The HQ/Team squad was pulling guard duty while the others ate. Someone had to be out
there looking for threats. And the HQ/Team squad, as the leaders, had an obligation
to make sure everyone ate before they did. It was part of the deal in a military unit.
Leadership got certain perks, but also had duties to others. Eating last was one of
those duties.
The unit had not eaten MREs during training as they were too valuable when there was
regular food to cook. Some of the military members of the unit, like the Air Force
and Navy people, had never really eaten MREs when they were in the FUSA military.
Maybe they did a couple of times, but it was almost novelty food back then. Almost
all of the civilians in the unit had never eaten an MRE.
There were a lot of urban legends and myths about MREs. Most people thought they tasted
bad, but they didn’t (for the most part). They were actually very nutritious, designed
to give troops strength and nourishment in situations exactly like the one facing
the 17th Irregulars there on the side of Highway 101. The troops were too hungry to
worry about what their MREs tasted like.
Franny was giving a quick refresher class on what is in an MRE, how to open them,
how to use the heating unit, and how to pack the wrappers back into the bag. He had
done this for the troops during training, but that was a few months ago.
Guys were getting out their pocket knives because it took a knife to open up an MRE.
They could be opened without one, but it was hard. “Can I borrow that knife you guys
have?” one of the soldiers asked Wes, who was guarding the flank closest to the utility
truck where the MREs were being handed out. The soldier was referring to the big Zero
Tolerance folding knives that belonged to each member of the Team.
“I ain’t dulling my blade for some MRE, dude,” Wes said in his southern drawl. His
Zero Tolerance would hold an edge forever, but there was a tradition. Fighting knives
are not used for day-to-day things. A person’s fighting knife was a tool for a specific
job; not used for little jobs when another tool would do. Wes got out his cheapo pocket
knife and tossed it to the soldier. “Use this, bro.”
One of the soldiers was using his flashlight to see what entrée his buddy got. The
highway light wasn’t sufficient to see the black writing on the brown MRE bag.
“Egg omelet!” he said. “You do not want to eat that. Worst food on the planet. Inedible.
We called those things ‘chicken shit’ back at my old unit ‘cause we were pretty sure
they just had chickens shit in a bag and then call it an ‘omelet.’”
Just like in any American military unit out in the field, MRE entrees and, especially
side dishes, were being traded like the stock exchange. The winners were the ones
who got fudge brownies and pound cake in their meals. The losers were those who got
the egg omelets as their entrees. There was not much of a market for MRE egg omelets.
“I’ll trade you some crackers for that that chicken shit,” one of the infantrymen
said to the hapless soldier who was stuck with the egg omelet. The infantryman had
previously eaten plenty of MREs. He knew that the reputation of MRE egg omelets was
overblown. They didn’t taste great, but were certainly edible. There was more protein
in one of those omelets than in the crackers; much more filling.
“Done,” said the soldier with the omelet. He was a former civilian who had never eaten
an MRE, so he believed the reputation of the egg omelet, but the good news for him
was that the egg omelet also came with hash browns and Pop Tarts. Not bad.
“Clam chowder?” another soldier said as he shined a flashlight on his. “Are you kidding
me? How disgusting is that? Cold clam chowder out of a bag?”
“I’ll take it,” said another soldier, who had MRE chowder before and knew that it
was pretty good. “Loves me my chowder.”
Ted and Grant were watching all this as they were guarding. Ted looked over at Grant
and had a big grin on his face. So did Grant. Over just a few months, this ragtag
collection of military people and civilians had come together as a solid unit. Now
they sounded like experienced military personnel, trading MREs and complaining about
egg omelets.
It only took a few minutes for most people to finish their meals. They were wolfing
them down. A couple were taking longer because they were using the heating packets
to heat up entrees and hot drinks. Franny went around and collected all the spare
accessory packets, which had salt and pepper and matches, and all the unused heating
packets. Those were valuable.
