Chapter 8: Amidst the Detour

We had finally passed the halfway mark. Now, we only had seven kilometers left until I could enjoy a hot meal. That was how I had been motivating myself to keep moving forward: hot food.

At the very least, those seven kilometers were only being used to bypass the marshes, which were completely unusable as a route. We had no idea what predators might be waiting patiently beneath that still water to turn a victim into a feast.

Blocked by the swamplands, we trekked far to the southeast and then turned east. We could have taken the direct eastern route without any detours, but the officers in the group agreed there was a high chance enemy patrols were already anticipating that move. We had to widen our path, even if it cost us extra time and energy.

"Olszewski take the two guy before with you. Ashton, Caspian you secure those position."

"Yes, Lieutenant."

Choosing our route didn't mean we would avoid the enemy entirely. During the trek, we encountered enemy patrols several times and were forced to engage them to clear our path.

"Clear? Anybody hurt?"

"It's cleared and no one was hit, Sir."

Fortunately, the units we ran into were only small groups that could be neutralized quickly as long as we spotted them first. This allowed us to keep the element of surprise as our ally.

"Ssshh, more footsteps."

Pat stood out the most here. As our scout, he repeatedly tracked enemy presence long before they could collide with us, almost as if he had the power to prophesy where the enemy would appear.

"You really think everyone who is skilled at navigating and tracking enemies must be a hunter from the countryside? That is such a fictional novel trope. Be careful, Elise, because that could be offensive."

​"...How exactly is that offensive?"

​That was the reaction I got when I asked how he had acquired his talent back in bootcamp. In the end, he simply laughed at me and turned it into a joke. He didn't provide a full explanation, but he mentioned that he just has a passion for topography and mapping. He can accurately predict which routes the enemy will take. Perhaps he was telling the truth, because during firing practice, he had terrible accuracy for someone supposed to be a hunter.

"Sir, Pat is asking since the location of our last skirmish with the patrol is now far behind us, is it time to return to the main route?"

"Yes, you two do that. And Raylan, tell Pat to slow his pace."

"Yes, sir."

​Pat wasn't alone. He was being assisted by Raylan, who acted as the link between the scout and the main column. This was necessary because we only had one radio, currently strapped to Caspian's back, and even that was still malfunctioning.

Raylan had been assigned to Pat for a reason, because surprisingly his father was a Ranger. Even though Raylan hadn't fully followed in his father's footsteps, choosing an athletic career instead. Regardless, he still knew a thing or two that proved useful.

But perhaps beside all of that, we all also owed a debt of gratitude to Olszewski as well. It seemed his earlier impulsive actions had actually boosted our confidence, proving that we really could take down the enemy.

Wait a second. Did I just remember his name? Olszewski? Ah, it wasn't that hard after all!

Lieutenant Bulgers’ role was also quite influential. Without wasting a moment, he repeatedly positioned and deployed his subordinates in tight but strategic locations. He also professionally set aside the issue between him and Ols—shit, I forgot again—between him and Scarface. He gave Scarface clear instructions time and time again.

Of course, there was a price to pay for every skirmish we won. Every time we neutralized an enemy, we had to veer even wider to update our route so our noise wouldn't be tracked.

So, in reality, our distance to the objective was no more than seven kilometers. But because of the marshes and these detours, the total distance bloated to fourteen kilometers or even more. At least that’s what Lieutenant Bulgers said; only he and his officers know the full details.

Lieutenant Bulgers raised a clenched fist for the umpteenth time, the standard hand signal to halt all movement. Our boots stopped instantly, pressing into the wet ground.

Shortly after, he added the gesture for us to crouch.

The Lieutenant gave no further specific orders. He appeared to be scanning the area while the rest of us sat idle in the middle of a thicket of flowering shrubs, something that looked entirely out of place in this silent forest.

"Spread out."

After couple of seconds doing nothing, Lieutenant Bulgers finally ordered us to fan out to the left and right. While struggling to maintain silence, we lunged for any spot that could serve as cover. I hunkered down behind a fallen tree trunk, with Ashton, as always, not far from me.

"Another patrol?" Ashton whispered, his voice barely audible.

"I doubt it. Pat isn't here," I answered in the same hushed tone.

Peeking through the gaps of the fallen trunk toward the twelve o'clock position, I saw nothing but the trail Pat had blazed ahead of us. Pat himself had vanished from the Lieutenant's sight. That was likely why he had halted the line.

If that was the case, why bother taking up these combat positions as if we were bracing for something? That was probably what Ashton was thinking, or perhaps what we all were thinking. This uncertainty, accompanied only by the chirping of nocturnal insects, made the atmosphere feel increasingly like a horror story.

