Chapter 1: Operation Catharsis
Springfield on Fire Chapter 1: Operation Catharsis Day one was to divide up their forces; half of the base remained there to mend the damage following the morning's mortar fire. The other half would fan out into the hills on a search-and-destroy mission for the mortar teams themselves. Bishop would be in the hills, where the freezing wind was better at cutting your nose than the onslaught of pine needles. His fireteam consisted of six men: Fireteam Leader, Corporal Liam Taylor, a clean-cut blond golden retriever. He looked the part: dashing and confident, a hefty build that looked solid in the uniform. Behind him was the radio operator, a white mouse who barely looked capable of carrying the equipment, Specialist Charlie, "Boxer" Fairbanks. After those two came the gunners, those who were not qualified for any specialized position: Pvt. Gabriel Vicks, a vocal pit bull; his squadmates were all convinced he was more qualified for gunner than any of the others were for their positions. Standing at almost seven feet, he was just larger than Barnes, but, unlike Barnes, Vicks was all muscle. He volunteered for rear-guard to bring up our six, and it was both terrifying and comforting for the rest of the fireteam to know he was behind them. The second gunner was Smith; there was no surprise there; he made up the vanguard, using his scrawny and agile self to help scout just ahead of the fireteam. Next was the friendly pack-mule, Barnes, into whose hands they had placed a machine gun. With Bishop trailing just behind Spc. Boxer, their fireteam made a single-file line up the winding paths into the hills. There was smoke rising from the side of one hill over a little valley; this was more than likely where the mortars had been fired from an hour ago, but any team worth their salt would have packed up and cleared out by now in anticipation of Cpl. Taylor's fireteam. "Bishop," Taylor called out behind him. "How much training have you had with that rifle?" He gestured towards the M1A1 Carbine in Bishop's hands. "Nothing formal, sir. I was to begin today." "Are you any good with it?" "I prefer it to the Thompson." Bishop shivered as the wind caught him under the collar. "B-better scores and more comfortable, yes." "I think we're going to be relying on you out here," Taylor continued, pointing down the path as it opened up from forest to cliff-side. "They're either going to be in perches waiting to snipe us out or holed up waiting for an ambush close-quarters." Those last two words were heavy on everyone's ears. Vicks growled over the shoulder of Barnes, "I'll put them down myself if they do." "Just stay alert," continued the Corporal. "I will not tolerate casualties on my first operation. Boxer--" "Y-yes, sir!" The mouse jumped at his name, saluting. "I need you to relax for me, alright?" "Yes, sir." His hand lowered by his side, the other holding onto the shoulder strap that helped to harness the large radio unit on his back. "Hand me your binoculars." Taylor held out his hand, and Boxer quickly deposited the equipment. "Bishop, I need you to get eyes on that hill." The white rabbit slung his rifle over his shoulder and took the binoculars, pushing past the meek Boxer. The fireteam stopped where the trees had begun to thin out such that, were they to continue, they could easily be seen. At the edge of the path, there was a steep drop. How the trees managed to grow on the side of the hill, none of them knew. Bishop dropped to his stomach and crawled to the edge of the cliff, his ears pressed back by his cap, held tighter still by habit of keeping them down. He put the binoculars up to his eyes and looked for the source of the smoke. They had a slight advantage in altitude at the moment, and Bishop found that he could see quite a lot. "I have..." Bishop scanned again to confirm himself. "Three targets in the mortar pit." "Can you identify them?" Taylor moved closer to Bishop. "All male, clearly combatants; each one has some kind of rifle or sidearm on him. They're not wearing our uniforms." "Identify those weapons if you can." "One of them has a long rifle; I'm not familiar with it, sir. Another has a Luger, and the last looks to have a Thompson fitted with a drum magazine." "The one with the Luger--are they marked?" "I can't see any officer marks him. He's not in his jacket--none of them are." "Alright. It's a safe bet, I think. What are they doing?" "Looks like they're collecting ammunition." "Packing up. We need to move." "No, no." Bishop was surprised as he realized what he was watching. "They're unpacking the shells and moving them over to the mortars." "Another strike? Greedy motherfuckers," Taylor snarled. "Boxer, I need you on that radio ten minutes ago. Tell them to expect another strike within--Bishop, how ready do they look?" "Hard to say." "Give me something, Bishop!" Taylor's bark was sharp. "The Luger is moving to a radio; I thi--" "Bishop!" Sharper still was this one. "Five minutes at