A squad leader saw that all his men were done eating. Without being told, he rounded
them up and got them onto guard duty so the HQ/Team squad could eat.
Grant went over to the utility truck. Franny handed him an MRE. It felt so good in
his hand. A big square block of food. It was weird. It was just an MRE, but Grant
was so hungry. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he was holding a meal.
But he had work to do. They could eat their MREs in the trucks. Grant found Ted and
said, “Let’s get out of here.” Ted nodded and told the squad leaders to start packing
everyone up.
It would take a few minutes to get everyone into the semi-trailer. Enough time for
Grant to start eating. He took the precious cargo over to the rear seat of the extended
cab of Mark’s truck and unpacked the little packages of food inside and put them on
the seat. He was standing outside the truck with the MRE on the seat. The truck’s
indoor lights were on so he could see what meal he got.
“Beef patty.” Decent. And it was even better covered in the BBQ sauce that it came
with. Mexican macaroni and cheese. Pretty good, actually. Nacho cheese pretzels and
a packet of cheese spread like Velveeta, which he squirted on the two wheat snack
breads, which were really good. Way better than you’d think with a name like “wheat
snack bread.”
“Hey, look, a combat cheeseburger,” Grant said to Bobby about his two pieces of wheat
snack bread with cheese spread and a beef patty. Bobby laughed.
“Beef stew and one of those awesome HOOAH bars,” Bobby said about his MRE. The HOOAH
bars were like a military version of an energy bar. They were really good, though
it was rumored that anyone who ate one would be unable to take a crap for a week after.
About halfway through Grant’s meal, Ted was walking up to each vehicle yelling, “Mount
up!” It was time to get back on the road.
The guys on the Team gobbled the food from their opened pouches and threw the unopened
ones into their cargo pockets. They knew to gather all the wrappers. Franny came around
collecting them in one of the empty MRE case boxes. This was not done out of some
desire to recycle for the environment, but to make sure no one could tell how many
men had eaten there. OPSEC required that litter be picked up.
Grant did a final count of the men in the truck. He ran out to the bed of the truck
and said, “Any ugly homos under that tarp?”
“Just us two,” Wes said from underneath. “Ryan said I have to put out for my MRE.
He said Marines do that all the time.”
“Fuck you, hillbilly,” Ryan said with a laugh.
“That’s exactly what you’re trying to do to me under this tarp,” Wes shot back.
Things were back to normal.
Grant heard the diesel engine of the semi rev up. It was time to go back to work.
(January 1)
Before heading out again, Grant went over to Ted for some last minute instructions.
He ran up to the cab of the semi where Ted was and climbed up to the passenger side.
Ted had his window down and the heat from the cab was flowing out. It felt great against
the cold from outside. It felt like it was about to rain. Grant could tell from the
way the wind was starting to pick up.
“You got point,” Ted said to Grant.
Oh great, Grant thought. Now the Team was the scout unit. Except they had no scout
training. Oh well. He couldn’t sweat it. They didn’t have any formal military or law
enforcement training, but look at all they’d done so far.
“Roger that,” Grant said. “We need to boogie to Olympia.”
“Be careful,” Ted said. He could tell Grant was anxious to get to Olympia. A little
too much. Patience was a virtue—especially when people were trying to kill you with
snipers, booby traps, and ambushes. It was even more important for scouts to be patient,
and Grant wasn’t.
“Sure,” Grant said, trying to act like he wasn’t scared out of his mind about being
in the lead vehicle. He thought it was crazy to have the commanding officer in the
lead vehicle and scouting … but, he had to admit that the real operational commander
of this unit was in the cab of the semi.
“No, seriously, Grant, slow it down,” Ted said. “Be very cautious. Get us there alive.
Don’t give those Lima bastards anything to brag about, like shooting up the 17th Irregulars.”
Grant nodded. This was a rare rebuke from Ted. It was a soft rebuke, but a rebuke
nonetheless. Ted was serious.
“Got it,” Grant finally said. “We’ll try to be as cautious as possible.”
