Rations

Three days.

Three days under ruined concrete in a small, flattened village.

Three days among barks and leaves.

Three days of isolation.

We had to scatter or be shredded by thick HE calibre, fired from the huge green barrel of a tank. Comms crashed from tripping over a branch. I swore as I kept running deeper into the woods. Leafless. Brown. Dry.

No way of knowing whether my comrades were dead or alive. I want to dwell into it, but I can’t lose my focus. Gotta keep going. Find a friendly face. Uniform. Unit. Wheels.

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My phone’s camera is displaying my own visage in the screen. Wavy blonde hair had seen better days, strands sticking out. The crown had grown close to my shoulders. Lips curled down. Blue eyes half closed. I will be 26 by Christmas.

Tired. Scared. Hungry.

So hungry.

Dropping my pack during a sprint from an ambush lifted off the suffocating weight on my shoulders, but maybe I should have at least take my ration pack. Or even a crumb of crackers.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Worse, I never had familiar contact numbers. It didn’t dawn on me to ask my friends for theirs. Fuck me sideways.

Canteen still strapped at my waist, there is only less than a quarter of water left. Can’t hear any watery sounds nearby. Imminent thirst, pangs of hunger and being stranded behind hostile lines forced me to haul ass asap.

Deep breathes. Exhale slowly. Easy…

I run a check on my current gear. Two heaters, a knife, a light vest, armor and a few things in my pockets besides the phone.

Bushmaster ACR (Adaptive Combat Rifle) – My primary arm. Though production discontinued in 2020, there are still plenty of working models. Coated with a woodland camo paint job, it fires 5.56x45 rounds. Fitted with a foregrip and ACOG sight.

CZ 75 – My secondary. Fires 9x19 rounds. Black. Also a blessing for left hands due to its ambidextrous slide and safety switch. Comfy to use.

KABAR Knife – Single edge carbon steel. Never lose your knife.

CAGE Plate Carrier – Torso carrier fitted with armor plate at the front.

My flecktarn helmet.

Light vest – Dark green in color. Carries three extra ACR and CZ 75 mags. Thank goodness they are filled.

Moving on to my pockets.

My military ID.

A multitool because a knife is sometimes not enough.

A roll of bandage.

A Zippo lighter and a box of Marlboro. Smoked three sticks to try to tolerate my starvation.

My canteen filled with that quarter of water. I just sipped it all.

And finally, my boots and the service uniform I stand in. Green overalls patterned with tiger stripes. Stitched on the shoulder sleeve is the ONA patch in its glory. Comes with kneepads.

Ejecting both mags, I check the rounds, all filling to the brim. Perfect. Mags re-inserted. Stand up. Quietly walk out after scanning outside my former shelter.

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The sunlight is my only sense of direction. It will set in an hour. I trudge on west carefully, perking my ears for any foreign noises. My eyes comb around my surroundings, but the trees and some bushes don’t make much way for my field of vision.

I hold onto my ACR, keeping the barrel straight while moving on as quietly as I can. My stomach continues to growl. I grit my teeth, trying to wave off the lingering hunger, but it keeps shrieking for me to gnaw on something. Anything. I nibble the flesh of my own arm, almost wishing

for enemy contact just to keep me distracted enough to wane it off. My eyes are giving out from exhaustion. I shake my own head, banging it against my ACR’s ACOG.

I am close to lighting my Marlboro when I hear voices swearing from a distance, a bit to my west. Pocketing the stick, I crouch immediately, looking towards the possible direction of the source. Hands shaky, heart beating fast. Crouching in some bushes, I look through my ACOG.

ZANF troops standing around talking to each other. A mix of Warsaw and NATO are their primary arms. I couldn’t quite make out what they are saying from here, although I thought I heard something about scattered ONA girls. Still no mention of confirmed dead or captured buds.

I suck in my gut to try preventing it from growling as I continue to monitor ZANF girls while scanning the area. Lean-tos. Ammo boxes. A smoke emanating from a ring of rocks. I can also see a tarp or two spread out on the ground.

I almost doze off. A new voice in the camp jolts me awake. Another ZANF soldier is directing orders to the girls. Two of them move on to carry a couple of ammo boxes for each, then jog towards the others as they all leave.

After three minutes of nobody in sight, I slowly get out of the bush and explore the camp.

