The recollections of Specialist Bowlby

The story is based around the old Twilight 2000 rpg. On armorama.com, a modeling website, they have a Twilight 2000 theme, based around WW3 in Europe, Korea and the mid-east. The idea for the story came from there. One day I intend to build a diorama based around the scene in the ruined church courtyard.

The recollections of rifleman Bowlby is a book written by a British soldier about his experiences in the Italian campaign, and I blatantly palgiarised the title

Constructive criticism of this short story is positively encouraged.


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They say a soldiers life consists of a routine - hurry up and wait, hurry up and wait. Rinse, repeat. Hurry up and wait. My peacetime years in the Marine Corps had taught me the truth of this cliché, there was always a Sergeant shouting at you to get some place ASAP. When you got there you usually had to wait for an officer to turn up who'd then shout at you to get someplace else, ASAP, and the cycle would begin again. And now here we were, having worked like crazy to get to WW3 ASAP, only to find there were no choppers to take us the last few miles.

Hurry up and wait.

***

When North Korea had invaded South Korea a few weeks previously, every Marine had felt a twinge of excitement. The last few years had seen an increase in tensions between East & West, and as the Soviets spent more money on equipping and training their forces, so had our budgets for equipment and training increased. Indeed, the last few years it had been real fun to be a Marine. We got lots of fancy new toys & lots of opportunities to play with them. The old hands in our unit compared it to the heydays of the Reagan era in the 80s when money was no object to training properly and having the best equipment. So you can imagine when war broke out in Korea we were excited. This was what we had been training hard for all these years, this was our chance to put our skills to the test, to do what we had joined up for. To the non-soldier this seems a bizarre way of thinking, but could you imagine training for years & years as a nurse and never actually getting a chance to treat a patient? Or training constantly for years to be a teacher, but never standing in front of a class of kids. That’s what a soldier feels, and especially what a Marine feels. The United States Marine Corps have a long and proud fighting tradition, and every generation of Marines itches to prove themselves in combat, to fight in another Wake Island or Iwo Jima or Khe Sahn and be able to stand proud with their Marine brethren through the ages.

So you can imagine the disappointment when our Battalion wasn't sent to Korea with all the other units at our base, instead merely being put on standby. We were told we were "being kept in reserve". In reserve for what? We demanded. There was a damn full blown war going on, and we weren't being invited. We weren't disappointed, we were crushed & humiliated. It was like being told "sorry guys, but you'll have to sit this one out. Your unit just ain't up to scratch. "

Of course the other battalions rubbed our noses in it. More than one of our Marines ended up on a charge after starting a fight when they could stand the taunting from those who were going to Korea no more. "See ya in a few weeks girls!" they called out as they left camp and we silently, sullenly returned to our barracks. And there we stayed for the next 2 weeks, watching every development of the war in Korea, hoping and praying that we would be sent, keeping our kit checked, clean and ready to go at a moments notice. And then out of the blue Russia invaded Poland - their plan all along was to tie down the US in a Korean war, giving them the chance to launch a surprise attack. To say we were happy would be an understatement. #Hey guys, we're going to Europe!

And so followed several days of frantic preparation. Civilian planes were chartered to carry us to Germany, the Air Force just didn't have enough transports to fly troops, equipment and supplies to 2 full blown wars on opposite sides of the globe, so rather than flying in the back of a less than luxurious Hercules, we got to fly in the relative comfort of an airliner. #Most of our heavy equipment we had to leave behind, it would supposedly follow on at a later, unspecified date. We were going to have to fight as light infantry to begin with. By now the war in Korea had been forgotten, we were fully focused on the war in Europe. Russian tanks had quickly over-run most of Poland and their armoured spearheads were now beginning to push into Germany. NATO was throwing units into the front line, often in a piece-meal basis, but it appeared they were beginning to have an effect and as we left for Europe we figured that maybe there would be some kind of a stable front line into which we could be plugged. We grunts sure didn't fancy fighting the commies in a war of manoeuvre without tanks and APC’s of our own.

