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Soldier's Fortune

by Goldenarbiter

Chapter 1: Prologue

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Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.

~Winston Churchill


Prologue:

Private Hein stared into the distance at the rapidly approaching cloud of rolling dust. He widened his eyes at the sheer mass of it, stretching kilometers into the sky and endlessly to the sides. A monstrous wall of dirt and debris that threatened to swallow everything.

“Hein!” The platoon commander, Captain Smith screamed over the howling wind, trying to get the young privates attention. “Drop your fuckin’ cock and get your ass over here!”

“Sir!” The private returned, struggling to be heard over the distant thunder.

“Call in to higher and tell them that we’re going to ground! This is fucking ridiculous!” The Captain shouted back, before staggering to the platoon Warrant Officer to give him a new set of orders.

Grabbing the tab on his tacvest, the private called his orders into the mic for transmission, eyeing the rapidly approaching storm the whole time. “Zero, this is One-One-Alpha, SitRep, Over.” He bellowed into the microphone set under his helmet, eagerly awaiting a response. A brief eternity passed before he was rewarded with the garbled static of the main command tent.

“Un… own… allsign… br… en and Unrea… … lay thr… a… ther… …sign… ver.”

Pte Hein ducked his head against the wind and used a hand to push his head-set against his ear. "Zero, Say again SitRep, Over."

The crackling reply was only faintly better and even then he could only guess at the message. They wanted him to relay his comms through another. He mentally sighed, since Zero was the closest relay, and even then the signal was weak from the storm interference.

He tabbed his mic again.

“Any callsign in range, this is One-One-Alpha.” He glanced back at the storm, a knot of fear forming in his stomach at its rapid approach. The closer it got, the larger it appeared; even now beginning to block out the sun. “Message to be Relayed to Zero, Over.”

Almost immediately, the dead air of the radio turned into another voice, this one much clearer. “One-One-Alpha, this Three-Two-Alpha, I can Relay, over.”

Sighing in relief, he went to work delivering his Sitrep. “One-One-Alpha, Sitrep as follows; Para Alpha through Charlie, Nil.” He stopped and looked at his wrist mounted DAGR unit, seeing a ten digit grid number arrayed before him on the otherwise featureless screen. “Para Delta, We are at Grid Four-Two Sierra, Whiskey Papa, Two-Eight-Niner-Zero-Zero, by Seven-One-Two-Four-Zero. Going to ground to avoid the sandstorm, Over.”

The young private listened to his plea being relayed until he was messaged back. “One-One-Alpha, Three-Two-Alpha, Zero acknowledges your position and says to radio in when the storm passes, Over.”

He nervously glanced back at the storm again, the vanguard of dust already swirling around him. The private was so entranced by the vortex that he almost didn’t hear what Three-Two-Alpha said. “Roger, out.” He replied into the mic, hoping the recipient could hear it over the raging storm.

Radio duties done, he made a beeline towards the Captain, stumbling over the shifting sands while his feet made nary a sound against the feverish whine of sand surrounding him. The remaining troops were rallying around the Captain, trying to make a defensive shelter against the high winds with their groundsheets. The storm continued to roar at the Canadians as it made its infernal and unstoppable approach. It was so close at this point, that most of the infantry had given up on the idea of a shelter and just hid under their ground sheets, holding on for dear life. The Captain was waving to the young private to move faster, but by the time he reached the first of the soldiers the storm had engulfed him.

He could feel the sand snaking its way into the cracks of his flak vest, into every open crevice he had; getting caught in his helmet, up his sleeves, and even in his underwear. The irritation of that, however, was nothing compared to the sheer pain he felt as the sand whipped over his skin at speeds that would shear the paint off of metal. Luckily for him, it didn’t last very long.

When the storm dissipated an hour later, there was nothing left of the poor signaller. Gone was everything, flesh, bone, and equipment. The lack of the soldier’s kit severely puzzled most of the infanteers, but still brought sorrow to their hearts as another brother was lost to the deserts of Afghanistan.

Author's Notes:

Be sure to comment what you think!
Also note, 'Pte' is the acronym used for private in Canada. Don't ask me why, I thought it was stupid when I first joined too.

Next Chapter: Chapter 1 Estimated time remaining: 1 Hour, 21 Minutes
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