". . . another of the unfortunate ironies found in that dreadful sequil to the Robotech war, the Zentradi Malcontent Uprising in the Southlands, is the plight of the Yanoamo people. They enjoyed a brief retreat from the near extinction of the twentieth century after the Zentradi's final attack on the planet because the survivors of that holocaust had little interest in the dense jungles the Yanoamo people called home. Yet, the RDF campaign to end the Zentradi rebelion also ended the isolation of the Brazilias. Caught between two opposing forces which they couldn't comprehend, let alone understand, the only choice the remaining tribes had was either to assimilate into the earth forces or die. Though some were successefully used by the human forces as trackers and guides, most who remained in the jungle sufferd from the tendency of the RDF soldiers to consider anything not in a RDF uniform a threat.
Today, in the small Yanoamo Soverign City of the Southern Brazillias are the last survivors of this ancient group of tribes."
- Dr. Paul Brandon, University of Monument City in "Lost Peoples of the Twentieth Century", ca. 2024
***
Another truck struggled past his postion on the hill that overlooked the muddy gully that the road back to "civilzation" had become after three straight weeks of downpour while Sandy lit his first cigaret of the morning. The engeneneers had hurridly striped a path through the thick jungle, filling in some of the biggest holes, promising to make a more permanent arangement for Supply Command, but then the rains came and the dirt track started to wash.
Though there were a thousand anoyances for the first sargent of "Danger" company, which was providing security for Check Point 15 on the Main Supply Rout of the Eastern Brazilias, the pasability of the road wasn't one that Sandy was responsible for. In fact, if the rains would close the road, his job of protecting it from the bands of Malcontents and Zentradi sympathizers that romed this sector would be much easier. Life was never that simple in a line company of the RDF infantry, though.
With sarcasm driping from his voice as he saw the young corporal in full battle armour,(a suit made of superaloys that protected its wearer from radiation, the vacume of space, and some of the smaller weapons the Zentradi used) walking up the hill to his vantage point at the top, Sandy said, "I see that you have come prepaired, as usual, Johnson."
Suddenly, Johnson's confident gait faltered. He started to open his mouth but then thought better of it, snapped to attention and shouted, "No excuse, Sargent!"
"Damn right, no excuse. Well don't just stand there with your head up your ass, get your rockets and get back here."
It was just too damn bad there wasn't anyone left who remembered the Civil War. Recruits had their eyes on the sky and the Varatechs or at least thier less glammorous cousins the Destroids. Most were supprised when they discovered to thier sorrow that the Robotech Defence Force still had infantry units. Yet, few remembered, except perhaps for those as old as Sandy, that though the grunts were supposedly obsolete when the Global Civil War began, poorly paid infantry units routinely destroyed multimilion creadit weapon systems simply by being too small to be noticed. The most decisive reason for the continued existance of the foot soldier though, was the fact that the most effective weapon against one man with a gun is another man with a gun.
This time, when Johnson trudged up the rocky hill that was the only land feature for twenty miles that rose above the sea of folage, he was carying four shoulder launched armor piercing missles, his assult rifle, and six grenades. The engeneers back in Dr. Lang's labs claimed the new missles would dissable a Battle Pod or kill an unarmored Zentradi. The weapons could also be used to improve the companies fire support should a battle become an infantry slugfest, an unlikely prospect in this war where the enemy was usualy ten times bigger than you.
"Keep one of the rockets handy at all times, Johnson. The Cloud Climbers back at central claim they have complete radar survailance on this sector and can detect any Zentradi forces prepairing for attack but use your own scope to cheack the immediate vecinity, anyway."
Sandy took no comfort from the fact that the powers making decissions had begun to understand military truisms and were begining to give infantry soldiers thier due. First, they had recalled him from what looked to be a promising retirement. Ever since just after Kyhron's last attack, Sandy had been a private citizen in monument city, working at odd jobs, reading a lot, and generaly enjoying his pension. Once RDF High Command realized they needed trained infantry NCO's if they were to be able stop the Zentradi Rebelion it had ended. Quicker than he could read the letter advising him that he was being recalled, Sandy was wearing the uniform of a RDF infantry sargent and begining an intensive retrainig program that painfully demonstrated how well Sandy had been living for the last five years.