On the flight across the Atlantic I tried to sleep, figuring that once we got to the war it would become a rare and precious commodity, but like most of the other Marines on that plane I was too excited and too nervous to sleep. That flight seemed to last forever. I don't remember where we landed, but I do remember it wasn't that big an airport and we had to evacuate the plane in a hurry - we had been warned that other troop carrying airliners had been attacked on the ground by Russian fighters. I for one sure didn't want to die before I'd had a chance to fire my gun in anger. I couldn't think of a worse way to go than to be killed before you'd even reached the fight. Thankfully we all got off the plane safely and our equipment was unloaded from the baggage hold in record time and before we'd even left the vicinity of the airport our plane was gone again. Clearly our civilian pilot wanted to get the hell out of Dodge.

So having rushed to get ready, rushed to get on a plane, rushed across the Atlantic and rushed to get off a plane, here we were, 2 companies of Marines, 250 men, armed to the teeth, pumped with adrenaline and itching for a fight, camped in a wood on the edge of an airfield waiting for transport to the front. Rumour was the choppers that were due to take us to the front had been shot down whilst carrying the troops who had come in on the previous airliner. So we waited there a day and a night and still nobody knew what was going on. Eventually Captain Esubalu, our company CO came up to us and told us to move out. Turns out he had been into the nearby town and commandeered a couple of civilian buses to take us to where we were meant to be. Suddenly after 24 hours of sat around doing nothing, once again everything had to be done double quick. The poor old bus driver was clearly terrified at the thought of having to take us to the Front and every time the sound of a low flying jet or helicopter could be heard (which was often) he would nervously look up out his windows scanning the sky. After several hours journey he got us to within 5 miles of where we needed to be before he pulled over and refused to go any further. No amount of bribery or intimidation on our part could induce him to go any further. To be fair to the guy, who could blame him, but he didn't endear himself to us by making us walk those last 5 miles with full kit through the chilly German countryside.

As we approached our destination there came a noticeable change in atmosphere over the whole company. Everyone was suddenly very quiet, deep in their own thoughts, studying the countryside around them looking for clues at to what their future might hold. More and more uniforms were visible as we got nearer, from several different NATO countries, but mainly German and British. Finally we reached where we had been trying so hard to get to these last few days, a German village whose name didn't seem very important at the time. There were signs of fighting here and there, the odd shell crater or damaged building but nothing to strike fear into our hearts. Occasionally we'd hear the odd distant explosion, just enough to remind us there was a war on, but otherwise we began to relax. Maybe this war wasn't so bad after all. As we prepared our positions our confidence began to grow and our nerves dissipate and we began horsing around with each other just like it was an exercise. The only thing that un-nerved me was a small group of British paras we found in a barn house. They were totally done in. Tired, dirty and irritable they looked nothing like the proud warriors we had often exercised with in the past. Clearly our confident attitude was grating on their nerves. Finally one of them could take it no more, leaning out the window of the barn he yelled at us in his thick. barely understandable British accent "Bloody Yanks! Just you bloody wait till the commies come this way, then you won't be so damn confident" before slamming the window shut again. We all thought this was hilarious, little did we know.

Sergeant Ramirez, our platoon Sergeant came up and told us the situation. He said we were on the southern flank of the Russian advance which seemed to be heading for Berlin. He pointed to another village which was on a small hill a couple of miles away and told us that the Russians occupied that village which had an excellent view of the surrounding countryside and that on the other side of that hill lay a main road along which Soviet supplies & reinforcements were being moved. The Russians had driven the British paras from the village the night before, inflicting heavy casualties upon them (that explained why they looked at us with their thousand yard stares). Our company were to retake the village so that an attack could be launched to sever the highway it guarded access to. We would move up during the night and attack first thing in the morning. Oh, and we would have no artillery or close air support, just a few mortars and heavy machine guns.

"This is it guys, Semper Fi".

Moving up to the start point that night was without question the most nerve racking, scariest thing I had ever done. Every noise seemed magnified a thousand times. At any second I expected Russian MGs & mortars to open up on us. I was convinced that the loud beating of my heart would give me away. But eventually we reached our start point, caught our breath and waited for the signal to begin the attack.

Truth is, I don't remember much of the action. I know there was lots of noise, shouting of orders, screaming of men, rifle fire, tracers from machine guns, explosions. I know I was scared too, but my fear was replaced by adrenaline, and by the fact that my body seemed to go into autopilot. All that training took over as without thinking I would take cover, or move position, or fire my rifle or communicate with my buddies, or drag a wounded Marine to cover. It all happened like it was a script, like there was nothing spontaneous, for at no point did I find myself thinking "what must I do next?" I just did it. And then I remember no more.

