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GWOT Run and Gun
Oct. 2nd, 2018 02:34 pmGWOT Run and Gun
"I knew this was going to happen," Brooke cursed as she gasped for breath.
As an experienced infantry soldier, she was wearing a rucksack, a body harness and a sling that helped carry the tools of her trade, notably a rifle, a pistol, and two precious hand grenades.
As a medically discharged soldier with a sway back, she was in agony with each step. But pain was a familiar friend and she was intimately aware of the difference between pain and injury.
Behind us in the middle distance were one (1) beloved Hate Truck, two (2) oversized pickup trucks with huge pipe external racks, and a box truck with a broken tailgate. The welding shop hadn't figured out how to make a spring that would stand up, and parts delivery was as dead as any other kind of delivery service.
Everyone who had been in that convoy was now with us, on foot, as a group. This was truly a world of suck.
The lead vehicle had broken down. The tail vehicle had been disabled by gunfire. The middle two had overheated.
In theory I was supposed to be the lightest laden of the group. My job was to think our way out of this trap. But I was thoughtfully burdened with helping to carry a casualty.
Then I saw something in the middle distance, a puff of smoke.
"DOWN!" I ordered, nearly dropping the litter handle in my haste to hide behind a small indentation in the ground.
The casualty winced as he hit the ground. He tried to turn over to get more comfortable, and to see what was going on, but one of the bearers put a gloved hand on his bare forehead and hissed "Stay down!"
The crack of the bullet could now be clearly and audibly heard.
Brooke took one more step, said "Sorry, boss," and fell straight down. Her mouth filled with red and she stopped moving.
"Sniper! Sniper!" the cry went up.
It took a conscious effort of will to not crawl to Brooke. Doing so would merely produce a second casualty. Me.
This is called the "rescue reflex." Giving into it is how entire units get killed by a single sniper.
"Pop smoke," I ordered on radio. "Flank left and right. Main body fifty yards west, now."
Obediently our two heavy weapons teams - one notional, one real - moved to either side. Someone threw something. It landed with a thud. Or was that dud. In any case, no smoke.
I helped carry our surviving casualty to cover. Then I crawled some distance away and surveyed with binoculars, a hand over the front to reduce glare and reflection.
You clever, clever bastards.
"Drone, 2 o'clock, kill it," I ordered.
It immediately flew back over the rise of the slope where the sniper had deployed.
"Battlesight, enemy sniper, request permission to fire," reported a weapons team leader.
"CHECK FIRE!" came the command over radio. Not from me. Not from them. From the referee. "Defensive action effective, sniper disabled," she reluctantly added.
Brooke sat up, spitting.
"I hate the taste of that artsy fartsy theatre crap," she coughed. "But I'm still wounded."
A second stretcher was quickly unfolded. Brooke cheated a little by helping get herself into it.
The smoke grenade, which had been thrown without having its striker pulled, was duly recovered. We then proceeded in properly tactical formation to the designated rally point
"Death before dismount," Brooke joked from her free ride position on the stretcher.
The referee was waiting for us with her bicycle.
The entire operation had taken place on the site. The vehicles were securely parked, with a single guard. We had advanced across our own parking lot and along the hillside, with the hills as the notional direction of retreat. It would have been easier and much faster to simply go into one of the building loading docks.
But you train like you fight, and losing our vehicles and having to walk out was a realistic possibility.
The referee went to each person and checked them and their equipment. One big question: did they actually take all the gear with them that they would need, or did they leave some of it behind on the vehicle? In the exercise it wouldn't matter. In real life it would be fatal.
"Where's your water?" she asked one guard. He'd left his precious CamelBak behind his seat. I'd seen it and decided not to say anything. He needed the object lesson. And now, the pushups.
Then she got to Brooke.
"Who safed your rifle?"
"I did."
"Impressive. You were shot in the chest by a sniper and managed to safe your rifle?!? Who _should_ have safed your rifle?"
Everyone who helped carry Brooke - including yours truly - dropped for pushups.
A wounded person's firearms must be made safe as soon as the scene permits. The risk is that the casualty could become confused and try to help, or mistake us for the enemy - with potentially tragic results.
This is how we learn. In the real world, all you can do is give emergency medical aid, count your losses and write letters to next of kin. Way too late for quality improvement.
"Everybody up!" the referee commanded. "Loading Dock B, run! Casualties too! All equipment!"