most." "You've wasted as many. Get your shit together, Bishop. Boxer: relay that." The mouse hurriedly continued turning the handle on the little turbine inside the radio box to power it. When it reached peak, he grabbed the receiver and began calling, "Nest Egg, this is Bravo-2. Come in, Nest Egg; this is Bravo-2" "This is Nest Egg. Go ahead, Bravo-2." Boxer's normally-shaken voice was clear, smooth, and perfect. His eyes were closed, and he was focused as he relayed the information perfectly. For all his ineptitudes, Boxer was the best thing in the fireteam when it came to doing his job. Bishop felt that sink in as the Corporal's disappointment in him turned to praise for Boxer. Bishop returned to the fireteam and handed the binoculars back, reequipping his rifle under his arm. "Sorry, sir," squeaked Bishop. "Don't hesitate. Don't waste time. Every second you spend not getting the job done is one second our enemy is getting ahead, killing your comrades." Taylor turned and looked Bishop in his eyes, and Bishop's knees were shaky. "I need you on-point. Do you understand that?" Swallowing his pride, Bishop nodded. "Clear as day, sir." "Smith," Taylor called over his shoulder. "How long is the march down to that pit?" "Ten minutes if we haul ass, but they'll see us coming a mile away." "Any other routes?" "We could go the long way and get up on the path that goes over their pit," and he pointed at the feature he was describing as if anyone could see it from there. "...get the drop on 'em." "How long on that path?" "Twenty, twenty-five minutes. It's the trail we trained on a few months back." "I remember now. Good. Did it look clear?" "Pretty much, yeah." "Yes or no, Private." "Yes." "Okay," said Taylor as he turned to the rest of the fireteam. "We take the long road and end this for good. No risk of them getting and setting up again tomorrow. As of now, you are on stealth. No noises; do not fire unless instructed. Hand signals from here on out. Understood?" The fireteam nodded together. Taylor gave the hand sign for "forward, low," and they began maneuvering behind Smith's lead, cutting into the trees and avoiding the open cliffs altogether. As the fireteam mounted the trail a few minutes later, the sound of mortar fire came echoing gently through the trees. Bishop's estimation was right at least: five minutes. He thought about how many would be killed in the new wave, if it would be anyone he knew. Maybe it would be someone he didn't like. He didn't want anyone dead, but, if it had to be someone, it might as well be a win-win. He shook the thought from his head. "Don't be an asshole," he thought to himself. "Good thoughts... good thoughts." Bishop wasn't religious, but he felt a kind of solace in thinking happy thoughts for other people, a king of prayer without the strings attached. It gave him comfort at the very least, which, ultimately, is what he wanted. A prayer wasn't going to divert the mortar fire away from his friends' tents. Bishop realized how much he was spacing out, staring at the back of Taylor's head with no attention being paid to the area around them. When Taylor stopped and dropped to a knee, Bishop nearly tripped over him. Snapping back into reality, he, too, took a knee, drawing his rifle to his shoulder just in case, the barrel pointed down the path. He began to scan the tree line with his rifle lagging, pointing where he had already looked in order to throw off any enemy observers who might try to read his posture and avoid being seen when his gaze pointed at them. A feral deer stood munching on some leaves in the path, still unaware of the fireteam's arrival. This was a bigger problem than it originally seemed. A spooked deer would tip off everything in the next hundred yards that they were there, and none of their guns were fitted for silent kills. "What do we do?" whispered Boxer to Taylor. Taylor didn't respond, watching to see if the deer would move on its own. "Boxer, do that 'bird-call' thing you do." "Which one?" "Wha- I don't know. Just make a sound to get it moving without making it run." "I'll try." Boxer brought his hands up over his snout, one of the only people who could fully cup around his mouth with his hands. He made an enclosing, using his fingers to create a kind of instrument to whistle as he blew into his hand; it was a lot like the wind in an old house. After a bit of practice, it started to sound like an owl. The deer wasn't convinced by the noise, but it was certainly aware of their presence and began walking down the path. It was in the way for sure, but not a direct threat anymore. Taylor pointed at Bishop, Barnes, and Vicks, designating them as a squad to go along the right side of the path that had the cliff going down. Taylor, Boxer, and Smith remained on the left, hugging the wall as they moved forward. This continued for about fifteen minutes. It felt like walking through a mine field, each step being a twig to snap or a rock to trip over. Bishop was in the front, and he