There is only junk in the lean-tos. Nothing that looks edible in the slightest. I move on to the tarps, keeping my finger on the trigger as I grip one, then quickly lift it off to reveal an unoccupied shallow foxhole.

Spent cartridges are scattered on the ground here, accompanied by an empty ammo box. Same thing for the second foxhole, minus said box. Until my eyes fall onto an object. A dark green wrapping that is labelled “Performance Ready”.

I dive into the foxhole and rip open the wrapping. Sweet, rectangular cocoa. Holding myself from shoving the protein bar down my windpipe, I bite off a reasonable size. Gut might burst if so much food is inside in one go after a long starving period. It was only three days, but I’m not taking chances.

Within five minutes the protein bar is gone. As much as I savour the taste of cocoa, it wasn’t fulfilling enough, though better than nothing.

The woods are getting dark, the sky a faint orange glow. A bullet in my ass is not worth the risk of wandering in nightly hours. Furthermore, the fire and my phone’s flashlight can wait. Not while I’m still in freshly former ZANF territory.

I take a look at my empty canteen, slowly smacking my lips. No matter my hunger, I think dehydration will still be a bigger bitch to deal with.

I set the ACR close to me, not caring to doff my vest and CAGE as I remove my helmet and set it gently under my cheek. Sleep takes me after I pull the tarp over my foxhole.

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I wake up from a dreamless sleep. I don’t feel like moving. Mental imagery of succulent flesh. Roasted roots and greens. Hot poultry stock. Chocolate. Cocoa bars. Wriggly protein. Field rations…

I fish my phone out of my pocket. 28% battery. 0158 hours. Shit. I think I better bounce. Rely on my ears. Can’t stand sitting here for a few more hours in the dark, all while I am slowly deteriorating from lack of food.

The second I pocket my phone, the tarp abruptly shifts. A figure shouting at my presence in a deep voice. Barrel pointed at my body. Reality slaps me in the cheek as I quickly jolt myself off the dirt and drag the trooper by her rifle, bumping my skull against her mouth when three rounds go off close to my boot.

KABAR steel drawn from leather. I jab it towards the ZANF bastard’s groin, but she catches my hand and quickly draws her own knife. Another headbutt to her chin. A yelp of pain. I grasp onto her wrist and push her forward as we struggle to jab our blades. Pain shoots between

my legs when the trooper’s padded knee lands a bullseye against my soft spot. I let out a short scream, reeling back only to feel my hair gripped and tugged. The kneepad knocks my nostrils. A rain of fistful bruises follows, hammered on both cheeks. Nose soon bleeding from the strikes of her knife’s blunt end. I catch a vision of grinning mouth and a pair of green optics under the moonlight. I grit my teeth when I catch the trooper’s blade with my bare hand, shrieking at the steel cutting my lower palm while still pushing onwards for my neck. As I am loosening my painful grip, my free hand hurriedly draws my CZ and pulls the trigger thrice.

The trooper’s leg stumbles on its footing after earning new holes. In that momentary weakness, I press the barrel onto her neck. Bore three more before kicking her down. As she chokes on her own blood, I shove my CZ against her teeth within her lips. Four more fired into the orifice. Gums caked with blood. Shattered incisors. Her gurgling falls silent as I step back. I hear footsteps and quickly dive back into the foxhole, fastening my helmet and picking up my ACR.

Despite the moonlight, I still cannot clearly see more ZANF. Most of them either don headlights or probably NV optics in the dark. One light is shining at my direction. I open fire. Full auto. My lower palm is still searing with pain, probably bleeding too. I whimper as I feel the stinging sensation, yet I keep firing, resting the handguard on my middle and upper palm and enduring the recoil.

Only one is positively downed by my ACR. The rest scatter and return fire, the loud screams of their rifles deafen the chirping of crickets. I lie prone behind cover. If I want to call a mound of dirt as such. It is inadequate at this angle of the foxhole. I jump when bullet cracks over me, rains of dirt falling on my helmet. Peeking over just barely enough to see beyond the foxhole, my ACR babbles at the ZANF’s general direction before it clicks. I turn heel and quickly scramble over the tiny edge before more gunfire hail at my direction. I sprint deeper into some bushes and among the tall leafless trees. The tok-tok of rifles are still audible behind me. I never look back to see if they are giving chase.

