Garrick arrives in Hungry Valley for his first leadership exercise.

    As daylight and evidence of civilization gradually faded, Garrick examined the plat, studying its terrain features as he struggled against exhaustion.  An excellent memory for details, well-developed visualization skills and experience with map reading gave him a feel for the area long before the laboring train turned north and stopped at a lonely outpost with a singular stone marker that read: “Hungry Valley.”  Someone had carefully painted “You ain’t been cold ‘till you been here,” beneath the formal inscription in a matter that so adroitly added to the mystique of the place, no one in authority had seen fit to remove it.

    The mouth of Hungry Valley, an age-old glacial washout field in the midst of an active volcanic rift, showed the ancient, lingering scars of periodic deluge.  A long jumble of lichen-encrusted boulders worn smooth by water polish marked the place where a once flowing waterway long ago plunged toward far mightier rivers downstream.  Now, active fissures ran in long lines parallel to the north - south mountain ranges on either side of the valley, and from these, a series of flood basalt scarp lines created sharp, angular ridges where living plants struggled to force their roots through cracks in the dark rock.  Surrounded by gloomy peaks permanently covered in glacial ice, freezing wind roared through Hungry Valley every moment of every day.  Over eons, the strange, mixed forces of ice, water, wind and molten rock created a landscape hostile to living things.

    Twilight hung pink halos over the western mountains and the twin moons shone in full glory just above the eastern ridge line as Garrick shouldered his backpack and stepped off the train with his platoon in tow.  Temporarily settling the men in the lee of the train depot, Garrick checked the platoon’s ammunition boxes, food and medicine stores, oriented himself with the terrain, then approached his two sergeants.

    “We’ll march about three miles up this valley to our designated deployment area.”  Garrick pointed to the northwest.  “There’s a scarp line that looks like a big lava tube on the western side of these boulders.  If we follow that, then veer east at this vertical fault line,” he said, pointing to a feature on his map, “we’ll strike camp below the fault to keep the men out of the wind.”

    Sergeant Ringer grunted, then turned toward his squadron, ordering the men to their feet.  Sergeant Vidders paused for a moment, then said: “You’d better lead from the front on this one and keep a solid pace.  Don’t let the men think you’re soft.”

    Garrick thanked him, put his map away, and let his memory wander back to the final exercise of his junior scout training.  That night, less than seven months earlier, seemed a lifetime ago, yet the sensation of imminent danger he remembered from that experience haunted him now.  Carefully pacing himself, Garrick climbed the narrow trail leading up to the valley floor while his grumbling platoon followed.

    A forbidding surface strewn in sharp rock greeted Garrick’s eye and a strong wind wrapped him in a cold embrace.  Scattered in thin patches across the landscape he could see low grasses and stunted trees flailing toward him in the failing light.  Navigating uphill, across the valley floor, Garrick found his assigned area about an hour and a half later.

    He asked Sergeant Ringer to send a three-man patrol around the perimeter, then designated four places around the camp where he wanted mortars, the heavier guns and shoulder fired rockets placed.  Sergeant Vidders suggested a slightly different placement for the tripod mounted, multi barrel cannons in order to provide a clearer field of fire for their crews, a recommendation Garrick accepted.  The soldiers hunkered down for the night, burning sticks of dry wood to keep warm in tiny, gasifying stoves that looked like glorified tin cans with an elbow on the bottom.

    Less than an hour later, TAC Officer Vogel and two observers arrived in a four-wheeled electric vehicle, known as an EPT, an acronym for Electric Personnel Transporter.  Soldiers frequently heaped verbal abuse on these machines for their limited range, often referring to them as inEPT.  Manfred Vogel inspected Garrick’s camp and its defenses wordlessly, then approached the young officer candidate.  “I’m sure you’ve read that your first objective will be to secure the Giant’s Fist formation by oh-eight hundred hours.  Expect resistance.  The OpFor consists of a company sized unit operating anywhere within your designated zone.  Questions?”

    Garrick seethed.  An opposing force twice as large as his own lay waiting for his platoon, on this, his first field leadership deployment.  “No sir.  No questions,” Garrick replied, holding back the curse that ached to be uttered.

    Manfred Vogel turned away, paused, then turned back.  “Pay attention to Sergeant Vidders,” he warned.  “He’s a good man.”

    “Yes sir!” Garrick responded, standing still.  No one saluted an officer in the field, and Garrick didn't feel like saluting, anyway.

Run Away