Chapter 25
Murphy’s Laws of Combat #32
“Professional soldiers are predictable. The world is full of dangerous amateurs.”
“Mel, this is crazy. We are only miles from your uncle, and you want to settle down and start a fire?” Rig said, rocking on his good leg.
The cold ate at him, draining him, and Mel was acting nuts. Now that he was off his horse, Rig wasn’t sure he could get in the saddle again. He found it hard to concentrate. The knots of torn flesh constricted his movements. He feared he’d lose control, and his body would fold up like a deck chair.
“Captain, it’s just a fire. We can brew tea and make Captain Sparhawk more comfortable. No one above will take notice.”
Rig took her elbow and pulled her close, anger giving him the energy. In a sharp whisper, he said, “The man will be lucky to live another hour, an hour we don’t have.”
Her eyes flashed in the dim glow of the flashlight. “I will not leave the captain to die alone.” She jerked her arm free of his grip and walked off, collecting twigs and wood from broken boxes as she went.
Rig watched her go and clenched and unclenched his fists. Under his breath he said, “Everyone dies alone.” The dying leave you behind. That’s how it always felt, and he didn’t want to watch it now.
He hobbled over to the fallen officer and pulling in some wood, began to make a fire a little distance from where he lay. The man scrutinized Rig’s lighter as he started the tinder. The examination annoyed Rig, so he asked, “Captain, how did you end up down here?”
Sparhawk coughed a laugh. “Stupidity.” Rig didn’t reply, so he continued. “I put ashore at Vigo in mid-December, then marched to Nogales. I was to take command of the tenth company, first battalion of the Ninety-Fifth. I was to replace a Captain Wilkens who took ill in September.” A wry grimace dimpled his long face. “I never found my company.”
Sparhawk closed his eyes for a moment, his mouth contorted, then he sighed. “I was working my way up through the retreating columns when I saw an officer trying to stop his men from looting an army wagon.” His mouth twitched, whether from pain or irony Rig couldn’t tell. “It contained great coats and shoes.”
Mel dropped a pile of wood and unpacked the pot, tea, and cups. She rolled a flat stone over and sat, then gave a smile to Sparhawk as she worked to make tea. He smiled back while he wiped snowflakes off his face.
He turned to Rig. “Like the verist Newcome, I got my horse between the men and the cliff above in an attempt to drive them away.” He laid his head back and looked at the cliff ledge thirty meters above. “The water-soaked ground gave way and I fell with my horse and a few of my comrades-in-arms.” He glanced at a red-coated body sprawled some distance away. “And of course, my horse fell on me.”
He coughed again. “Thus ends my military career.” The fire caught, and Rig fed in twigs until it began to warm. Mel set up the teapot on the flat rock near the flames to boil. “I die unacquainted with my profession.” There was regret in his voice, but also resignation. “I am dying, do you think?”
Rig nodded.
“There is little pain. I say, do you know why I haven’t paid my debt to nature yet?” He sounded genuinely curious.
“The horse’s body has acted like a tourniquet across your hips, so you haven’t bled much. It hasn’t interfered with your breathing. You don’t feel much pain as the nerves have been crushed. The cold has helped.”
“How long?”
“Not long. You’ll just go to sleep when you’ve lost enough blood.”
“How do you know this?”
Remembering, Rig fed the fire.
Sparhawk watched him, then said, “Tell me.”
Rig met his gaze. Death and resignation gave an awful energy to a man’s expression, but he respected it. He hated the memories more. He returned to stirring the fire, his head aching, all focus gone, remembering. God, he’d never been so wasted. He rubbed his face and stared into the fire. He felt the story as though it was yesterday.
“My company had a mission to take out a tribal cell, your basic Muj hunt. The Team left White Falcon and moved through Ad Darwah across the river. We had turned onto Javil Adwa Street when an IED tagged one of our Dumvees. The explosion flipped it on its side, pinning Tuffy.”
Rig paused and looked away for a moment, fighting fatigue. “Corporal Tony Diparta—he manned the Ma-Deuce on top—was caught under it like you under your horse. God only knows how it happened. Our Hillbilly armor protected the vehicle. It was still operational once we righted it, but not Tuffy.”
Rig gave a sad smile and tossed more wood onto the fire. “We called him Tuffy because he looked like a juvenile delinquent when he chewed tobacco—with the can rolled up in a sleeve. He chewed it for a half-hour—until we had to flip the Dumvee back onto its wheels.” Rig stirred the flames with a stick. “We had no choice. There were wounded and we were taking fire. One RPG and the vehicle with everyone inside would have been toast.”
After a long silence, Captain Sparhawk waved a hand at Rig and said, “So old chap, who—and what—are you?”
Rig suddenly realized what he’d just revealed. Shit, am I out of it. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Sparhawk gave him a bemused look and raised his head. “Death’s touch bestows a rare clarity.” He laid his head back down. The firelight threw his pale profile in sharp relief against the night. “You don’t fit—your words, your walk, your clothes, your light. You’re not British, or any other nationality.”
“I’m from Canada.”
“Pure gammon, my man.” Sparhawk closed his eyes for a moment, his face pale. “I’ve been abroad, served in the Canadian militia.” He licked his lips and smiled up at the snowy night. “I do not care to be ‘polite’ or ignore the obvious for propriety’s sake.” He rasped out a laugh. “It doesn’t signify at the moment.”
“Now look, I—”
“No Banbury story, please.” The man met Rig’s steady gaze. “Any farrago would be wasted on me.” He smiled at Mel as she returned with wood. “What do you Scots call it, bumbaze?”
Mel gave him a sad smile. “That means to amaze or bewilder, Captain. You’re thinking of bamboozle.”
“Ah, yes.” He turned his head to Rig. “So don’t bamboozle me, sir.”
What the hell. What harm can it do to tell a dead man?
So, Rig told him who and what he was. He pulled out his knife and showed him his uniform pants, flashlight, and boots. All the way through it, the man just smiled, like a kid with his first bike. At the end, he asked Rig what he planned to do. The explanation was simple: “Get Mel to her uncle.”
Sparhawk nodded slightly and then refused the tea Mel offered. Rig could see he was close to the end. “My thanks, Captain Starke. I meet my end bumbazed.” He chuckled. “A man from the future.”
Sparhawk gestured Mel closer. With a wicked grin, he glanced at Rig and then her. “Mel. I like that. I have something I want to ask of you. I think you will understand.”
She sat down beside him and took his hand. He began whispering to her. It irritated Rig. Mel leaning over so the captain could speak into her ear, but the warmth of the flickering flames captured what remained of his frayed attention, a dozen torments eating at his consciousness.
He didn’t know how long he’d been staring into the fire when Mel put her hand on his shoulder. “He’s gone. I’ve collected his food, clothes, and saddle pack.”
Rig blinked and then tried to stand. Mel had to help him. Somehow, he found himself back on Chief. He now wore a hat with a visor. They were on the path again, Mel leading with the flashlight. “Captain, do you have any more pain medicines?”
“Percocet.”
“I think you need to take some.”