GWOT I - Signage
Dec. 25th, 2024 09:27 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyGWOT I - Signage
I went about my duties with a controlled fury born of desperation.
At every moment I asked myself the same question over and over again.
"What should I be doing _right now_ that will save the most lives?"
So I was doing all sorts of things that one generally did not ask a contract security manager to do.
My client simply smiled and nodded and said, "Do it!" whenever I brought something to him. And told everyone else the same thing.
Then he was killed.
Between casualties from the Firecracker and injured persons brought in by our convoys, we had made a small medical clinic - an afterthought from the building architect - into a staffed infirmary, mostly by volunteers. Then I had forcibly recruited assistance, a vet surgeon, and looted supplies left and right.
The two massive attacks - the armed intrusion and the truck bomb - had overloaded it beyond all measure.
For two days I did nothing but alternate between patient care and additional looting.
Then I caught up with our need to bury the dead and minister to the living.
Finally I fell asleep. Not voluntarily. Just utterly, ridiculously exhausted.
###
The huge guard drew his baton.
"You Will Let Him Sleep," he ordered.
Big as a house, dumb as a brick, angry as a bear on fire. His name plate read "S. Shreve" and he was brooking none of this.
The almost as tall man, but not nearly as muscled, wearing the business suit with the white badge, blue bordered, job title "Site Location Executive."
S. Shreve did not give a S. Shit.
"I need to talk to him."
"And he needs to sleep! He has been on the go continously ever since the bombing!"
The manager's entire demeanor changed. As if he realized that this man would not be bullied or browbeaten.
"Doing what?" the executive asked mildly.
"Taking care of hurt people." Shreve frowned, puzzled. Thinking was not his strong suit. "Getting medical stuff. Telling people what to do. Making this place a hospital. He told me, stand here and don't let anyone in."
Belatedly remembering a fragment of his training, Shreve pointed at the hand lettered sign with a Sharpie on the door.
INFIRMARY STAFF LOUNGE. KEEP OUT. THIS MEANS YOU.
"Can I borrow this sign for a minute?"
"No."
"OK." He took a leather covered notepad out of his pocket, wrote down the words, and left.
A few minutes later he was back.
"Can I put this sign up?"
Shreve squinted. The top half of the words was the same. The new one was printed, and also laminated.
"OK."
INFIRMARY STAFF LOUNGE. KEEP OUT. THIS MEANS YOU.
By Order Of The Site Location Executive
The manager put it up with his own hands and two pieces of duct tape, and left again.
I went about my duties with a controlled fury born of desperation.
At every moment I asked myself the same question over and over again.
"What should I be doing _right now_ that will save the most lives?"
So I was doing all sorts of things that one generally did not ask a contract security manager to do.
My client simply smiled and nodded and said, "Do it!" whenever I brought something to him. And told everyone else the same thing.
Then he was killed.
Between casualties from the Firecracker and injured persons brought in by our convoys, we had made a small medical clinic - an afterthought from the building architect - into a staffed infirmary, mostly by volunteers. Then I had forcibly recruited assistance, a vet surgeon, and looted supplies left and right.
The two massive attacks - the armed intrusion and the truck bomb - had overloaded it beyond all measure.
For two days I did nothing but alternate between patient care and additional looting.
Then I caught up with our need to bury the dead and minister to the living.
Finally I fell asleep. Not voluntarily. Just utterly, ridiculously exhausted.
###
The huge guard drew his baton.
"You Will Let Him Sleep," he ordered.
Big as a house, dumb as a brick, angry as a bear on fire. His name plate read "S. Shreve" and he was brooking none of this.
The almost as tall man, but not nearly as muscled, wearing the business suit with the white badge, blue bordered, job title "Site Location Executive."
S. Shreve did not give a S. Shit.
"I need to talk to him."
"And he needs to sleep! He has been on the go continously ever since the bombing!"
The manager's entire demeanor changed. As if he realized that this man would not be bullied or browbeaten.
"Doing what?" the executive asked mildly.
"Taking care of hurt people." Shreve frowned, puzzled. Thinking was not his strong suit. "Getting medical stuff. Telling people what to do. Making this place a hospital. He told me, stand here and don't let anyone in."
Belatedly remembering a fragment of his training, Shreve pointed at the hand lettered sign with a Sharpie on the door.
INFIRMARY STAFF LOUNGE. KEEP OUT. THIS MEANS YOU.
"Can I borrow this sign for a minute?"
"No."
"OK." He took a leather covered notepad out of his pocket, wrote down the words, and left.
A few minutes later he was back.
"Can I put this sign up?"
Shreve squinted. The top half of the words was the same. The new one was printed, and also laminated.
"OK."
INFIRMARY STAFF LOUNGE. KEEP OUT. THIS MEANS YOU.
By Order Of The Site Location Executive
The manager put it up with his own hands and two pieces of duct tape, and left again.