I woke up and was aware of movement and of voices around me, American voices. My head was sore, my body ached all down one side and I was lying on my back. I could feel the suns warm, early springtime rays warming my face. Gradually I became aware of my surroundings. I was lying in the courtyard of a wrecked church, Korulyuk, our company radioman was kneeling next to me holding an IV bag which was connected to my arm. Captain Esubalu was on the radio to HQ. I'll never forget his words

"Objective taken. Repeat objective taken" ...pause...."14 dead 53 wounded, 12 critical"

My blood ran cold. Out of 150 men in our company, 14 dead and 53 wounded in one attack! That was nearly 50% casualties. So this was the war I had wanted to be in so badly.

The captain was still on the radio "expect Russian counter-attack, request immediate reinforcement and evacuation of wounded"

I looked at Korulyuk and in a raspy voice asked for some water. After he had given me some from his canteen I cleared my throat.

"What happened to me man?"

"RPG went off just behind you. You're lucky to be alive dude"

"How bad am I hit?"

"You got shrapnel wounds all down your left side, your left hand is pretty beat up and your head is cut, but you're gunna be OK"

"Is it true what the Captain said?"

"About what?"

"All those dead Marines"

He looked down and gave a barely perceptible nod.

"Those Ruskies put up one helluva fight. Ain't gunna be many of us left if its gunna be like this every day."

"What happened? I mean, why so many casualties?"

"2nd platoon walked into an ambush.....Lieutenant Riggins had ‘em all bunched up and they got mown down. Then when the Ruskies pulled out, they called in their artillery and we took a lot of casualties then too."

I could feel a lump growing in the back of my throat. I had noticed a dead body near me in the courtyard. Someone had draped a blanket over the body so that only the boots were showing. They were a Marines boots.

"Who's that?" I asked Korulyuk, motioning with my head towards the body.

"I dunno man, I ain't looked"

I lay there in silence for a few minutes before I summoned up the courage to ask the question that I was afraid of.

"Where's Manny? Is he OK"

"I ain't seen him Alec, I couldn't say"

Later that day I found out that Manny Fernandez, my closest buddy, had had both legs blown off by a grenade and bled to death. I never saw Korulyuk again, so I never did find out if he was lying to protect me or if he genuinely didn't know.

With his free hand he reached inside a pocket and fished out a packet of cigarettes. Skilfully with his one hand he pulled one out, put it in his mouth, produced a lighter, and then lit the cigarette. He offered it to me.

"No thanks man, I don't smoke. Bad for your health."

We looked at each other and smiled weakly, our eyes glistening with sadness. Captain Esubalu gave the handset back to Korulyuk and moved off shouting for Sergeant Ramirez. As I lay on the stretcher I looked more closely at my surroundings. More and more wounded Marines were being brought into the courtyard, vehicles were apparently on their way to evacuate us, although the walking wounded had already begun to make their own way back.. There was a very young looking Russian POW stood at one end, smoking a cigarette. As the courtyard began to fill up with wounded we talked quietly amongst ourselves, piecing together what had happened and who hadn't made it. Although I hadn't noticed it before, I became aware of a Ford Mutt jeep in the courtyard. Where the hell had that come from? I thought the Marines had retired those years ago. Maybe it wasn't one of ours. Strange the things you come across in wartime.

Later that day a motley collection of vehicles came up to evacuate the wounded, starting with the most serious cases. Several of the wounded men decided that they were fit enough to stay and fight, including Sgt Ramirez who had been hit in the leg and was unable to walk. Suddenly I was overcome with waves of guilt and shame. A counter-attack was expected any minute and here I was abandoning my buddies when they needed every rifle they could get. I said I wanted to stay as well. They told me I needed to be evacuated. I told them I wanted to stay. They asked me what I could do since I couldn't walk or hold a rifle. I became angry and hysterical, shouting that I demanded that I stay and fight. Captain Esubalu came over and asked what all the noise was about and that was when I lost it and began to cry. Big, wet, heaving sobs racked my whole body as my guilt at leaving combined with my guilt of surviving and the pain of all my dead friends. Suddenly there were reassuring arms around me, comforting words from friends who loved me as a brother and as if by magic a cup of hot, sweet coffee appeared in my hands. The waves of guilt were replaced by waves of comradeship towards my brothers in arms.