was unnerved by the impatient Vicks behind him, who pushed each time he slowed down to survey the next leg of the hike. The squads were approaching a bend towards the right in the path when a loud crack snapped through the trees; it landed with a sickening THUNK and squelch from behind Bishop, who turned on a dime to see Vicks staring at him with a blank expression and a large, red hole plugged into his forehead. The hulking body timbered forward, and Bishop was unable to get out of the way in time, tripping over his feet. Pinned by Vicks, Bishop panicked, trying to lift the body off his legs. He couldn't get leverage, and, instead of moving Vicks, managed only to roll him enough for his face to turn, the wound spilling into Bishop's lap. He couldn't hear Taylor as he called out to the fireteam. He couldn't hear Barnes as he yelled for Bishop to get down. All he heard was a second shot. With his back to the source of the fire, he could feel a pinch in his neck and a ringing in his ears. Dazed, he just looked at Barnes, who was dragging Vicks off to the side. Barnes returned to Bishop and pulled his head to the ground. What little cover they had was effective, as a third and fourth shot crackled, blowing chips out of the tree they were behind. Bishop could see Barnes talking, but he couldn't hear him. He looked at Vicks laying there and reached for him. "Help Vicks," Bishop muttered. "I'm fine." Bunnies didn't belong in the army. Another bullet ricocheted off the trunk of their cover; Bishop flinched, and, upon opening his eyes, felt a wave of senses return to him. He heard the return fire and the yelling between Taylor to Barnes. "Report, Barnes!" "Vicks is KIA! Bishop is hit!"
"I need suppressing fire down range--now!" "Bishop, buddy, hold on." Barnes stood and checked his MG. Bishop patted around for his rifle, and, unable to find it, looked at Vicks, whose Thompson laid still under his hand, finger on the trigger. The M1A1 was under him as well. Barnes turned from the trunk and began laying down bursts of fire into the woods. Barnes could see the sniper repositioning after his fire and called out his location between bursts. "Smith," called Taylor. "Take left flank. Go!" Bishop reached for his rifle with his left arm, but was met with a shooting pain in his shoulder as his arm lifted. He fell over onto his side, then rolled to his stomach and crawled over to Vicks, using the body as cover, and began working the rifle out from under him. The enemy didn't seem to be firing back thanks to Barnes' suppression, but it was impossible to tell since everyone was firing together. Bishop could have been dancing between shots down in the dirt for all he knew. There was a kind of freedom in this risk, where he just had to let fate take its course for better or worse. With the rifle dislodged, Bishop moved across the open to anther tree, seemingly unconcerned with the possibility of being shot again. He stayed prone at the base of the tree, his rifle propped against a root and his shoulder, finger on the trigger. He watched the tree line as bullets fired into the distance. Barnes shouted, "Reloading!" The silence was uncomfortable as the fireteam ceased its fire. Bishop took a deep breath, but was cut off by the pain in his shoulder and exhaled again. He adjusted his breathing to his new capacity and leaned into his iron sights. His senses weren't dulled any longer. He could hear every movement in the trees, smell every bit of spent gunpowder, blood, and turned dirt all matted into his fur. He could feel the drain in his shoulder running down his back, and a kind of frailty that followed in his legs. The sights on his rifle were perfectly aligned. Beautiful. From the silence came another crack just as before, and he spotted a small flash from a darkened burrow. Through sheer mechanical instinct, his aim moved to it, and calmly delivered three rounds down range. They were met with a yelp from afar and Taylor's voice, "Solid hit!" Bishop could hear a burst of a Thompson in the distance and Smith yelling, "Target neutralized!" As Barnes came behind Bishop, the marksman lifted his head from the rifle and cringed, "How is it?" "Not bad," Barnes responded. "You're bleeding like a pig. I'm going to get a compress on there. You think you can make it?" "Yeah, let's keep going. How's Vicks?" "Uh, Bishop," Barnes was somewhere between confused an annoyed. "Vicks is dead." Of course he was; still, Bishop needed to hear it. "Sit up; I'm going to get under your jacket." Taylor and the other squad returned to Barnes and Bishop after a series of shouts, "all clear!" "How are you, Bishop?" "A little shaken, but good." He winced as Barnes worked Bishop's jacket up over his shoulder. Smith came and sat next to Bishop. "Took a bullet... Still breathing. I call that good." There was a silence as they collectively shifted their attention to Vicks lying there in the dirt, eyes still looking for the man who killed him. "We can't carry him back," said