Forward again, and again, and again.

by Zaravan

The Twenty-Sixth entry, or: Static in the Wind.

"To all infantry sec&@#&$@#&of several enemy squads hav&%@@#$%lease confirm immediatel@&%@$&@!

*BAM*

The Operator cursed under his breath as he slammed his hand into the side of the weather-worn Olive green radio, with the winds blowing to create a maelstrom of sand outside the Comm tent they'd set up in the middle of their defenses, organizing the others was a sure pain.

He began turning knobs and flipping switches, doing whatever he could to adjust the radio waves in the faint hope of getting a clearer signal, the symphony of clicks and curses behind him was proof that he was not the only one attempting the same. Hissing, the Operator stood, reached around to look at the open insides of the radio, a mess of wires and faint lights, and screwed and switched on several secondary systems.

In all honesty, using them that way could burn the insides out, but he thought it prudent to take the risk in the face of the Infantry fighting blind and devoid of support.

A few more clicks, a few more turns, and-

"This is East Checkpoint, the Bugs are making an actual push, I'm reading close to a hundred, maybe more! I've got several guys too badly hurt to fight, and almost the other half of my men are dead. Half my Machineguns are down, and I've lost all of our men that can bandage a wound to enemy fire!

Well, that wasn't good. Dragging the attached Microphone closer, the Operator spoke into it, making sure to be as concise and clear as he could.

"East Checkpoint, East Checkpoint. Comms reads you clear and true, we have mortars set up, but with this sandstorm we can't use them without specific coordinates."

"Damn, Just a moment, Comms! We'll get you those coordinates!"

Five seconds passed, then ten. Then Fifteen. And as the Operator was about to consider switching channels to inform command that the East was lost, the response finally crackled through. And the Infantryman on the other side rattled off a series of coordinates.

The Operator frowned. "That's a little close for comfort, East. If those rounds stray just a bit-"

"Hell, that might be close, but so is the goddamn enemy!" The increasingly loud sounds of gunshots and screams seemed to support that.

Wordlessly, he took the coordinates he had written down on a slightly yellowed piece of paper, and switched the channel set up for the Mortar Pits, a request for a response gained him the sounds of someone working frantically to clear something wet from his mouth. The Operator frowned, the Artillery Corps had a penchant for boozing when they were bored. Drunks and Explosives didn't mix. Not well, at least.

With a sigh, he relayed the coordinates.

"Those are a little clos-"

"That's what I said." the Operator shot, impatience clear in his voice. A thoughtful murmur could be heard on the other side.

"Well, their funeral I suppose."

About ten seconds had passed before the Operator heard the low thumping noises of the Mortars, and and about seven seconds before he heard the boom between each. Another channel switch had him back on the General frequenc-

"&@%@#&%@**%@**$*%&

A sneer graced his lips, and his body cringed as the static burst through the aging speakers. He cursed with enough vitriol to peel paint, and stood and hunched himself over once again to mess with the slew of wires. It was hard to deal with all this interference, especially when this damned storm came out of nowhere.

It was especially strange when one considered that the Wind Factor was forecast to be especially low. Then again, whether forecasts were never the most accurate of things.

Perhaps it's the work of enemy mages. He thought sarcastically, before tripping himself up on a particularly thick wire and nearly falling.

The Operator let out a long groan of frustration.

This was indeed a pain.

Author's Note:

I certainly can't seem to update very often, can I?

Damn my own laziness. Damn my own lack of Imagination.