Suddenly, I feel as if the back of my body’s left side is thwacked by the impact of a rod. I clench my teeth while I keep running, but the new pain is threatening to immobilize me the more I move. Frantically, I sling my ACR and look around.

I am running nowhere in the dark. Bleeding and injured. Possibly pursued. Still nothing to nourish myself. Still alone.

My legs are giving out. I want to keep running as I am dragged down by aching muscles. My energy is spent. I shut my eyes, still moving. My helmet bumps into something solid. I fall on my ass.

I look up towards the obstacle but couldn’t make out what it is. Nobody is screaming at me. Nothing is fired. I turn on my phone’s flashlight. Shined ahead of me is grey concrete. I look further up, slowly getting on my feet. I am facing a wall, a part of a decrepit, abandoned one storey house. Need for respite dominates any doubts I might have about the place. I scurry inside, but not before holding my CZ in my free hand.

I skim inside. Despite some presence of furniture in the living room, everything is stark, all color drained by time and decay. I find or hear neither ONA nor ZANF troops here. In the kitchen, only a part of a shredded counter remains. Debris sit in the middle of this room. There is what used to be a bathroom and a bedroom here too, but except for an empty toilet, nothing else is spared.

My CZ is aimed at the entrance for a couple of minutes, then I just realize the familiar chirping of crickets. Beyond the entrance, the woods look like a void.

Nobody else is coming.

I navigate my way to the couch. The best place to sleep in relative safety would be between it and the wall. I shift it with a pull, albeit at a slow pace. Adrenaline goes back home for chow, pain taking place. As soon as I could make enough space to fit into my crevice, I crawl in, tears welling up in my eyes.

Helmet, vest and CAGE slipped off my body, all stacked as a makeshift pillow. I lift up my uniform and shut off my phone’s flashlight, only relying on the screen’s instead to shine the lead wound on the back of my side despite not being able to see it. Although my hips aren’t critically affected, I still want the bullet out. Fear of lead poisoning. Doctors would bitch at me for what I am going to do but frack this anyway.

Knotting my uniform on the ribs, I hold my KABAR and multitool close, leaning my head against the back of the couch. I gnaw tightly onto my collar, my fingers feel around my skin for the bullet. Thumb and index lightly pinching close. KABAR steel scraping the brass, my body flinching in response. Clench my teeth harder. Shut my eyes. The tip squeezes in between brass and muscle. The silence is filled by muffled shrills and wailing.

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Bloodstained bullet dropped from the grasp of my multitool’s pair of pliers. Through gritted teeth, I sob like a little girl. Blood trickling down my skin. I curl up, my internal voice whining, “It hurts. It hurts.”

My body is still going through its motions while I wallow in my own misery. I unroll my fresh bandage and wipe off excess blood before wrapping it round my torso, enough to firmly seal the wound. The end of the strip is sliced and knotted on my other cleaner side.

Another strip on my battered, bleeding nose, wrapped around my head and knotted on its back. My cut lower palm receives the same treatment. Moving my mouth is difficult without suffering the pain on my cheeks.

Through my tears, I refreshed my ACR with a new mag and rack the slide. Then it is the CZ’s turn. Some 9x19 are still left unspent. Re-insert pistol mag. Rack. Both safeties on.

I pull my uniform back down, then slowly lie my head on my “pillow”. I am pinned by exhaustion. A heavy sigh escapes my lips when my eyes are closed.

My sleep is riddled by nightmares. Lost friends. A near death experience. A never ending chase. ZANF overwhelming ONA forces with concentrated firepower, missiles, artillery and tank shells. Me captured as a prisoner of war. Rights are non-existent. I am chained at the ceiling, subjected to bodily torture under the eyes of a capped officer. She has the same face as the ZANF trooper that discovered my foxhole.

I am back in reality, slowly opening my eyes. A hiss greets my morning. I suddenly sit up to see a snake slithering in front of me. It is no python or cobra, but still poses a sizable figure. In a panic I draw my pistol and empty the magazine. The snake writhes from three to four hits, then becomes limp.

I peek my head out of the couch. The sun has risen, though the outside isn’t really sunny. I mumble curses to myself for being a dumbfuck while I reload my CZ. Holstering it, I switch to my ACR and take aim at the windows.

20 minutes of nothingness pass.

