November 10, 1940, Chaghcharan
Aiden MacDonald moved his borrowed platoon forward under the cover of darkness, pausing in the deep snow just outside the walls of the Persian compound. The Persians, although few in number, had taken up an excellent position in a block of heavily-built houses, linking them together with sandbags and rubble. Apparently they were veteran troops, as they'd even gone to the effort of clearing and demolishing the houses around them in order to clear fire lanes.
But all the preparations in the world don't matter when your guards on them are not alert, Aiden thought to himself. He saw one of the Persian sentries standing on the walls, silhouetted against the dark night and entirely too visible due to the lit cigarette he was puffing on.
Aiden gestured to two of the Tajik guerrillas, who quietly handed off their rifles and scampered up the wall, helped by four of their friends. The sentry puffed at his cigarette; dark shapes suddenly loomed behind him and knives fell.
"All right. Over the wall," Aiden hissed quietly.
It's odd, this way of command, Aiden thought to himself as he led his men forward.
They're following me even though we don't even speak the same language. This really ought not to be working as well as it is.
The crack of a rifle broke the night, just as Aiden's platoon reached the top of the wall. "Forward, now!" Aiden said, unslinging his Beretta. Another sentry on the wall, wakened from sleep, stirred to his left, fumbling to chamber a round in his rifle. Aiden turned and fired a three-round burst to kill the sentry.
The barracks. Have to reach the barracks...
A door in the main building, the barracks, was thrown open; the interior light spilled out, followed moments later by Nationalist infantrymen in various states of undress - but they were mostly armed. Aiden crouched in the snow and brought the Beretta to his shoulder. "Bring up the machine gun!
Fire!"
Nearly a hundred confused Persians, wakened from sleep, came out the doors from the barracks. Though they'd made a mistake leaving the lights behind them on, Aiden realized with a dull sense of dread that they were still battle-hardened troops, and were coming at his platoon of guerrillas with fixed bayonets. He fired the Beretta until he'd exhausted the forty-round magazine; he had no idea what good it had done, as a screaming Persian leaped over the ring of bodies around him, thrusting with a bayonet-tipped Mauser. Aiden barely parried the blow away, but the Persian just brought the rifle around and struck him in the chest with the shoulder stock, knocking Aiden onto his back.
Aiden looked up as the Persian loomed over him, bringing the fixed bayonet back around to finish the job.
I can't move fast enough. Why can't I move? Oh, this is going to hurt, Aiden thought to himself.
At that moment, the Tajik Breire gunner atop the wall opened fire, and the Persian flopped back into the snow, missing half of his head. Aiden scrambled in the snow for his Beretta and inserted another magazine, trying to ignore the pain and shortness of breath as he resumed firing. Aiden wasn't sure how long the wild, confused pre-dawn melee continued before he passed out.
---------------------------------------------------------
"Hello, sunshine."
Aiden blinked up at the roof of the tent. Lieutenant Hyde leaned over him, grinning, and apparently clean-shaven. "My name's not Sunshine."
"No humour you have," Hyde said. "You'd best thank your lucky stars that my ol' wan was a horse doctor and tried to teach me the trade, cause you needed it, Lieutenant."
"What?"
"Near as I can tell, you've a few cracked ribs," Hyde said. "You've not a scratch on ye, just a purple bruise the size of, well, yourself. It looks like you got sucker-punched by a railway locomotive."
"Uh," Aiden said. "I... don't remember the end of the fight."
"Probably not. You've been out most of the morning. We won, of course. I'd say it was glorious, but it wasn't, at least as I can see. A lot of dead, though the enemy dead seem to outnumber the friendly dead. I'm not sure the Tajiks were interested in taking prisoners." Hyde looked sour. "And don't even think about trying to get up and do that officer-in-charge thing. You're not in the condition for it. The Tajiks gave you some opium to help you with your pain; I think they gave you a bit much."
"That explains why I feel so... uh... blissful."
"Perhaps. In any case, Doctor Hyde's orders are bed-rest until medical evacuation arrives."
"Medical evacuation?"
"Yes. Another Mossie flew over this morning and I asked for one of the Dakotas and a small field hospital team. Lord knows the Tajiks need the help. I figure they've got a hundred or so wounded, some serious. Now, you're you're not going to be an ornery patient for Doctor Hyde and try to wander off to play tough officer, right?"
"Not right now," Aiden said. "Maybe later."
"Good. Cause now that I've patched you up, I have to go work on my plane."
"Was it still damaged from the crash?"
Hyde looked indignant. "Heavens, no. It... just got shot up a bit more when I was strafing fleeing Persians this morning. Just need a few more patches in the wings and she'll be good as new again."
"How long until that plane's nothing but patches?"
"Har har,
very funny, sir."
---------------------------------------------------------
Please make your out-of-character comments here regarding the story.[/quote]