Sandy didn't exactly resent the United Earth Defence Councils decission to stop the Zentradi rebelion in the Brazilias, but he hated the idea that after surviving two relatively high technology wars, he was being recalled at the the age of fifty to fight a much lower tech war, one in which , if the stories the training officers had told were true, Destroids, Veritechs, and the vaunted Hover Tanks, were getting trashed at a rated of one per day, usualy taking thier pilots with them. The worst part was that most pilots never saw an enemy and never believed in the booby traps until it was too late and they were dead.
At an odd moment one evening after a session intended to teach sargents how to get a six foot, two hundered pound trooper to attack and kill a fifty foot, ten ton oponent, Sandy had been struck by the seeming similarities between the war he was prepairing to fight and a greusome little war the United States of America had fought in South Eastern Asia during the ninteen sixties, which had eaten up men and material at an enormous rate, spiting them out as physical or even worse, emotional wrecks. As he studied the unclasified after-action reports coming from the Brazilias and compared them with the American war, Sandy realized that the Zentradi had learned how to fight a modified version of a Gurilla war and were using similar tactics to those the American's foe had used.
Little could be done about his fate by the time Sandy realized the truth about the RDF's use for infantry. Sandy had to much pride to desert and not enough skills to transfer to another branch of the army. The Southern Cross Army, newly formed and very gung ho, had temped him for while, until one of thier Hover Tank units had fought its first battle and ended up with ninety percent casualties. Instead, he had gotton himself assigned to a new division full of recruits; most of the RDF regular divisions were already fighting the Zentradi deep in the jungle.
Joining a brand new unit had major drawbacks, though. Recruits were ninty percent of the unit's strength but would have been O.K. if they were just a little older or had more experience and training. But in "Danger" company, all were trainees, including the platoon officers and the other NCO's, and shouldn't have seen field duty for several weeks yet, but the High Command had refused wait. Aparantly the fight was going badly for the Human side.
With a final look arround the small position, a group of fox holes and the trigers for the warning flairs, Sandy began to walk back to the compound, both cursing and praising his own suits efforts to deal with the heat that was already beginig to make him feal like a boiled lobster.
Corporal Johnson, or J.J. as most people called him, heaved a small sigh of relief. It wasn't bad enough to fall asleep on guard duty last night but then Sargent Bead had to catch him without his weapons, this morning. Corporal Jeffery Johnson was sure this just wasn't his year.
First, The RDF recruiter had talked him into taking the aptitude test. After seeing the results, the recruiter had become very eloquent about the opportuinities the army could offer a bright young man just out of prep school; flight, glamor, danger, advernture, all of these possibilities could become reality for Johnson if he would just sign up and take the oath.
But soon after he joined, Johnson discovered that there were plenty of pilots in the Varitech program and the Destroid training program also seemed to have met it's quota and that what the RDF really needed was something it refered to as Secondary, Non Mechanized, Combat Units. To most people this phrase ment Infantry, a seeming anacronism in this day with fifty to sixty foot combatants, the smallest of whom weighed ten tons.
J.J. cursed the day he signed the oath of enlistment, as he settled himself for a morning of vigelence. The worst parts of observation duty during the day were the bugs, the heat, and the humidity. At night the worst parts were the bugs, the heat, the humidity, and the rain. All in all, J.J. decided it was some small comfort that the sargent hadn't stuck him out here for the night patrol rather than the day shift.
Brushing mechanicly at the bugs that never seemed to be discouraged, J.J. thought about the sargent's sudden interest in him back at the Monument City base where he mustered into the unit. At first he had been flattered and appreciated the extra instruction he recieved from Sargent Bead. J.J. had common sence and could share that with his squad mates in a way that they were willing to listen to. He also had some experience with survival at the edge, though it was several years ago and he was just a kid, which he used to make life in the field more comfortable. The sargent saw the effects of J.J.'s efforts and seemed to be pleased, probably helping him get his promotion to Corporal.