Taylor. "Best we can do is lay him out honorably and send in a recovery team for his body when we return. We need to stay on-objective. How long on that wound, Barnes?" "About finished. Let's get his arm in a sling so he can maneuver better. He's still a good shot; doesn't need a left arm for that." "While you're doing that," Taylor said before looking to Boxer. "Let's radio in and let them know our situation. We should be able to take the mortar team within fifteen minutes. Does that sound right, Smith?" "Yes, sir." "Alright. Fifteen minutes, Boxer." The sounds of mortar fire were still evident, but less for their landing and more for the low SHUNK that came bellowing lowly through the trees when they fired. They waited for Boxer to radio home and relay while Barnes finished patching Bishop up, who did little to resist the wolf when he pressed, held, and moved him. It was because of a mixture of weakness from bleeding and a willingness to just get it over with that made him look limp. Needless to say, this was not convincing Taylor that he was fit to fight. "Are you going to make it, private?" "Yeah. I know better than to fight a medic." Bishop's hands were palm-up in his lap, shaking. He could see a still image of the person he'd just killed. He didn't feel bad for it, didn't question it. It bothered him how little it really bothered him. The pressure--as it wasn't really a pain--in his shoulder was, in an odd way, reassuring. He was a live to feel the pain. Vicks was painless. The sniper was painless. "I like the way it hurts," he muttered. "Fuckin' sicko," retched Smith. "Now he's gonna' go out and get shot again." "He just dropped, Smith." Bishop looked over his shoulder to his friend. "Dropped like a bag of sand. No noise, no yelling, no dying words. Just... fuckin' gone." "Don't dwell on it," said Barnes. Bishop realized what Barnes must have seen from behind and nodded; this wasn't dismissive advice. Barnes didn't want to think about it, either. None of them did. Taylor grunted when he turned Vicks over, laying the pit bull's hands on his gun, which was laid over his chest. The corporal placed the soldier's helmet over his face to cover the wound, taking a moment to close his eyes with the solemnity of ritual, as if, somehow, Vicks wasn't really dead until that moment. "Sir," spoke Boxer. "Captain Tanner says we are to keep moving forward until the mission is complete; casualties..." He hesitated, clearing his throat and looking at Vicks. "Are not a concern in the completion of the objective." "Fuckin' expendable, he means." Smith spat to the side in protest, grinding his teeth a little. "We got careless," retorted Taylor with a sigh. "Don't get wrapped up in the politics. We have a job to do. I'll deal with it when we get home." Taylor stood and dusted himself off. Boxer and Smith joined him. "And we are going home, gentlemen. Bishop," said Taylor in an official tone. "Are you good to go?" "Yes, sir." Bishop spoke meekly and, with extensive help from Barnes, stood for the first time since the firefight began. He spilled his guts next to the tree, the nerves finally coming to turn his stomach all over the grass. His entire body looked to be shaking, and, as Barnes could tell, it was. "Barnes, help him along until he gets it together and can walk on his own." Taylor motioned for Smith to go ahead, and Smith darted off immediately to continue his scouting. "Bishop, if you fall behind, we can't afford to carry you. If you can't keep up, go home." Bishop wiped his mouth on his sleeve and spat out one last time. "Understood." Barnes lifted him a little and handed him his rifle. "Good thing you weigh next to nothin'." They began walking together weakly. "I'd hate to have to haul anyone else with all this crap on my back." Bishop sighed into a chuckle. Barnes was good for morale in camp and out there. As they passed the body of the sniper, Bishop took note: a mouse not unlike Boxer. He looked to be the same complexion and pattern, same pink ears, same teeth. He had a pistol in his hand, not the rifle he used against Bishop and the fireteam. He was riddled with holes. Smith must have had to execute the poor bastard after Bishop's shots proved nonvital. Had he been ready to shoot at Smith with that pistol? Some grand last stand against the enemy for honor and valor? Whatever it was then, all that remained was a mound of flesh and bones worth no more than dinner to the feral coyotes that would come to take him away that evening when it got warmer. There was no valor in death, only the loosing of bowels and one's dignity. "Why didn't he just run?" Bishop said to Barnes quietly. "He moved when you started shooting, but he stopped to shoot back." "Who knows," he dismissed "Probably thought he could take us." "He could have survived." Bishop was getting into the habit of checking hindsight on his foes and friends, criticizing what they could and should have done in his mind. "And you could have died." Barnes' words cut at Bishop, a