Blowing a small sigh of relief, I return my attention to the snake and hold my KABAR, then quickly pin the head under my boot prior to decapitation. I snatch the squirming body and kick the head under the couch before grabbing my shit and scramble out of the house.

I think I can hear a hint of water while I am donning my gear. I chew my own lip when I feel an urge to bolt down on the snake raw, but I remember my Zippo and decide to get a fire going instead. Still, there is the unlit Marlboro that I haven’t touched for many hours. Stick between my lips, I light away, blowing out smoke with a frown. Injured nose means tasteless meals and tobacco for days.

I trace the possible sounds of water with my raw meal hanging over my shoulder. It doesn’t take very long to eventually find a small clearing and a creek. Almost drop the snake when I approach the edge and get on my knees, wetting my fingers into the stream and licking it. Water looks clear enough to me. The next time I get fracked by waterborne germs, I can poke a medic to throw me pills.

One more smoke. Lit cig extinguished under boot.

Canteen filled. Contents emptied into my throat. Canteen re-filled. Repeat until thirst is quenched.

Tinder and kindling are easy to procure. Crushed dry leaves and some sticks. I make kindling out of the latter by shaving some with shallow cuts to “feather” out the surfaces. While collecting slightly bigger wood for fuel, I found a patch of sanicles not very far from the creek.

Tiny pinkish flowers. Lobed leaves. Good for staunching bleeding. I pick plenty of them. This morning is a decent godsend.

Leaves, shaved sticks and wood gathered in one place. Set them alight with Zippo. The fire brews up. I manage to find a few rocks and place them round my campfire. Another gulp of creek water. Settle down.

Skinning a snake is a piece of cake. You just pinch the hide and split it down the middle on the underside, then peel off as you would for small game. The guts can be simply pulled out, but no offal’s worth eating. Now it’s all meat and bone. Skewer it over the fire. Let it cook.

Any part of the meat that is roasted at the barest minimum are cut off and eaten little by little. While waiting for the rest, I pound my sanicles with a rock. Leaves and stems crushed into a juicy pulp. This expressed juice is then applied on my major wounds, unbandaged. The old strips are replaced by the new.

A snake tastes sort of like chicken. If my nose isn’t battered, I’d verify now. If I close my eyes while eating both, I probably won’t know the difference too.

Enjoying my first decent meal makes me sleepy. Putting out my fire, I lean against a tree and finish my snake before gulping down some more water. I roll onto my side and rest my cheek on my helmet before getting the shut eye, hoping to be undisturbed.

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I am lying prone on my stomach, my ACR aimed towards the source of sporadic gunfire that exploded out of nowhere 15 minutes ago. Can’t tell whether the shouting belong to ZANF or ONA girls. I crawl on, slightly flinching at the pain from my bandaged bullet wound. Still not as intense as last night.

I perceive what appears to be a bunch of uniforms shooting at the treeline from the west. More shouting. More scurrying behind trees as the opposing bullets hit the barks and the ground. Scoping through my ACOG, I recognize the uniform and camo patterns. The sort that many of us ONA troopers are wearing.

Can’t see the shoulder patches from here, but I feel slightly relieved that I get to see faces that are on our side. Still, I stay prone, watching.

The current bitch of this situation is that I can’t see any ZANF soldiers. I scan the treeline, fallen branches and some bushes here and there from where I am lying, but to no avail. Drums of gunfire still beating through the woods. I hear a grenade blast. A distant expletive.

A few ONA soldiers are advancing between trees, few more staying behind while covering for them. One shoots with an underbarrel launcher. Another falls, later pleading that she’s hit. A trooper is about to pull her out, but she gets calibres on her neck and jaw.

“Fuck, woman down!”, someone is shouting out.

Another grenade thrown and suppressive fire applied in full auto. A woman keeps her helmeted head down while she pulls the injured trooper to safety before retreating back to cover. Gunfire is still rapping.

A loud explosion and rumble shake the ground beneath me. A blast in front of ONA throws dirt, sticks, leaves and some bodies in the air. I quickly stand up and get the frack out of dodge as the spot morphs into an arti-shell dumping zone. I take cover behind a tree, resting my ACR’s handguard on my upper palm when I see more soldiers, but not in any ONA uniforms.

Comms between artillery and infantry must be fracked up. I see danger close happening near ZANF troops. They are retreating into a hole in the ground. The shells are still falling. I drop myself prone but they stop as quickly as they started. Seconds pass. No more rumbling and explosions. Hastily, I stand up.