Ted smiled. “Besides, we’re getting radio traffic, in Jim Q.’s totally incomprehensible
language, and things are going well.” Jim Q. looked over at Grant and nodded.
Grant felt a shot of warm adrenaline and joy soar through his body. He’d been waiting
to hear that. He wanted to know every detail.
“The main fighting,” Ted said, “is along I-5 from JBLM down into Olympia. That’s the
frontal assault from the regular forces. That’s the brunt of the fighting. The Patriot
regulars have pushed the Limas back into Olympia. We have guys like us coming up I-5
from the south, a couple of Lewis County units. They’re not meeting much resistance.
Mostly these overpass things like we got. Snipers and road obstacles. No helos or
artillery. So far.”
Grant was thrilled. This might actually work, he thought for the first time. He knew
things would work out in the end, but he had no idea things were going to go this
well this quickly. So far.
“Why?” Grant asked. “Why are we having it so easy?” He wanted to understand everything
about this that he could.
Ted shrugged. “Best we can figure is that morale is at rock bottom for the Limas.
All they have, for the most part, are kids in National Guard uniforms. Their officers
or the gangs, or both, have looted their supplies and equipment. There are some cops,
a splinter group of State Patrol, who are putting up a good fight against us, especially
in the urban areas of Olympia. But, overall, these poor Lima kids have no idea why
they’re fighting. They don’t believe their bosses any more. They’re just there. Pointing
their rifles in the direction they’re told.”
This was exactly what Grant thought might happen, but just not so quickly. This was
fantastic.
Ted looked around to make sure no one else was listening. “We’re going to win this.
We’re going to take Olympia. I have two questions, though.”
Grant was hanging on his every word. “Yeah?”
“First,” Ted said, “will we hold Olympia after a counter attack?” He paused and said,
“And, second, will the 17th get to Olympia in one piece?” Ted looked at Grant and
said, “Get us there, Lieutenant, in one piece. Scout us in. Be patient. They don’t
need us there right now. They need us there in a while, alive and ready to kick ass
inside Olympia, not dead on the highway outside of town. You don’t want to come this
far and then not get to Olympia, do you?”
“Got it,” Grant said. He did. Knowing that the battle was going well reduced the pressure
to quickly get to Olympia. And, Grant now had to admit to himself, he was being a
little too competitive. He used to think the amazing, wonderful, fantastic 17th Irregulars,
who seemed to pull rabbits out of their hats and wildly exceed the expectations placed
on an irregular unit, should be the first ones into Olympia and wave a Don’t Tread
on Me flag. He had wanted some glory, but now he felt ashamed of that desire. Glory
was an abstract, theoretical idea. Anderson, Meerkat, and Nineteen Delta were real.
Limiting the casualties to just those three would be the glory. Not waving a flag.
“Got it,” Grant repeated. He didn’t want to say, “I’ll quit being an overexcited and
inexperienced military commander with visions of flag-waving in my head.”
Ted smiled and saluted, which was not customary in the battlefield, or in the cab
of a vehicle, but Ted realized that Grant needed a salute.
Grant returned the salute. Man, that felt good, he thought. He jumped down from the
running board on the cab. He ran, full sprint, to Mark’s truck. He was re-energized.
It could have been the good news about the regular units advancing, or it could have
been the food. Perhaps, though, it was the realization that he was now the scout leader
who was going to get them there alive.
“We’re the scouts,” Grant yelled to the Team as he got up to Mark’s truck. He yelled
so Ryan and Wes could hear from the back and all the occupants in the front and rear
cabs could also hear.
“Hell, yeah!” Pow said. He had been itching to do some fancy work, and now he was
going to have the chance. He loved fighting. He especially loved fighting alongside
these guys. His guys. Guys who were way better than the jack-ass punks they’d gone
up against so far. This was the time of Pow’s life. Right now. The next few hours
heading into Olympia. This was when legends would be born. And William Kung “Pow,”
a tough-ass Korean, would be a Patriot legend.