Sergeant Tuke stared at the lip of the crater, lho stick burning into his right hand. It took him a moment to realize that the stub had burnt into his fingers. He quickly expelled the offending butt onto the ground, swearing as he sucked on his now burnt index finger.

“Sarge?”

Tuke spun his head, finger still in his mouth. A gaunt and unshaven trooper sauntered toward him, Lasrifle hanging off of his chest. Trooper Gerrick stopped beside the sergeant, drawing out a thick match from the top pocket of his dark green shirt.

“You want the honor?”

Looking at Gerrick, Tuke shook his head slightly.

“Fine.”

Gerrick looked across the pit at the four soldiers standing on the opposite edge some thirty meters away. Each one was shaking the last few drops from a promethium can, having just climbed up the edge of the crater.

One of the troopers saw Gerrick, and gave him a thumbs up, stepping back into the scorched dirt of the jungle clearing. Gerrick returned the gesture, and then, in a single, almost practiced movement, struck the head of the match against the side of his bayonet sheath on his thigh, and hurled it into the pit.

With an astonishing rush, the misty morning was instantly cast into light as forty-odd liters of low-grade promethium ignited in a giant forty-foot high fireball.

Tuke was almost thrown off of his feet by the blast, shielding his eyes from the heat. Black smoke rushed over him, choking every breath he took in with thick soot. He turned from the flames and bought a muddied sleeve to his mouth as he trudged to his patrol truck.

He uncovered his watering eyes just in time to see lieutenant Cragh approach him, his aide in close tow. Tuke almost snapped to attention, holding himself back at the last moment, instead nodding to the officer.

“Sir, what brings you-”

“Spare me,” Cragh barked, leaning on the front of Tuke’s truck, “Is that the last of them?”

“Yes sir, two twenty in total sir.”

“Two twenty?”

“Yessir,” Tuke nodded, drawing out a re-write pad, “Two twenty confirmed, probably double that if you count the leftovers.”

Cragh nodded, scribbling on his automated slate with one finger. He looked back at the scrawny sergeant, eyeing him up and down for a moment.

“Civilians?”

“Eighty seven we counted, mainly women and children.”

“Where are they?”

“Village field sir,” Tuke pointed, “Over there.”

Cragh looked at Tuke, his face stern as always.

“You know what to do.”

Tuke nodded, sliding the re-write pad into his pocket. He turned towards the village field, his boots scraping on the damp ground towards the massed group of civilians

Tuke made a beeline to the two corporals on the edge of the village field. Behind them, ten troopers formed a cordon around the grouped civilians. Lasrifles cradled into the shoulder, ready to swing and open fire on the group if anyone made a break for it.

Corporal Ervik was heading the guard detail, his carbine slung across his back, a lho stick held near his mouth. He saw Tuke approaching and had already given him a nod, turning to face Tuke.

“Sergeant,” He addressed, lowering the stick from his mouth, “How long we gonna be here?”

“As long as it takes Corporal,” Tuke muttered, his voice low and coarse, “And not a moment less.”

“Yes sergeant, it’s just-“

Ervik trailed off, throwing his lho stick to the ground and destroying it with a kick of his boot. Tuke looked at him still, his gaze un-moving.

“Just what corporal."

“It’s just, well, we've been picking up bodies for two frakking weeks, and my men are getting itchy sergeant.”

“Itchy, what constitutes itchy corporal?”

Ervik tried to avoid the sergeant’s gaze, knowing a blasting would come if he gave the wrong answer, or even if he gave the right one.

“Itchy sir, y’know, they want to fight the enemy sir, it’s what they joined up for,” Ervik said, a noticeable fright in his voice, “They’re seeing the rest of the battalion being awarded action bars and making headway, and our company is stuck on guard detail at these frakking villages, or at the staging grounds hauling bodies around.”

“They want to kill people you mean corporal?”

There was a tense silence for a moment between the two, as Ervik searched for the right answer.

“Well,” Ervik struggled to find an answer, “Yes sir, they do, frankly sir, I do too.”

Tuke nodded, turning his attention to the guard detail. He took a deep breath as he pushed past the corporal.

“Alright, listen up!” He barked, the troopers instantly putting their eyes on him as he pointed to a side of the field, “Any man who looks like he can hold a rifle on this side. Women and runts on the other side!”

There was a nod from the troopers, and instantly they moved into the group, grabbing all the able bodied men and dragging them to the side of the field. Tuke looked at the ragged bunch of civilians, they were all darker skinned than any of his men, and a lot larger. Even some of the children looked as if they could hold a rifle and make use of it.

It took a good two minutes to separate the group, as only a few of them grasped low-gothic, instead muttering in quick barks of their own throaty tongue as they tried to figure out what was going on.

Once the group had stopped moving, Tuke strode in, the grassy patch squelching under his ankle-high black boots. Corporal Ervik kept a few paces behind him, rifle now held across his chest.

Tuke drew out his six-shooter pistol, emptying six rounds from the chamber, and turning to Ervik, he held up a single round and slid it into the cylinder. He spun it with a finger, letting it turn under its own force.

“Corporal Ervik,” He announced to the squad, “Has implied to me that sixth squad, of my platoon, is a little bored of their work.”

There was an eerie silence among the soldiers, as well as the civilians. Even the children remained silent, though Tuke couldn’t tell if it was their nature, or their ignorance, or both.

He swung the pistol up, snapping the cylinder shut as he did, barrel aiming it square at Ervik’s head. A gasp came from a few in the crowd, and the young corporal stood rooted to the spot, his face instantly paling as his fingers began to shake. Tuke spun the pistol on his finger, his hand gripping the barrel now, extending the weapon to Ervik.

The young corporal took a step up, wrapping a hand around the wooden grip of the weapon. He bought the weapon close to him, cradling it in two hands. Tuke turned away from Ervik, a silence now filling the air.

He strode toward the side of the crowd with the women, and grabbed one by the arm, dragging her out towards the center, indicating for her to stay there. He took a few steps back, and grabbed a young child, his mother gasping as Tuke snatched him up, carrying the child to the center.

There was a commotion in the crowd. One man shouted, taking a step forward, a thin blade now drawn in his hand. He shouted something toward Tuke, his nostrils flared and bare chest rippling with engorged veins.

Tuke flung a hand behind his back, the pistol grip of his assault stubber in hand a moment later. He bought the weapon up quickly on its sling, the man taking another step forward as Tuke’s forward hand wrapped around the hard plastic.

The air cracked as a single, ten millimeter slug tore the man’s chest apart. His bare skin was shredded, blood flying over the group huddled behind him. The body fell to the ground in a heap, the wet mud now stained with litres of blood.

There was a scream from a young child, quickly to be stifled by its mother in the crowd.

Silence soon followed, and Tuke slowly lowered the weapon, the civilian crowd now staring intently at him...