I push forward to the hole where the ZANF retreated. Looks to be an entrance of some underground dirt shelter. There might be a trench up ahead. I check my mags and my ACR’s slide, a round still chambered. Normally, it’s stupid and suicidal to engage with hostilities solo. Despite the digested snake in my gut, I could have seconds. Plus, if I can neutralize every ZANF here, my fellow ONA can move on unhindered…

Deep breathes. Exhale. Relax…

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Trigger pulled from behind a tree at the first sight of emerging ZANF. First hail of 5.56 expended into two faces. A calibre zips by my helmet, leaving a scratch. My eyes widened from this close call. Voices shouting at my direction. I hear a pulled pin and sprinted out of here, narrowly missing their shots until I hide behind another tree. A nade explodes.

Splinters of my cover breaking off amidst the hail of bullets. I peek out and trade fire, taking down at least one ZANF before my ACR clicks and I hide to refresh with a new mag. A miserable wail echoes out. Sucks to be her.

The two ZANF soldiers are gone when I peek out. I rush towards the writhing trooper, putting two rounds on her face and kneeling down to swipe a grenade off her vest. Rifles and machine guns start singing from a distance. Two bullets land on the dirt in front of me.

“Friendly! Friendly! Trigger happy fucks!” I scream as I dash towards the hole, unpinning the grenade and toss it inside. Wait outside for five seconds. Explosion and a slight collapse of dirt. A shout for help.

I open fire the second my boot step into the shelter, finishing off a ZANF sprawled on the ground and another that is too slow to run to the other side. I duck behind a crate and empty my mag. A bullet bounces off my fracking helmet. I duck further. Son of a bitch.

Final ACR mag loaded. The incomprehensible rhythm of gunfire continues on the surface. I think the occupants are outside. I stand up only to feel myself dropped onto the ground in a flash, my helmet falling off. A ZANF trooper is pinning my neck with one hand, pistol in the other. The barrel is planted onto my forehead.

In an instant, I slap it away as a round goes off, narrowly missing my ear. A shriek escapes my lips as my wavy hair is tugged. Head slammed twice against the dirt. I draw my KABAR and struggle to breathe in constricted oxygen as I cut a quick slit across the wrist of her grasping hand. She screams, eyes widened. The grip loosens. My hand reaches out for her vest and pulls her to me. I drive the KABAR through her cheek, then cut her larynx. She retches out with her tongue lolling out. I shove her as hard as I can, then draw my CZ and punch all rounds through her neck and face. Cranial contents violently rearranged by chrome between her open eyes.

Loading my CZ’s last clip, I quickly approach the trooper, now a dormant vegetable. I scan both directions of this corridor, then pick up my helmet and ACR. Onwards. Scarred. Exhausted.

There is only one small space in this shelter. The exit is just ahead. I hear less gunfire from the surface.

Scanning the space with my ACR before stepping in, I look down. The ground is strewn with some bedrolls. A few things are left here, most likely personal stuff that the ZANF troopers left behind. Soon I catch a glimpse of a big packet. Dark green. I slowly kneel down and pick it up.

Jackpot ringing in my ears like tinnitus. A ZANF-issued field ration. The package is open, but not its contents. I want to admire every packet. Every menu. Beef stroganoff is its main course.

I hear voices shouting about searching for any more ZANF contacts. A march of footsteps at the exit. I quickly turn around and raise my hands, yelling out at them to not shoot and speak my name, allegiance and rank. Someone peeks out and points her rifle at my direction. I repeat what I mostly said. She steps in as I slowly turn around, my shoulder then tugged. She takes a look at my ONA shoulder patch. A small nod. I drop my hands.

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I took a rash of shit for the past four days. I never know the current state of my friends. After narrating my ordeal to a superior in an ONA field camp, I am directed to rest. Soon I will have to report to a new unit.

At least they didn’t snatch my ZANF ration. Stroganoff aside, there are crackers, salted nuts, chicken pâté, a small chocolate bar, Smarties, a jam spread and two powdered drinks. A flameless ration heater and a small packet of water is also included.

Only one Marlboro stick is left in the box. It will be my last smoke before my next departure. I look over the contents of the ration, sprawled before me on the table.

Time to feast.