tone which clearly indicated he didn't want to talk about it anymore. "Can you walk on your own now?" Barnes let Bishop's arm go, and Bishop held firm. "Yeah, I'm good." Barnes handed him his rifle and grabbed hold of his own. "Let's get a move on then. We're falling behind." They caught up with a brisk pace to the Corporal and Boxer. With Smith ahead of them, they made good time and ran into no more trouble until they reached their target, an overhang that looked down into the mortar pit. It was as if they had come from the enemy's own base; this extreme flank was costly, indeed, but, in the end, it had paid off. Approaching the edge, Smith peered over without the need for binoculars to confirm that the enemies were stocked and primed to continue firing for some time. They were no more than thirty yards from their targets with a significant height advantage. The sun was coming up behind them such that the enemy looking up at them would be blinded. Tactical advantages like this were enough to give any commanding officer an erection at full-mast. Taylor brought everyone into a huddle and took a deep breath before delivering orders. "Barnes and Smith, you will each take positions on the ridge to fire into the pit. The goal is to pin them down while Bishop," and he turned to look at the rabbit. "Lays down lethal shots onto the targets if they do not surrender. Do you think you can do that?" "Absolutely, sir." "Boxer, I want you standing by to radio in as soon as we're finished. I will stand by Bishop to direct his fire. Everyone, get into positions. On my signal, raise and suppressing fire." Each man assumed their positions. Smith and Barnes crawled to the edge of the cliff, where they could stand up and cast their shadows into the pit. Bishop and Taylor sat together on the edge of the overhang some space apart from the others. Bishop struggled to create a stable platform for himself from which to aim, the edge of the cliff itself making an uneven and unreliable mark. Taylor laid down in front of Bishop on his side, back towards the rabbit. "I'll be your spotter," Taylor spoke softly. "Use my hip like a bench." Bishop positioned his rifle onto his fireteam leader's hip and trained his sights on the mortar pit. He could easily switch aim to every position in the pit and felt his hold was steady enough to be relied upon. He could down all three targets confidently within five seconds, he thought. This was good. "This will work," Bishop said to Taylor, who, looking to Barnes and Smith, gave the gesture for "open fire." It sounded like an industrial fan and a chainsaw battling to see who could be more terrifying. Bishop watched the panicked soldiers jump, looking for where the bullets would come from. Because of Bishop's position, the enemies taking cover from Smith and Barnes were still exposed to him. "If they surrender," Taylor said over the gunfire. "Let them. If they fight back, put them down!" This seemed loud enough that the enemies might have heard him, but they didn't seem to react in any clear way. The man with the Luger, a tiger with bright orange eyes, stuck an arm over his cover to fire his pistol up at the cliff. Bishop sucked in a breath and held it, swinging the barrel of his gun over to point at the tiger. With sights trained on the man, Bishop fired once. Solid hit. The tiger dropped his gun and braced the wound, the impact having nailed him right in the bicep of his shooting arm. He curled into the wound and looked to make the most of his cover; apparently he didn't realize where the shot had come from. Neither did the other two, one of which was cowering behind the mortar itself, his Thompson lonely and unsupervised in the middle of the pit. The third soldier was in a tricky spot, with only his head partially visible to Bishop. He was readying his rifle, which Bishop noticed was fitted with a scope. He didn't wait for the soldier to fire; the M1A1 swiveled again and took a snap shot on the soldier, plugging him in the skull right where his long mule ear came out. He flopped once, something like a fish, and fell limp over his rifle, then down to the ground behind his cover and out of view. Barnes and Smith ceased fire. Taylor got up, leaving Bishop to keep aim without the stability his corporal's body provided. It was difficult, but he managed. "You have two options," Taylor yelled over the cliff. "Option one: you surrender and become our prisoners of war. Your lives will be spared in return for your cooperation, and we will release you safely to your families when the war is over." He cleared his throat and licked his chops. "Option two: you die alone down there. I think you should be careful how you answer. Our snipers have already shown you their effectiveness." A clever bluff to multiply his forces in the mind of the enemy. This made Bishop smile. He wanted to put a round down into the pit for emphasis, but resisted the temptation. He was having fun being the predator, especially to one such as a