A quick scan with his binoculars showed something almost reminiscent of stability. Large blocks were gliding across the plain, kicking up dust in thick clouds, transporting men and munitions to the new line north of the city. North, the few ragged men left in 2nd and 3rd platoons were marching to the city to join with 1st platoon where they'd be combined into one. Jack's company had been mauled and nearly wiped out, but they had held their positions and even taken part in counterattacks. Weapons were starting to trickle to them, but until they were united with their battalion, they were simply handed the leftovers the RACS units didn't take first.
"Gonna try the engine again, sir."
Jack nodded and climbed back into his jeep, a donation from a local collector and a war relic that had no business being on the island in the first place. The engine struggled, but turned over, the vehicle shaking as if it were sitting on a jackhammer. His driver squinted into the sun towards the suburbs, the tan lines on his face clear from where he had been wearing his goggles for what seemed like a week straight.
"Let's get going back to the city. The rest of the company should be there in an hour."
"Mayor, why won't you come back? The people here want to see you back in your office running this city again. If you are worried for your safety, I can provide you with a man."
"Half the city wants me to hang from the balcony, but I should remind you that your men have that space occupied with a gun. What is left to run? The people hide, they only come out to stand in bread lines. Even the bread lines aren't safe! How can I help the people when mortar shells fall at random in the streets?"
Pietro sank in his seat. His coffee was cold, bitter from boiling too long, but it was possibly the warmest thing in the room. Corazol, a resort city, had descended into misery.
"If your troops lose this city, colonel, my provincial government will demand me to be executed for treason. If your troops hold it and the monarchy offers peace, I will still not be fit to live in this city ever again. What are my options?"
"I can provide you with a man, Pietro. You will be under my protection."
"And with what strings attached? Do you really expect me to move east?"
"And you would rather be executed by the people you protected? By the monarchy that abandoned you and your city? You will be safe. I can give you a position wherever you would like. I will provide you with a man."
"I get it, I get it. Provide me with a man, ha! Fine. You've made your point."
The colonel nodded, smiling, before turning on his heel and walking out. His long steps hit the floorboards with certainty, a lack of worry, and sureness despite the shells falling throughout the city.
The company rallied in the square, totaling less than forty men. Jack gave them two hours to find food, rest up, and try to find a place to put up camp. He reorganized his company into one platoon and put his highest ranking platoon sergeant in charge while he went to find the local commander.
Strolling through the streets of Ortego, he noticed most of the damage had been patched up. Roads had been cleared of debris, wrecks had been carried away, craters had been filled with sand. Windows were being repaired, stone walls shored up and patched, shops reopened. The city had taken a beating, but it was stirring back to life.
A mile down the road, he came across a command post and after a short time loitering outside, knocked nervously. The sentry at the door looked him up and down, staring at his shoulder patch and trying to size him up. Jack looked back, nodded and chuckled as he raised his arm to the sentry's--Jack was darker than the sentry after a week of humping it up and down the Sierra Madre.
The door was flung open, an officer in a clean uniform snapping at the sentry in spanish that smacked of a local dialect Jack barely understood. The officer turned his attention to the American, his glaring eyes trying to figure out the situation.
"Hola"
"Hola"
They both stared at one another. The RACS officer attempted to initiate a conversation, but Jack had already exhausted most of his knowledge of spanish and he could only stare blankly at him.
"American? Training force?"
Jack nodded.
"Ammunition." Jack raised an empty magazine from his pocket.
The officer shook his head and pointed back up the road.
"Water? Ahgwa?" Jack's spanish straining as he pointed to his canteen.
Again, the officer shook his head and pointed back up the road. They stared at each other, the officer wide-eyed and impatient, the American's eyelids heavy and his cheeks sagging from fatigue. Jack turned and walked back up the street.
He met his men halfway up the road, marching south. The men of 1st platoon had decided to hike to the vineyards and camp in the olive trees. The more exhausted men climbed into the old willys and rumbled down the road. And although none could see it, the northern sea was dotted with an assembly of warships bristling with a wave of fresh men ready to visit death ground within the hour.
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