Defense of Hill 781 Read Free

snaking ridge lines, rucksack knifing into his shoulders as he led his light forces for the umpteenth time on a field exercise designed to show their mobility, sustainability, and hitting power. The fatal step had come as a result of his own obstinacy, his decision to show his soldiers once and for all that there was absolutely nothing wrong with the army ration known as the Meal Ready to Eat, or MRE. How sick he had been of his men’s derision of this space-age update of the old C ration, their snide referral to it as the Meal Ready to Excrete, and their utter conviction that the man was not yet born who could eat three of them in one day and live. And so it was with great fanfare that he ate one meal after another during the day, despite the warning signs that had been building throughout the afternoon—a reverberating wrench in his gut and a rumbling resonance in his bowels. He dug in, undeterred by the delectable delights of a barbecued beef. It was unclear if the final explosion was brought on by the dehydrated potato patty or the freeze-dried strawberries. All he could remember was his adjutant asking him if he would like some water to wash it down, his offhanded acceptance of that offer, a gulp, and a flash. That was the last thing he recalled before waking up here in the desert.
    Fighting to retain his composure he asked, “Uh, look, Command Sergeant Major, I’ve had a hard few days and I would appreciate you refraining from any flip humor.”
    “I’m sorry, sir. I meant no disrespect, but I assure youthat what I say is true. You did in fact die last night and even now the accident investigation team is struggling with the problem of how to document the cause of death as the MRE, a completely unacceptable finding for the board. I can imagine how hard it is for you to accept, this being your first time dead and all, but I swear that it’s true by the proof that you’ve left no tracks in the sand.”
    Slowly, Lieutenant Colonel Always turned his head back to glance from whence he had walked and to his dismay saw that he had in fact left no depression, despite the softness of the sand.
    For the first time since he had found himself on the desert floor, a coldness swept over his body. So he was dead! The thought was heart-stopping, or would have been, he reflected.
    “Well, if that’s true, why are you here and where am I?” Always turned to Hope, afraid of what he might hear.
    “You are at Manix railhead,” said the sergeant major, indicating a lone cement ramp rising from the sand at the end of a rail siding. “This overpass we are standing beneath marks the entrance to what in life was known as the National Training Center. I am to be your guide in your sojourn here. We will be moving up the desert trail a couple of dozen miles. They’re expecting you there.”
    It was all coming too fast for Always. He had steeled himself to accept the fact that he was dead, but what did the National Training Center have to do with that, and who was waiting for him twenty some miles deeper into the desert? He had been a professional officer for most of his adult life, and not a bad one at that. For the most part he had lived a decent and respectable life. Yet if these were the gates to heaven, and the man standing in front of him was the gatekeeper, it was not exactly what he had been led to expect.
    “Sergeant Major, if you don’t mind, I would like to ask a kind of personal question.”
    “Not at all,
sir.”
    “Are you dead too?”
    “Yes, sir, I am. Been dead quite some time as a matter of fact.”
    “And does that give you any insight into what this is all about?” Always was starting to regain some of his authoritative bearing.
    “Well, Colonel, it does and it doesn’t. I know this isn’all clear to you yet, so perhaps I should do a little explaining. The first thing I would like to make clear is that I asked to come down here, specifically to be your guide.”
    The word “down” gripped the officer in