tiger, who sat crumpled, cowardly and bleeding, probably crying for his mother to rescue him. What a wicked smile this was on Bishop's face. He rolled his shoulder a little to release another wave of pain down his ribs. He enjoyed it. It was a rush, a high. "I am alive," he heard himself say. "You tried your best, but I am alive." The enemy soldier caught hiding behind the mortar cried out, his voice cracking, "I surrender! I want out!" His hands were over the mortar and empty. The tiger was taking his time. Bishop could see the contemplation in his demeanor, the heavy breathing that made his leather pants shine in waves as they moved with the rest of him. Oh, this tiger was walking a fine line, and Bishop was lightly caressing the trigger as he might a lover, waiting for any good reason to give it one gentle squeeze and feel the release of the rifle against his shoulder along with the bruises it might bring in the morning. "And you, tiger?" Taylor sounded triumphant. "We can make the decision easier on you." "No," he said, although Bishop couldn't hear him. He had a very, very thick foreign accent. "Zhet vhel nout be nesuseury."He stood, hands near his downed ears. He stood proudly even in defeat. "Cap'cheur me if you like," he said, this time audible to Bishop. "But es'pect nou'sing from me. I vhel nout betray my alli-." "Oh, that's highly negotiable," interrupted Taylor. "As you'll soon find out." He motioned for Barnes and Smith to descend the slope leading to the pit, and they went sliding down the face like they were surfing. It really was something out of Hollywood. The soldier behind the mortar was standing upright at that point. Bishop had to rub his eyes in disbelief as he eyed two long, white ears on the man's head: another rabbit? Bishop made doubly sure it wasn't one of his older brothers, and, to his relief, let out a great sigh upon noticing a pattern of black and brown speckles in his neck, a pattern not reflected in his family of snow-white fur. Barnes arrested the tiger with little resistance while Smith collected the fallen weapons. Barnes directed the Tiger to begin marching, following him with the tiger's own luger trained on his back. Smith had some fun intimidating and scaring the rabbit, who began to march without needing orders. Smith would snip at his neck with a hand if the rabbit didn't move fast enough, and Bishop had to laugh. In the wild, this was an everyday thing. Foxes hunted rabbits. It was a kind of beautiful circle to behold. "We never really escape our place, do we?" though Bishop. "He's going to love being a POW with our welcoming group. I almost feel bad for him." Bishop struggled to his feet and looked to Boxer, who was busy talking with base. Taylor came walking over. "You held your own," he started, placing a hand gently on the wounded shoulder, probably without realizing or remembering which was wounded. Bishop avoided flinching. By now, he's convinced himself he was just a masochist. Whatever pain he felt just echoed, "I am alive, I am alive..." in his head, and he smiled to have some redemption shine in Taylor's eyes. "I'm happy you're with us, Bishop." Bishop blinked and saw Vicks standing in the darkness behind his eyelids just in that moment. He shivered, his fur standing up at the neck. "T-thanks" The word squirmed out of his mouth. Taylor moved to the cliff edge. "Think you can scale this?" "I'll need you to hold my rifle, but I should be able to manage." "Follow them back to camp," Taylor said while handing his M1903 Colt over to Bishop in exchange for rifle. "If the POWs run, wound them. If they can't keep up or try to run a second time... Well, you know what to do." Bishop's coy smiled returned. "You can count on me, sir." "I know. We'll catch up soon." Taylor turned to Boxer and waved his hand over a shoulder at Bishop. "Go on ahead." Bishop's surf down the side of the hill was not nearly as Hollywood as the others', but he made it with no additional wounds. Once down, he hurried to catch up to Barnes and Smith. The tiger was, now, totally bound by his wrists and being led by the scruff of his neck. Bishop could tell he'd been roughed up a bit more, likely having tried to escape. Bishop thought about who it was who did the roughing, as it seemed unlike Barnes to hit a prisoner, but not something Smith was physically strong enough to do. A swelling eye, a bleeding lip. The tiger was having a rough day for sure. As Bishop caught up, he cocked the hammer on the colt to make its presence known. They passed another deer, who cared little for the display the soldiers made at it. Bishop made eye contact with the animal, feeling as though he'd conquered it somehow, a predator of the prey. As they made their way back to camp, it was quiet. They arrived to find that the majority of the shells had been carried by the wind and missed the majority of vital targets, having leveled the showers and laundry, but nothing else. Taylor and Boxer caught up about the same time the others