When I had calmed down the Captain looked me in the eyes and told me

"You're going to be alright Bowlby. And you still need to be evacuated. Got that Marine?"

I blinked back the tears and said in a hoarse, croaky voice "yes sir."

As I was lifted into the back of one of the vehicles I noticed our reinforcements entering the village. It was those Brit paras we'd seen the day before. They no longer looked like tired, hunted, scared men, but they had a determination and a grim steeliness about their demeanour. They weren’t wearing helmets, but their red berets in a display of regimental pride. It’s amazing what a nights rest and hot food can do for a soldiers morale.

"What the hell are you guys doing here?" called out a Marine

"Well, we couldn't let the Parachute Regiment be shown up by a bunch of bloody Yanks could we?"

As my vehicle moved off I whispered a silent prayer for the brave men who would be defending that little village from the Russian counterattack that was sure to come.


***


As I moved back through the medical system, it became clear to me just how chaotic this war was. Fragments of units from many different countries were banding together to hold key positions. The medical facility I was first evacuated to was supposedly Italian Army, but there were American & British staff as well as volunteer German civilians working round the clock to treat the Polish, American, British, German, Italian and Spanish casualties who I saw pass through there. I got there in the evening. In the middle of the night more casualties started to arrive from my unit, victims of the Russian counterattack which had been beaten off, but with heavy casualties. Sgt Ramirez ended up on my ward, he had been wounded again and this time had to be evacuated. He told me Captain Esubalu had been killed in the battle and my heart fell. He was the best CO I'd ever had and I worried about how what remained of the company would do without his superb leadership. It was also there that I heard that the war in Korea had gone nuclear. The thought of the thousands of Marines who had perished in the nuclear holocaust there weighed heavily on my mind. I couldn't believe that just a few weeks ago I had been jealous and angry that they had been sent to Korea and I had not.

The sheer scale of the fighting and the number of casualties became clear to me as I slowly worked my way back through the medical system. Every hospital in Germany, both military and civilian was full to overflowing with injured soldiers and civilians. It was decided by whoever decides these things that I was to be moved to the hospital at the US Airbase at Torrejon in Spain. Slowly, by a variety of means of transport, both civilian and military I made my way there. By the time I reached Torrejon the Russian advance had ground to a halt and bitter, intense fighting was going on around Berlin. The casualties were rumoured to be horrendous - on both sides. Then I got word I was to be airlifted back to the States. My heart was filled with joy. Being in a hospital surrounded by complete strangers was no fun. If I couldn't be with my buddies at the front, then I wanted to be at home with my family. I started thinking about life at home and how the Redwings were getting on..Just as I had arrived in Europe in a chartered airliner, now I was to leave Europe in a chartered airliner. But I never made it back home.

I guess you could call me lucky, if surviving to see the aftermath of such horrors is luck. I hadn't been sent to Korea and been killed in the nuclear holocaust there. I hadn't been killed in the fighting in Germany. Then, when the European war went nuclear and cities across central Europe and North America were annihilated, I was lucky enough to be in the air above the Atlantic Ocean. The pilot came over the tannoy to announce that he was diverting to the Azores, where there was an American airbase, because there had been a nuclear attack on America. We couldn’t believe it. Surely there had been some kind of a mistake? It wasn’t until we got back on the ground that the full reality of the situation sank in. A lot of communication with the Continental US had been knocked out, but enough reports were coming in for us to gauge the sheer scale of the horror. All the major cities – New York, Washington, Boston, Chicago, Miami, LA and my home town, Detroit, had been hit with multiple nuclear warheads, not to mention the major cities in Europe.

Horror, shock, numbness, disbelief, anguish, anger, so many emotions were raging through the bodies of everyone on that tranquil mid-Atlantic island, so removed from the nuclear holocaust. A lot of the troops were desperate to get back to the States to see if their families had survived. I knew that my family would be dead, or at the very least I hoped that they had died in the initial explosions, and there was now nothing for me to go home to. Like a lot of guys, I chose to stay on the Azores and make a new life there, far from the horrors elsewhere in the world. I work on a fishing boat crewed by locals, its simple life and honest hard work is a long way from the hi-tech war that devastated our planet. The beauty of the rolling ocean is a stark contrast to that church courtyard in Germany filled with wounded men where I once spent a chilly spring morning. As our boat rides the waves I often look out and think of the men that I knew that were spared the horror of being a survivor like my buddy Manny Fernandez or Captain Esubalu, as fine a human being as I ever knew. And I wonder what happened to the other guys like Koryluk or Sergeant Ramirez. Where they caught in the nuclear storm or like me did they make it to safety?