And with that we were up for a mile run in full gear.
I matter of factly took Brooke's rucksack.
We still ran in tactical formation. Scouts in the front, coverage on both flanks, noncombatants (as if anyone would respect the concept!) in the center, and a single weapons team to the rear.
The guard who forgot his water wouldn't forget again.
At the building B loading dock, I took a head count and checked in our convoy with the dock guard, as if we had actually abandoned our equipment. We were not exercising the stretcher bearers or Medical, so we didn't page help for our notional casualties.
Brooke angrily reclaimed her rucksack. Neither of us rehashed our standing argument, much to the relief of everyone within earshot.
Then, after a quick water and piss break (courtesy of the porta-potty whose urinal was discreetly piped into the nearest storm drain, and to hell with health codes), we walked the short distance to rejoin our vehicles and returned to the Motor Pool.
Then and only then did we gear down and service our vehicles and equipment, as if we had actually left on convoy. We might get a real response call at any moment. That was the purpose of having convoys.
The referee - from the Reaction Team, just as their referees were provided from the guard force - inspected everything a second time.
Then she called out six names, including mine.
"Range. Qualify. Now."
Perforce the six of us grabbed our equipment and jogged to the rifle range, where we would immediately pass our weapons qualification tests with subcaliber pistols and rifles - .22 long rifle ammunition, of which we had lots and lots, on semiautomatic pistol and AR rifle frames.
But today was different. This would not be a static range in which we transitioned from one then the other with time between targets. We would move from lane to lane to lane, diagonally, until finishing with ten rounds handgun at 3 yards.
The benefits of practice.
We saved a little money and effort on targets by shooting the most dangerous possible target - memorandums on 8 1/2 by 11 paper - with circles scribed carefully in pencil.
All of us passed. But our weakest guard passed, not with a minimum score of 260 of 300, but with a dramatically improved score - for him - of 284 of 300.
I took note. At dinner tonight he would be getting an award, from "Qualified" to "Marksman."
The referee nodded once, finished up her notes and left. We cleaned the range firearms.
I returned to Security Control. Wyatt already had the drone video up on the main screen.
We looked like what we were. Targets.
But not helpless ones. Not even in Apocalypse.
"I knew this was going to happen," Brooke cursed as she gasped for breath.
As an experienced infantry soldier, she was wearing a rucksack, a body harness and a sling that helped carry the tools of her trade, notably a rifle, a pistol, and two precious hand grenades.
As a medically discharged soldier with a sway back, she was in agony with each step. But pain was a familiar friend and she was intimately aware of the difference between pain and injury.
Behind us in the middle distance were one (1) beloved Hate Truck, two (2) oversized pickup trucks with huge pipe external racks, and a box truck with a broken tailgate. The welding shop hadn't figured out how to make a spring that would stand up, and parts delivery was as dead as any other kind of delivery service.
Everyone who had been in that convoy was now with us, on foot, as a group. This was truly a world of suck.
The lead vehicle had broken down. The tail vehicle had been disabled by gunfire. The middle two had overheated.
In theory I was supposed to be the lightest laden of the group. My job was to think our way out of this trap. But I was thoughtfully burdened with helping to carry a casualty.
Then I saw something in the middle distance, a puff of smoke.
"DOWN!" I ordered, nearly dropping the litter handle in my haste to hide behind a small indentation in the ground.
The casualty winced as he hit the ground. He tried to turn over to get more comfortable, and to see what was going on, but one of the bearers put a gloved hand on his bare forehead and hissed "Stay down!"
The crack of the bullet could now be clearly and audibly heard.
Brooke took one more step, said "Sorry, boss," and fell straight down. Her mouth filled with red and she stopped moving.
"Sniper! Sniper!" the cry went up.
It took a conscious effort of will to not crawl to Brooke. Doing so would merely produce a second casualty. Me.
This is called the "rescue reflex." Giving into it is how entire units get killed by a single sniper.
"Pop smoke," I ordered on radio. "Flank left and right. Main body fifty yards west, now."
Obediently our two heavy weapons teams - one notional, one real - moved to either side. Someone threw something. It landed with a thud. Or was that dud. In any case, no smoke.
I helped carry our surviving casualty to cover. Then I crawled some distance away and surveyed with binoculars, a hand over the front to reduce glare and reflection.