arrived back, practically falling into the reception of those who remained in the base. Bishop, relieved of his need to carry himself, passed out onto another soldier and was rushed to the infirmary. There, the bullet was removed and the wound sewed up. Thankfully, he was out cold for the procedure. Bishop would wake later that evening weak, but recovering. He could feel the delight of morphine in his system and relaxed into the pillow behind him. He sat propped up in a cot that had him positioned more like it was a chair or hammock, hands turned up in his lap. Sitting there, he began running through a reel of the images he's captured that morning. Vicks three-eyed stare came to surface. Vicks was a decent guy. He was older than most other recruits, and he didn't participate in the bullshit they threw at Bishop. A decent, work-minded guy, he was. ...Was. Bishop looked around to see who else was in the ward. A couple others were laying in cots, both either sleeping or dead. As to which it might have been, Bishop never really found out. Taylor entered the tent with a plate in his hands before Bishop had time to investigate. "Knock knock," he said, actually looking for something to knock on. "This place really is a tent, isn't it? Huh." Taylor came and pulled a chair next to Bishop's cot, setting the plate on Bishop's lap. "I always thought they were exaggerating when they talked about it. You'd think the cold was bad for wounded people, but, hey..." Taylor laughed and put a fork on the plate. "I'm no doctor." "You're talking like I'm dying or something." Bishop smiled weakly, a metallic taste on his tongue, the decay of vomit lingering on his pallet many hours later. "Don't say that," he snapped quietly. "No more death and dying. We did a good job today," Taylor sighed out with labor. "Brought you some slop. Figure you're starving." "N-" Bishop's denial was instantly shut down by his grumbling stomach; they both eyed his midsection like they'd uncovered a spy. "Poker face doesn't work on a stomach, Bishop." Taylor crossed his arms and leaned into the back of his chair. "Go on, eat." "Really, I can wai-" "That's an order, Connor." "S-sure." Bishop reached for the plate, noticing his left arm propped up in a sling over the other shoulder. "This seems a little overkill. I feel fine." "Morphine and adrenaline do a lot to make it seem that way." Bishop started eating. Clean peas. Clean carrots. Sweet potatoes. A roll salted and buttered, lying precariously next to a small pool of white pepper-gravy made from flour and milk, probably the only gravy the rabbit could eat. It reminded him of home, and, taking a bit onto his fork, he choked up. The fork fell into his lap, and his free hand covered his mouth. The tears filled his eyes almost instantly. As Taylor stood and reached across Bishop to hold him, the flood overcame the rabbit, and his petit whimpering could be heard throughout the tent. This morning, he was being harassed by his officers and comrades. An hour later, he'd been shot and pinned under the dead weight of the strongest soldier he'd ever seen. A kind of labor came into Bishop's breathing, trying hard not to hyperventilate and make a fool of himself. Still, something about Taylor was comforting, and he finally sensed that he was free to feel like a person again. He was home again for a moment. The tears he shed expunged his fears, his insecurity, his loneliness. He cried as much for his losses as his gains, his friends, who were still alive. He let it all out. It took a minute or two, but Bishop had finally decompressed what was built up over six months, now soaked into Taylor's fur like a dirty yellow towel. He smiled at Bishop, pulling back and taking a deep breath. "You don't talk much, do you?" Bishop began wiping his eyes, sniffling a little. The question was right on point. He couldn't speak over the lump that remained in his throat, instead shaking his head and rubbing his neck. "I talked to Barnes and Smith about you; I hope you don't mind." Bishop looked at Taylor, both of them fully aware of how absolutely pitiful he looked with saturated, red eyes and wet cheeks, his nose drippy and ears folded back. "They're my only friends." "That's what they said," Taylor said while grabbing a cloth from a nearby stand. He handed it over to Bishop and sat back down. "Let's hope that's a clean one." Bishop laughed, sniffling between the chuckles. He put the towel to work and blew his nose. "They're not racists for starters." "No, they're not." Taylor's tone was that of a therapist: neither to dismiss Bishop nor invite him to elaborate. "Everyone else gives me shit for being who I am no matter how well I perform." Bishop held the cloth in his hand, grinding the inside of his thumb into it like he was trying to clean the fur off his skin. "How many of those guys got positions they wanted? What, like, maybe a third at best." Bishop rolled his eyes. "If any of those..." He struggled to find a word that matched his