I care little for the politics of the world that emerged post world war 3, it just doesn’t seem important any more. I wouldn’t say I now live a happy life, but I do enjoy the company of the Atlantic Ocean. She has a power and a majesty and a strength all of her own that I find intoxicating. Standing on the bow of the ship, feeling the cold wind upon my face, looking out upon the vast rolling ocean I am truly aware of the frail and fleeting nature of human life, yet it is then that I feel most alive.

Could one of the mods please edit the title from Specialist Bowbly to Corporal Bowlby.

Thanks :)

Still no one who reacted to this story? Strange. Well, then it falls to me.

A very good story, Mount Suribachi. I found the end a bit tame, but otherwise it was excellent. By the way, with tame I mean that it lacked in emotion (not that it was an anti-climax) but perhaps that was your intention.

One tip, though: you shouldn't use numbers when writing, except for designating something (the 201th infantry, the year 1679 A.D.). Otherwise, just spell the number: two choppers, two jeeps, thirtyfour paratroopers, etc.

Thanks for the reply Ludens

I did struggle with the ending. What happens to him after the nuclear holocaust & him landing on The Azores was the only part of the story that did not flow easily. Any suggestions on what I could do with it?

And thanks for the tips on numbers, I'll bear it in mind ~:)

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Originally Posted by Mount Suribachi

I did struggle with the ending. What happens to him after the nuclear holocaust & him landing on The Azores was the only part of the story that did not flow easily. Any suggestions on what I could do with it?

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That is hard to say. The whole story is done in a cool tone of voice (very well done, by the way) and it would not do to change that at the end. But it seems odd that such horrible things are told with so little emotion.
It needs more emotion. I think the problem lies here:

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A lot of the troops were desperate to get back to the States to see if their families had survived. I knew that my family would be dead, or at the very least I hoped that they had died in the initial explosions, and there was now nothing for me to go home to. Like a lot of guys, I chose to stay on the Azores and make a new life there, far from the horrors elsewhere in the world. I work on a fishing boat crewed by locals, its simple life and honest hard work is a long way from the hi-tech war that devastated our planet. The beauty of the rolling ocean is a stark contrast to that church courtyard in Germany filled with wounded men where I once spent a chilly spring morning.

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You switch to quickly from the dead family to the beauty of the island. Was Bowlby reconciled that fast with the dead of his loved ones? The other passengers of the plane certainly were not. You could pay somewhat more attention to his thoughts at that moment.

But this is the domain of the writer. I am just giving my thoughts; it's your story and there is no way I could decide what's best for it.


About changing the name of the topic: the best thing you can do is PM ShadesWolf. It could be done in the old forum, but I don't know if it is possible in this one.

A nicely written story, not a setting I like much but still readable. :)

:looks at sig: Hey! You found my Vicky AAR! Still need to do a proper ending for that, rather than leaving it hanging on a strange note.

I just finished reading it today - I saw it linked in your sig in a reply to Peter Ebbensens Byzantine letters which I had just started reading, and I thought, ooooh this looks interesting. In fact I am just off over to the Paradox forums to post my comments on your tale and give your AAR an almighty bump ~D

Very good story. Although I do agree with Luden's comments.
I really should start writing again.
*sighs*

Keep up the good work.

Good story. Makes me wish I could write!

Uummm, is the setting of the story now? If so, what's up with the Soviets? I know they are an easy enemy to think of in East vs. West, but Russia is not commie and is way too weak to seriously attack its neighbors (at least I think so).

I enjoyed it nonetheless.

~:cheers:

ATPG

If you're really interested, I can give you the link to the whole back story (not written by me). Its quite long tho...

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Originally Posted by Mount Suribachi

Could one of the mods please edit the title from Specialist Bowbly to Corporal Bowlby.

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You can change the title yourself. Just edit the original mail and change the title ~:wave: .