"Keep your head down, Ginger," Ashton instructed, noticing me peeking from behind the tree trunk.

​"You call me Ginger too now?"

​Unlike me, who was now fully hidden behind the tree, Ashton still had his head poked out. His rifle rested on the fallen oak as cover, and he held it in line with his sight, aiming toward the trail in front of us.

​He wasn't the only one with his barrel trained on that spot. I could see Scarface doing the same behind him, and it was highly likely that the rest of the unit was doing the exact same thing.

In the direction where the rifles were aimed, the shrubs began to rustle slowly, as if something were moving behind them. It seemed Lieutenant Bulgers' concerns were justified.

​I could feel Ashton tightening his grip on the wooden stock of his K1 Hesley as the rustling drew closer. Behind us, Scarface skillfully cocked his Sekhen Gun without making a single sound of metal on metal. That was the mark of true experience.

"Dusk. Lieutenant? It's me."

​Unlike what we had anticipated, a familiar voice drifted from behind the thicket. Shortly after the voice called out, Raylan showed himself, holding his rifle with one hand.

​Seeing that it was an ally, the tension that had filled the air began to ease. Visually, Ashton’s grip on his weapon loosened as well, though he kept his rifle aimed forward.

​"Raylan? By Zildria, didn't I tell you to slow your pace?" With a hint of irritation, Lieutenant Bulgers stood up while speaking to Raylan.

​"We apologize, Lieutenant. We were a bit jumpy and didn't realize it."

​It seemed that no matter what, our scouts were not perfect. They still had their weaknesses. Moreover, this was the first time we had dropped into territory completely held in the palm of the enemy. It was only natural for people to be nervous in the field.

​Since it was confirmed to be one of our own, Lieutenant Bulgers ordered us to return to our original formation, ready to resume the trek.

​"Also, we ran into another group, and they're from our unit. It's the mortar team," Raylan reported to the Lieutenant.

​"Alright, let's catch up with them."

We quickly returned to our formation. Lieutenant Bulgers gave the hand signal, and we resumed our trek to catch up with the mortar team Raylan had reported. Our steps were more cautious now, navigating through the thickening brush while maintaining proper spacing between each person.

Leaves brushed against our bodies in the narrow thickets. The fact that we had linked up with another group was reassuring. Our makeshift squad finally had more firepower.

"Hey, it's you guys."

After walking a few dozen meters, we were greeted by a familiar voice. It was Pat, sitting casually with three others from the same platoon as mine.

The three sitting in a semi-circle were Freddy, Pisger, and Horgan. We all greeted them as usual.

"Freddy, Pisger, Horgan. Good to see you all."

"You too, Lieutenant," Freddy responded on behalf of the other two.

These three were the complete set of one of our two mortar teams. It was a relief they hadn't been separated like the others. Unfortunately, they weren't carrying their mortar, as equipment like that was sent separately via gliders.

However, there was something strange about the three of them.

"Where are your weapons?" Lieutenant Bulgers asked, echoing my own curiosity.

No matter where I looked, I couldn't find any weapons near them aside from the one Pat was carrying. Their bodies were only covered in large rucksacks and storage bags.

"We took heavy fire from the flaks. Our weapon bags couldn't withstand the impact of the explosions and fell away," Freddy reported on the ordeal he and the other two had faced. "We landed in an open field, Lieutenant. Since knives were all we had, we decided to head into the woods."

"Good move. Thank the Goddess you guys are okay," Lieutenant Bulgers breathed a sigh of relief. Observing him, I could see his concern was truly genuine. "So, how far is that open field from here?"

Freddy didn't answer immediately. He paused for a moment to estimate. "About five hundred meters from here, Lieutenant. It's right as we clear this forest."

"Alright, ten-minute break," the Lieutenant gave us the welcome news. "Caspian and Freddy, take perimeter watch. Fred, use this for now," the order ended with Lieutenant Bulgers tossing over the enemy weapon taken from the fallen patrol soldier as a spare.

"So your name is Freddy? I'm Caspian, the radio guy from Hound Company."

"...Nice to meet you, Caspian."

Freddy and Caspian introduced themselves to each other before finally disappearing from my sight, swallowed by the bushes as they moved to guard the perimeter against hostiles.

As Pat, Lieutenant Bulgers, and Scarface grew busy discussing their navigation, the rest of us soldiers began to find spots to sit. Our last break had been over an hour ago, meaning we had already overshot our schedule. Typically, our pattern was to march for fifty minutes and rest for ten.

​Selecting a suitable spot, I decided to sit beneath an oak tree that stood tall and firm, seemingly indifferent to me leaning my back against it.

​Beside me, Ashton reached for his canteen and opened it carefully to avoid any metallic clinking. Without wasting a moment, he began gulping down the water as if he had been yearning for every single drop of that tasteless water.

