say.

The captain watched John for a while before offering him a glass of water. "We have a medic in here at all times," he said. "He'll look you over." He waited until John had drunk the water, and then opened the door. "You're observant, quick thinking, and a good shot with a rifle," Jackson said.

John shrugged. "I just did what I had to, sir," he said.

"Special Forces needs someone like you," Jackson said. "You'd be wasted in the marines."

John stared. "Do Special Forces get the girls, sir?" he asked, trying to smile. He failed.

Jackson looked out of the cell door and down the corridor. "Always," he said.

Two burly men in the same camouflage uniform as him dragged an unconscious woman past the door. Despite the blood trailing from a wound on her face, John recognised the alleged camp follower he had seen first. Another one followed behind, her hands tied and her head bowed as she was dragged along by another uniformed man.

"Always."