feeling. "Fuck-faces" God, that felt good. "...had even t-the slightest idea what kind of scrutiny I'm under, they'd have quite months ago!" "That's not untrue," mirrored Taylor, arms crossed over his chest. "So, I have to ask: why did you stay? You could have left any time, you know. Failed a test, failed an evaluation at the range, pissed off Tanner, anything at all. Why stay if it's that bad?" "If I failed, they'd be right." "I figured that was it." "I mean, it's not like I have something to prove to them. I just..." Bishop gave up letting out a sigh and eyeing the cloth. "I'm just tired of being the last one for everything, the least important all the time. My brothers all enlisted when I was still seventeen, so I couldn't join them. They went off into the other branches, too. My dad told me to enlist in the army because you're the only ones that would accept 'one like me.' " "You seem fine to me, Connor. All your parts work as far as I can tell, and you're pretty good at using them." Taylor ran his hand through his hair and scratched behind his ear. "I mean, what does your dad know about the army?" "He'd tell you he knows everything--about everything. That's just... how he is." "How did your mother feel about you enlisting?" "She was worried like she was with all of us, but she was used to it by the time I left. She always wanted to protect me from my brothers, and, once they were gone, she started trying to protect me from the world." "Can't blame a mom for that, though." "No, but I know she didn't do it for me." "How do you mean?" There was a long pause again and Bishop contemplated what to say. His jaw was tight, and Bishop could see his muscles twitching as he grinded his teeth. "You don't have to tell me, Connor. I'm just trying to get to know you a little." "She didn't want to be the mother of the faggot rabbit who got kicked out of the army." The honesty fell like a ton of bricks in the room. "So you're...?" Taylor was apprehensive to ask. "Yeah." "Well, I guess that makes more sense. Army policy doesn't concern itself with things like that. We just want soldiers wh-" "The army will take anyone, I know." Bishop's stomach and jaw clenched again. " That's why I'm here and not with my brothers. That's why everyone else gives me shit. That's why I have to barter for food and shower last. That's why I can't be alone--anywhere--without getting harassed." They both recalled the dozen or so incidents that had come up with Bishop being caught alone by other soldiers and abused in various ways. "I haven't even told anyone, but it's like they can just smell it on me." Bishop sneered at his lap. "They can smell the faggot on me." Taylor just let him talk, a little disappointed at his manner, but still understanding. Bishop was normally the epitome of self-control and patience, but something about this talk was much more than Taylor had bargained for. "I think you smell like baby powder," said Taylor in a tone that was far too serious for the silliness of the sentence. "Doesn't make a difference to me what you smell like. Few hours ago, you smelled like shit, and I still wanted you in my team. Now you smell like baby powder and dehydrated potatoes, and I still want you on my team." Taylor put his hand on Bishop's and squeezed a little. It was an intimate gesture that communicated a sense of sincerity and closure. Bishop looked up to him, his eyes finally dried. The red they displayed was ebbing away to reveal a clear blue. "Thank you." "Thank you, Connor. You are an asset to this team. If nobody else accepts that, let it be enough that I appreciate you, and so do Barnes and Smith. The Commander took note of your service today," Taylor said with a hint of excitement. "Wait, really?" "He wants to recognize your 'determination to serve' despite being wounded. Rumor has it he might put in a recommendation for a medal." Taylor winked conspicuously and leaned back into his chair. "Don't get your hopes up, but, hey. A recommendation can be just as good to the right ears." Taylor looked up above Bishop's head and smiled. "I'm not sure I could put up with those things." It was a ham-fisted change in topics, but Bishop didn't mind. This conversation was one of the first he'd had in a long time that felt good. "I really don't know what to do with them." Bishop looked up and let them flop down into his face, smirking when they covered his eyes. "Two big, white flags on my head." "Oh," Taylor groaned. "Stop it. No more beating up on yourself. Nobody wants to listen to that." "I know." His tone was assuring, casually playful even. Bishop was still smiling as his ears perked up to attention, his broad front teeth showing. All he needed was a little acceptance, a place to belong that was even a little respected. Now that he felt he had it, there wasn't much else to do. Bishop's stomach howled again. "I guess you're right," said Bishop. He grabbed the fork from his lap and scooped up some of the potatoes. "You really can't poker-face a stomach."