​That was a bad move. I had to warn him. "Stupid. Conserve your water. We have no idea what happened next."

​Hearing my advice, his eyes flicked toward me. He pulled the canteen away from his mouth and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "I'm thirsty. You're a medic, so you should know better than anyone that dehydration is just as dangerous as enemy artillery, right?"

​"And that is exactly why I said to save it for later, damn fool," I snapped back for the second time.

​"Alright, alright, I get it," he muttered. Realizing I was dead serious about my warning, he capped his canteen. "Stop calling me stupid. Jeez, you're acting like my mother."

Ashton shoved his canteen back into its pouch. Afterward, he didn't say another word, simply cradling his rifle in silence while the atmosphere between us grew awkward. Don't blame me. He was essentially transferred into our unit at the tail end of bootcamp after one of the men in our platoon suffered an epileptic seizure. Naturally, that man had lied about his medical history before eventually being discharged from our unit.

Since there was nothing to do and we still had a few minutes to rest, I pulled the book from my uniform pocket. It was a small notebook, specifically sized to fit into a pocket, brown and well-kept. I made a point of avoiding any wear and tear. It was roughly the same size as my small hand.

"What's that?" Ashton asked curiously, eyeing the book I had just produced. "You writing?"

"Kinda. Trying to train my brain to stay literate and unaffected by the chaos on this planet" I explained honestly.

"Wow, a real scholar," Ashton praised, and I could see no lie in his eyes. "I’d like to try, but I doubt I’d have the time."

"Time is a created thing. To say, 'I don't have time,' is to say, 'I don't want to.'"

"Oh, we've got a philosopher here. What are you even doing on the frontline?"

Typical. Teenagers tend to underestimate the concept of time, even though adolescence is the threshold to adulthood. At that stage, the way the world treats you changes. If you're late to adapt, everything becomes difficult.

But then again, I have no right to judge. I was like that once too. Moreover, he has already become part of an elite unit at an age where, if it were the me from my previous life, I would still be busy having fun and trivializing the future.

"Anyway, what kind of stuff are you going to write?" Ashton tossed another question at me, pulling me back to this timeline.

"I'll write about the experience of adventuring in this hellhole, of course. Though it's already been filled since our start in bootcamp," I replied while flipping through the pages of my book to find a clean or unfilled one.

"That's cool, but how does that work?" Not satisfied, Ashton asked again. Up ahead, the three officers were still doing a meeting under the raincoat, so I didn't need to rush my explanation.

"Well, you know, writing down all the events we go through and the experiences within them." Pausing, I took a breath before continuing. "Right now, I might write from how tense we were back on the plane, fearing all our years of training would vanish along with a blast from the majestic flaks."

"We? I don't remember being tense on the plane. What are you talking about?" Ashton interrupted my explanation with that cocky face of his.

"Yeah? I'm certain I could hear your thoughts. You were promising the Goddess that if you managed to jump successfully, you'd become a boy who actually listens to his mother," I teased, starting to jot down words on a clean page.

​Hearing my jab, Ashton, who had been snacking on a biscuit from his standard rations, suddenly stopped chewing. I could hear him snort in response.

​Oh? Was I spot on? I was honestly just guessing.

​"Anyway, are you going to write about all of us too?" Ashton asked, even though he was busy shoving his ration container back into one of his bags.

​"Of course," I replied, struggling not to lose focus as I filled the page.

​"In that case, make sure you write me as someone cool, if you ever publish it after this war is over, that is."

​My hand stopped writing for a moment when I heard Ashton’s comment about publishing the book.

​“I don’t know about publishing it. But don’t worry, I’ll write exactly how things are,” I replied with a smirk. “I’ll write that you’re a stupid, bratty kid who jumped from a plane just to get a hug from a beautiful angel when you get back home.”

Hoping for a witty comeback, I was surprised to see the cheerful spark in Ashton’s eyes flicker for a moment. It was replaced by something much older and heavier, something that didn't feel like him at all.

​He let out a short, forced laugh and tilted his head back to look at the early morning sky, where the moon was still working overtime.
​"Bratty kid," he muttered to himself. "Yeah... I guess that’s exactly what I am. Just make sure the angel in your story is real, Ginger. Because right now, this forest is the only thing hugging back."

​I didn't know what I had said to make Ashton turn so sentimental all of a sudden, but regardless, I felt bad about it.

​We fell back into an awkward silence. Neither of us decided to say anything more. I should have been able to focus better on my writing now that the questions had stopped, but in reality, the tension kept me from doing so.

​The situation remained that way until the officers finally reappeared. I packed away my writing tools and slipped the notebook back into my pocket, knowing our break was about to come to an end.