“A hundred, that sounds like a lot.”
“Just to a stupid bowb like you. That is ten miles by ten miles, and maybe about two square miles more than we captured in the first landings.”
There was the squish-thud of tired feet, and weary, mudsoaked men began to drag into the barracks. Sergeant Ferkel hauled himself to his feet and blew a long blast on his whistle.
“All right you new men, now hear this. You have all been assigned to B squad, which is now assembling in the compound, which squad will now march out into the swamp and finish the job these shagged creeps from A squad began this morning. You will do a good day’s work out there. I am not going to appeal to your sense of loyalty, your honor or your sense of duty …” Ferkel whipped out his atomic pistol and blew a hole in the ceiling through which rain began to drip. “I am only going to appeal to your urge to survive, because any man shirking, goofing off, or not pulling his own weight will personally be shot dead by me. Now get out.” With his bared teeth and shaking hands he looked sick enough and mean enough and mad enough to do it. Bill and the rest of B squad rushed out into the rain and formed ranks.
“Pick up da axes, pick up da picks, get the uranium out,” the corporal of the armed guard snarled as they squelched through the mud toward the gate. The labor squad, carrying their tools, stayed in the center, while the armed guard walked on the outside. The guard wasn’t there to stop the prisoners from escaping but to give some measure of protection from the enemy. They dragged slowly down the road of felled trees that wound through the swamp. There was a sudden whistling overhead, and heavy transports flashed by.
“We’re in luck today,” one of the older prisoners said, “they’re sending in the heavy infantry again. I didn’t know they had any left.”
“You mean they’ll capture more territory?” Bill asked.
“Naw, all they’ll get is dead. But while they’re getting butchered some of the pressure will be off of us, and we can maybe work without losing too many men.”
Without orders they all stopped to watch as the heavy infantry fell like rain into the swamps ahead-and vanished just as easily as raindrops. Every once in awhile there would be a boom and flash as a teensie A-bomb went off, which probably atomized a few Venians, but there were billions more of the enemy just waiting to rush in. Small arms. crackled in the distance, and grenades boomed. Then over the trees they saw a bobbing, bouncing figure approach. It was a heavy infantryman in his armored suit and gasproof helmet, A-bombs and grenades strapped to him, a regular walking armory. Or rather hopping armory, since he would have had trouble walking on a paved street with the weight of junk hung about him, so he therefore moved by jumping, using two reaction rockets, one bolted to each hip. His hops were getting lower and lower as he came near. He landed fifty yards away and slowly sank to his waist in the swamp, his rockets hissing as they touched the water. Then he hopped again, much shorter this time, the rockets fizzling and popping, and he threw his helmet open in the air.
“Hey, guys,” he called. “The dirty Chingers got my fuel tank. My rockets are almost out, I can’t hop much more. Give a buddy a hand will you … ” He hit the water with a splash.
“Get outta the monkey suit and we’ll pull you in,” the guard corporal called.
“Are you nuts!” the soldier shouted. “It takes an hour to get into and outta this thing.” He triggered his rockets, but they just went pfffft, and he rose about a foot in the water, then dropped back. “The fuel’s gone! Help me you bastards! What’s this, bowb-your-buddy week …” he shouted as he sank. Then his head went under, and there were a few bubbles and nothing else.
“It’s always bowb-your-buddy week,” the corporal said. “Get the column moving! ” he ordered, and they shuffled forward. “Them suits weigh three thousand pounds. Go down like a rock.”