But after the company left Monument City for New Rio, things changed. Suddenly, J.J.'s responsibilities in the Seccond Squad became very real and important. His friends and squad mates were suddenly less friendly as they realized that he would soon be unapproachable, a noncom, as close to being an officer as one can get without a commission. Gradually, J.J. started to wish the sargent wouldn't have interfered, but the added responsibilities continued grow in number.
Just this morning, J.J. had realized that sargent Bead intended to see that he was promoted to platoon sargent. Though he was uncomfortable with the idea of being responsible for his friends, J.J. was excited by the possibility of such a public acknowledgement of his abilities as a soldier. Deep inside, J.J. also knew that his dead father would be pleased. His mother was another story.
Periodicly checking the tree line for signs of movement with a regular pair of binocualars and his radar scope, which couldn't detect anything smaller than a full size Zentradi, J.J. sent another "no contact" report down to the communications hut in the compound with his helmet radio. As the sun traveled higher in the sky, J.J.'s senses became numbed to the unchanging jungle that streatched away to the horizion in the north. Because of his bordome, the stress of constant preparation for combat since the company had arrived at CP15 five weeks ago, and preoccuapation with his thoughts, J.J. didn't notice the movement of a figure in a tree one hundered meters to the north east of the hill.
The figure saw the Corporal, though, and with calls that were indistinguishable from the normal sounds of the jungle to J.J., he advised his companions that there was a group of shiny men at the marker hill. Quickly, but with the grace that belied a life of climbing trees, the lookout for the small band of wariors returned to the ground.
The young warior could hardly contain his excitement as he walked up to the band's leader to give his report. The old priest had been right; the shiny men with the lesser gods and the flying things had returned to the Yanoamo.
The warior, Ya'qui, had seen the flying things screem overhead several days befor, but never had he seen a man dressed as the shiny man now sitting on the marker hill. The priest had warned that these men knew a strong magic and that the poison of thier arrows never failed. Yet, Ya'qui was not affraid. Already in his seventeen years he had participated in several raids on other Yanoami for his tribe, the Mac'tus. The priest had reminded the small party as they left the village that they were protecting the Mac'tus land and women from invasion. All the wariors shouted that they were willing to kill and ready die for thier famlies if necessicary, in response.
Gap'tu, the leader of the raiding party and the chief's son, asked, "What have you seen? Are the men the priest spoke of here?"
"We have reached our goal, Warleader. I saw a lone shiney man atop the marker hill, dressed just as the priest said, except that he isn't very shiney. I belive they have set up a village at the base of the marker hill on the other side. Also, through some magic, the shiny men have made a path through the jungle that is so wide ten men could walk abreast on it without touching each other. It streatches from one end of the jungle to the other."
The Gap'tu looked skepticle at this last statement, but that didn't matter to Ya'qui. He could show this wonder to the war leader later. At the moment, it was time to plan the raid against the shiny men.
"We will now prepair for the attack," Gap'tu said to the fifteen warriors that were gathered arround he and Ya'qui.
The others began to paint thier war colors onto thier faces and bodies. Most of the warriors were completely black when they were done. Then came the important time of prayer so that the spirit of the poison on thier arrows wouldn't be offended when it was plunged into the bodies of the shiny men. When Ya'qui was ready, he asked Gap'tu what the object of the raid would be.
Gap'tu remained silent untill the other warriors were ready and then he described his plans for the raid.
"Ya'qui and Ti'uit will try to capture the man on the marker hill. I will lead the rest of the party arround the hill and try to dsicover the number of shiny men in thier village. We will kill as many as we can and then take the village. If we are not successful, return to the creek of rushing water and wait for me there. From there, we will return to the village and warn my father that we were unsuccessful. We will attack when the sun is a hand's width from the tops of the trees."