You clever, clever bastards.
"Drone, 2 o'clock, kill it," I ordered.
It immediately flew back over the rise of the slope where the sniper had deployed.
"Battlesight, enemy sniper, request permission to fire," reported a weapons team leader.
"CHECK FIRE!" came the command over radio. Not from me. Not from them. From the referee. "Defensive action effective, sniper disabled," she reluctantly added.
Brooke sat up, spitting.
"I hate the taste of that artsy fartsy theatre crap," she coughed. "But I'm still wounded."
A second stretcher was quickly unfolded. Brooke cheated a little by helping get herself into it.
The smoke grenade, which had been thrown without having its striker pulled, was duly recovered. We then proceeded in properly tactical formation to the designated rally point
"Death before dismount," Brooke joked from her free ride position on the stretcher.
The referee was waiting for us with her bicycle.
The entire operation had taken place on the site. The vehicles were securely parked, with a single guard. We had advanced across our own parking lot and along the hillside, with the hills as the notional direction of retreat. It would have been easier and much faster to simply go into one of the building loading docks.
But you train like you fight, and losing our vehicles and having to walk out was a realistic possibility.
The referee went to each person and checked them and their equipment. One big question: did they actually take all the gear with them that they would need, or did they leave some of it behind on the vehicle? In the exercise it wouldn't matter. In real life it would be fatal.
"Where's your water?" she asked one guard. He'd left his precious CamelBak behind his seat. I'd seen it and decided not to say anything. He needed the object lesson. And now, the pushups.
Then she got to Brooke.
"Who safed your rifle?"
"I did."
"Impressive. You were shot in the chest by a sniper and managed to safe your rifle?!? Who _should_ have safed your rifle?"
Everyone who helped carry Brooke - including yours truly - dropped for pushups.
A wounded person's firearms must be made safe as soon as the scene permits. The risk is that the casualty could become confused and try to help, or mistake us for the enemy - with potentially tragic results.
This is how we learn. In the real world, all you can do is give emergency medical aid, count your losses and write letters to next of kin. Way too late for quality improvement.
"Everybody up!" the referee commanded. "Loading Dock B, run! Casualties too! All equipment!"
And with that we were up for a mile run in full gear.
I matter of factly took Brooke's rucksack.
We still ran in tactical formation. Scouts in the front, coverage on both flanks, noncombatants (as if anyone would respect the concept!) in the center, and a single weapons team to the rear.
The guard who forgot his water wouldn't forget again.
At the building B loading dock, I took a head count and checked in our convoy with the dock guard, as if we had actually abandoned our equipment. We were not exercising the stretcher bearers or Medical, so we didn't page help for our notional casualties.
Brooke angrily reclaimed her rucksack. Neither of us rehashed our standing argument, much to the relief of everyone within earshot.
Then, after a quick water and piss break (courtesy of the porta-potty whose urinal was discreetly piped into the nearest storm drain, and to hell with health codes), we walked the short distance to rejoin our vehicles and returned to the Motor Pool.
Then and only then did we gear down and service our vehicles and equipment, as if we had actually left on convoy. We might get a real response call at any moment. That was the purpose of having convoys.
The referee - from the Reaction Team, just as their referees were provided from the guard force - inspected everything a second time.
Then she called out six names, including mine.
"Range. Qualify. Now."
Perforce the six of us grabbed our equipment and jogged to the rifle range, where we would immediately pass our weapons qualification tests with subcaliber pistols and rifles - .22 long rifle ammunition, of which we had lots and lots, on semiautomatic pistol and AR rifle frames.
But today was different. This would not be a static range in which we transitioned from one then the other with time between targets. We would move from lane to lane to lane, diagonally, until finishing with ten rounds handgun at 3 yards.
The benefits of practice.
We saved a little money and effort on targets by shooting the most dangerous possible target - memorandums on 8 1/2 by 11 paper - with circles scribed carefully in pencil.
All of us passed. But our weakest guard passed, not with a minimum score of 260 of 300, but with a dramatically improved score - for him - of 284 of 300.
I took note. At dinner tonight he would be getting an award, from "Qualified" to "Marksman."
The referee nodded once, finished up her notes and left. We cleaned the range firearms.
I returned to Security Control. Wyatt already had the drone video up on the main screen.
We looked like what we were. Targets.
But not helpless ones. Not even in Apocalypse.
