The outpost was largely impromptu: the result of an armored vehicle breaking down within a few miles from where a real encampment was supposed to be. It was faster to simply fortify the position here, on this long stretch of country road, than it would have been to tow the vehicle to a proper fighting position. So a handful of men, rations, and a single functioning Humvee were left behind with the vehicle as the rest of the unit retreated ever-farther east.
They were told it would only be a few days before someone would come back to get them or at least bring supplies. But days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into what was surely months—it was difficult to tell since their cell phones had been confiscated long ago and days in the field tended to melt together.
Gradually, they fortified the outpost with resources they scavenged from the area, which consisted of little more than fallen trees, rocks, and dirt. When they ran low on food or diesel, they seized it from the few civilians who also fled east along the rolling two-lane stretch of tarmac. But it didn’t take long for the slow, steady stream of refugees to turn to a trickle, and then to nothing at all.
Attacks were infrequent and half-hearted—a few random potshots from the woods or an attempted drive-by shooting that rarely ended well for the shooter or the driver. The attackers were mostly sympathizers, rather than organized revolutionary forces. Over the weeks, the soldiers began to suspect the enemy had simply flowed around them along any number of the other routes toward the Carolinas. Perhaps they had been forgotten by both sides and were left to suffer the purgatory of sitting in the defense until a some force big enough to kill to kill them finally came along.
But the Captain remained steadfast—they would not abandon their post. Perhaps it was out of loyalty to what remained of his country. Perhaps it was out of a desire to prove himself. Or perhaps it was because he knew that if they fled, they would simply be found and killed by the revolutionaries long before they linked up with friendly forces. Regardless, he was unwavering.
“We will guard everything within the limits of our post and will only quit our post when properly relieved.”
As time wore on, they began to resemble a small tribe, rather than any sort of proper army. If a uniform item became too hot or too tattered, it was abandoned in favor of clothing they seized from civilians or looted off the corpses of sympathizers. Food and water were acquired in much the same manner, with the small addition of a few rabbits, squirrels, and deer that populated the surrounding woods and fields.
Eventually, a few soldiers slipped away in the night, taking their rifles and ammo with them. A small patrol was sent out to capture the deserters but came back empty handed. The Captain took it out on the rest of the men. Night watch was doubled in size, and a non-commissioned officer was appointed to every shift with the duty of making sure none of their own snuck away through the dark. Sleep turned from an occasional treat to a distant memory.
When a shot from the woods killed one of the soldiers, and no one could find the sniper, the men blamed it on a lack of sleep, food, and a good position. The Captain blamed it on a hole in their defenses left by the deserters.
Not long after, the one of the NCOs, who was supposed to be on the lookout for would-be deserters, disappeared along with the medic. Another patrol was sent out to capture the deserters. This time, the patrol got lucky. The prisoners were hogtied and placed before Captain’s feet. He paced back and forth before them—boiling. After some deliberation, the Captain decided to make an example of those who might abandon their post.
He couldn’t do much to the medic, his skills were too valuable, but he decided he could do without the NCO. Replacing him required little more than a field promotion, and an extra night shift or two for those that remained under his command. His most-senior lower enlisted was given the rank of sergeant and assigned the duty of forming a firing squad for the expendable runaway. Heart racing, the new Sergeant asked the tribe for volunteers. When he got none, he picked three men at random and slinked away to his foxhole to vomit. Under the Captain’s orders, another soldier confiscated the medic’s boots, wrapped a chain tightly around his waist, and bound him to the broken armored vehicle.
In the hot evening sun, the newly minted Sergeant leaned with his whole body against the dirt wall of his foxhole, letting it support his weight as he stared toward the horizon, pretending to guard for enemies. In reality, the gesture was empty; his mind was thoughtless and numb. A soldier came to his hole fighting back tears.
It was one of the men he’d assigned to the firing squad, a young guy who’d arrived at the unit only weeks before the war started. He crouched beside the hole, sniffling and shifting his weight between his feet and murmuring before finally admitting that he couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t do it. The Sergeant couldn’t bring himself to take his eyes off the horizon.
“I’ll do it,” he said. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll do it. Just go back to your hole.”
The next morning, they tried to offer the deserter his pick of a ration for his last meal, but he said he wasn’t hungry. A few hours later, they shot him and buried him in his foxhole.
