Shell Shock

By the entrance to the tunnel there was a table. On it the guards kept several items, including a deck of cards and a radio. Seeing the radio, Spartan requested its use. One of the guards handed it to him.

“This is Spartan calling Commandant Cahill. Commandant Cahill, do you copy?”

“This is the Commandant. Go ahead, Spartan.”

“The mountain is ablaze. We need to mobilize more men for all known entrances.”

The Commandant gave his confirmation, and Spartan held the radio out to the guard only to freeze. The guard lightly pulled on the radio, but Spartan didn’t let it go. The guard looked back at his companion.

In the excitement of everything, they’d forgotten someone: Lundgren. Where was the old man from Älgenhul? All he remembered was Viking and the Berserkers mentioning they received his help getting back to Drügeldorf. Was he sent on his way?

“Hold on,” he said, “I need to double check something.” If there was still a civilian in the castle, he would never forgive himself. In minutes, escape would be impossible. “This is Spartan calling anyone and everyone in the castle: is the Berserkers’ ride from Älgenhul still inside the castle?”

He gave no further information and waited several minutes before he got a response.

“This is Sergeant Mathews, sir. The ride left yesterday evening. Told me he had to head south.”

So Lundgren’s need to visit Jürgenstag wasn’t just a cover. Spartan allowed himself a sigh of relief. “Good. Thank you, Mathews.”

Then he gave the radio back to the guard.

#

He needed to know the situation out front. The Warmonger would have to be over the shore by now, which should put it in range. Confirmation came from his original vantage point in the tower. Smoke rose from former pillboxes, and Spartan hoped it wasn’t an omen of things to come. They could not lose Drügeldorf. More important, he couldn’t die here, not when the war was still going. Not when he was so close to his dream.

The Warmonger was in the process of firing off a series of three shots from its 50mm guns. Soldiers below were setting up a new line of mortars by the look of it. A couple had already been loaded, their operators getting ready to fire. Now was the moment of truth. He wondered for a moment why a fourth hadn’t been fired. He knew the design of the Warmongers, and all four guns should be able to aim at the pillboxes. Then his eyes went wide.

He only briefly saw the round before the tower shook beneath his feet. Stumbling, he fell backward and instinctively curled up in a fetal position to protect his head. Only when the ground was still and the cool night air breathed against him did he cautiously lift his head up. Broken glass glittered on the floor. He hadn’t even heard the shattering through the booming impact.

Crusader.

He jumped to the window and leaned his head out, resting his hands on the frame. A thick cloud of dust and broken stone blocked his view. Leaning back into the tower, he lifted his hands from the frame, only for them to feel wet. Glancing back, he saw jagged bits of glass sticking out, painted in his blood. It wasn’t important now. Right now he had to evaluate the real damage.

#

There was still a decent amount of dust in the air, but at least he could make things out. The impact did a number: about fifty percent of the entire wall of the castle was gone, along with some of the rooms. Calhoun was slumped against the wall of one of those partially gone rooms. Spartan got down to his knees to check the sergeant’s pulse. He was alive. Unconscious, but alive. Polski was in the corner, conscious. Blood streamed from his temple and he held his unnaturally bent and twisted right arm close to his side. His radio was tucked away in his lap. Spartan told him it would all be okay while he took the radio.

“This is Spartan. Why the hell am I up front before medical? I know you guys heard that down there.”

The response came, but he didn’t care enough to listen to the words. At that moment, he noticed Coulson’s head and left arm were poking out from a pile of rubble. Spartan went to check his pulse as well. The man groaned at the touch.

“Whuzzat... Izza fitty... Gotta get....”

Spartan lightly smacked his cheek. “Coulson. Coulson! Stay with me!”

Coulson’s eyes focused and he looked up. “Sir! The Warmonger, it—”

“I felt it.”

Coulson started looking around, analyzing the immediate damage. His eyes went wide when he saw Calhoun. “Sarge! Is he...?”

Spartan nodded. “Just needs a quick trip down to medbay. Same for Polski. Maybe even the same for you. Where was Crusader?”

“Just got back,” Coulson mumbled. With his free hand, he pointed. “Down there. Sarge told him to help with the mortars. Damn plane took out most of our boys.”

The blood drained from Spartan’s face. “Just stay here, I need to see the damage.”

Groaning, Coulson tried to move. “I don’t think I’m going anywhere, sir.”

Yesterday, Spartan would have stopped by the parapet on the wall. Now, that parapet was gone, so he stopped at the edge of the remaining floor roughly seven feet from where that parapet used to be. The stairs down also no longer existed, so he settled for the piles of rubble to get down. A few large red spots decorated the impact zone, mingled with bits of clothes and flesh. Away from the impact he found people still fully together. Most were dead. The few that weren’t needed medics.

He found Crusader on the edge of the cliff, dazed and with his right arm limply hanging over the edge. Spartan took his left arm and pulled with all his might, ignoring the flaming pain in his shoulder. Succumbing to the pain once Crusader’s feet were a foot from the edge, he collapsed.

“Still with us, kid?” he asked while clutching his shoulder.

No response.

“Heh. Probably just a bit shell-shocked or something.” Spartan broke out into laughter.