Now the warriors sat and ate the last of thier banannas and meditated. Ya'qui decided that it would be a long afternoon and tried to sleep. Yet his excitement was too great and he just lay on his side, fidgiting all afternoon, listening to the sounds of the of the shiny men's creatures on the wide path.
Sandy had been busy all morning training the ham handed Third platoon how to handle the missles that were thier only offensive capability against all but micronized Zentradi. The firing sequence was easy, or at least, Sandy had thought it was befor this morning. Just remove the dust cap from the end of the launch tube, flip the power switch up, look through the thermal sight for your target, press the triger once to lock to missle onto its target and then again to fire.
In dry fire practice, though, half the platoon would have been wiped out because they forgot to remove the dust cap. The other half found enough ways to screw up so that the average time between sighting the target and the missle leaving the launch tube was about a minute an a half. For comparison, Sandy remembered that during the Civil war he could identify, arm, and fire the much more complicated anti-tank missles that were still in use in about five seconds.
After dry fire exercises, it was time for weapons maintanence. Again, Sandy was supprised by the Third platoon's ineptness.
"The man portable, shoulder launced, T-6 armor piercing missle, is a direct decendant from the anti-tank missles that were developed just prior to and during the Global Civil War. The T-6 is nearly indestructable and requires little maintenence, yet a small amount of cleaning will be required to keep the it in perfect condition. Read the instructions on the bottom of the sight and then wait."
Sandy sighed as he saw looks of confusion spread across all the faces of the platoon, including the private that was acting as platoon sargent. The damned engeneers had done a good job this time. The weapon was simple to opperate and easy to clean. Because of this, though, while he lay in his tent at night, Sandy swore that the RDF recruiters must be going deep into the radiation fields to find such stupid recruits. Actually, he realized that wasn't fair. The boys just needed some practice. The only problem with that solution was that the only practice would be when they first encountered the Zentradi.
By late afternoon, the traing ordeal was over and both the members of the platoon and the First Sargent heaved secrete sighs of relief.
Just befor it was time to bring Johnson in for the night, Sandy decided to go out and check on the young man. Lieutenant Kelson had said this morning that Johnson's promotion to sargent was confirmed and Sandy wanted to give him the news and the stripes he would wear in the field.
The first time he saw Johnson, Sandy was supprised that he was in the RDF, he just didn't look the type. Yet, when he began to learn more about Johnson and his famlies struggle to cross the recently irradiatid North American contentent to reach New Macross, Sandy's respect and admiration for the boy grew. Johnson should have been an officer, but since the RDF screwed up the first time, Sandy decided that he would get the boy promoted as high as he could and then give him a seccond chance.
Sandy was so wraped up in his thoughts as he walked up the hill, he didn't realize that the sky was very clear and that the daily downpour had failed to start on time.
Norg, flight leader of four battle pods, didn't comment when one of his pilots remarked that the daily rains hadn't begun on time. The rains were not strictly necessecary to the seccess of the attack on the micronian supply line. The incessant rain might have helped to blunt the micronians vigilence, but secetly Norg was pleased. The chance for true battle in this fake war that Bortan, the leader of the last true Zentradi, had decided they must fight, was very rair. Norg understood little of Bortan's discussions of the humans "gorilla" style of warfare, but like most Zentradi, he had decided to follow the orders of anyone who would fight against the humans no matter how silly thier orders seemed. Perhaps a veritech would come and be destroyed.
Norg was nothing if not confident, with good reason. Along with the heavy weapons of the battle pods, a platoon of micronized Zentradi armed with scavenged micronian weapons, was in place at the site of the attack. The humans wouldn't be expecting an unothodox attack. Though Norg prefered open battle of equils, he could see the merit of supprise.
Copyright 2000, Robert G. Werner
rwerner@lx1.microbsys.comSee, these two penguins walked into a bar, which was really stupid, 'cause the second one should have seen it.