Pyrrhic victory: a victory - minor or major - whose costs or consequences are far more damaging to the winning side.
Suicide mission: a task where survival is almost impossible for the people involved, regardless of success or failure.
Sometimes the terms are exclusive, sometimes they are inclusive.
The aim of our suicide mission is failure. Our aim is failure at all costs; to give the other side a Pyrrhic victory. Our success lies in our failure, but therein lies our victory.
We were fools. But we were fools for a reason.
---
"Let me update you on how the plan has proceeded so far."
We stood, in our semi-circle, listening as the commander laid it out for us. Two rows of either the bravest or the most foolhardy men one could find.
"The first phase has been a success. For the past two months, we have been sending raiding parties to strike at their supply lines, and for the last week, we have started to make a few forays into their camps, targeting important spots; warehouses of food and weaponry, medical facilities, barracks. We have also planted, along those few forays, stray bits of information. And that, gentlemen, is where you come in."
There were nods and grunts along our -rather thin - ranks. There were also some isolated, albeit muted, cheers. The commander, knowing we need every bit of extra courage, nodded, waiting until we can settle down so he can continue.
"You all know what you signed up for," the commander resumed after a minute. It was not a question. "They will know you are coming - they will be prepared. We will give them what they expect. You will come into their ambush, certain of defeat."
He paused again, to let it sink in. We knew what we were getting into. The commander nodded, satisfied.
"Our victory will be built upon your glorious sacrifice. I know this is a heavy burden. Believe me, nobody would be more honored to join you than I. Alas, I have been robbed of this honor. I do not wish to make this go on any longer. I am certain you all have affairs to take care of."
The commander looked us all in the eye, slowly. I returned his gaze, however briefly it may have alighted on mine.
"Go on then, men. Say your farewells to your families, your friends, your fellows. You will be remembered, when these people you will be leaving today will no longer have to lose anyone else. You are the catalyst to the change we are fighting for. I salute you all."
The commander did just that - gave us a stiff, formal salute. We returned his salute the best we can. Somewhere down the line, someone had started a "victory in defeat" chant. We filed out of the room later, the chant getting stronger the more steps we took toward our impending doom.
---
We jumped out of the truck, our footfalls muffled by the high grass. Around us, the world was asleep. None of us spoke; we were all too preoccupied by our mission - and death. Or was death our mission to begin with?
The driver and the other guy riding shotgun joined us as we huddled together for warmth. The guys from the other truck were just starting to disembark as I took out our one compass and map. Behind me, someone lit a small torch. We double-checked that we were at our drop-off point and made rudimentary plans as to our route going forward.
With everything in place - or the closest thing to it - I checked my watch. A pang of longing coursed through me as I looked at its face - it had been a gift my wife had given me. We were on time; if anything, we were a bit early, but what the hell, if one is to march to his death, better not be tardy.
"Okay. We're here. Check your guns now, we should at least fire back, maybe bag us half a dozen of them. We move in in three minutes."
"Hey," a voice called out. "My gun doesn't have a safety. Is that ok?"
Everyone's head turned to direction the voice came from. I couldn't see who it was, but he was holding up a revolver. A hushed bout of laughter exploded as we took it in.
A couple of minutes later, we marched on, under the cover of night.
---
Fan out, make lots of noise, shoot anything that moves. Deception was our ally; we will seem to be more of a challenge if we pour forth raging like hellspawn. And then, we die.
"Remember, use cover. We are outnumbered, outgunned and overwhelmed in firepower, so make everything count. Any explosives you find goes straight back at them with fuses lit. Go!"
Twenty-six of us - all the men we could spare - charged into enemy borders. The guys out front - either faster or more enthusiastic - started with the war cries, and all of us followed suit.
The next thing we heard were explosions. Three of our vanguard went up in a spray of gore and cascading bits and pieces of body parts. To my left, another pair had their legs cut off as the ground they were running on exploded.
"Mines!" the call came at last. We came to a stop, picked up whatever rocks or pebbles we could reach, and started to pitch them all over the place. Mines ahead of us started to go off, and when we felt we were safe, we resumed our crazed run.
Another guy - we came from all over the place, and didn't exactly have time to know each other - went up in a bloody explosion as he unlucky tipped off a mine we had missed.
Ahead, a member of the vanguard suddenly disappeared from view, as though the earth opened up to swallow him as did the guy running close behind him. Cries of agony rang out as we neared the spot where they disappeared.
There was a ditch, eight feet deep, dug into the ground. The sides were lined with barbed wire, and spikes protruded from the bottom. Just as our so-called attack utilized the cover of darkness, so were these traps, well hidden in the shadows.
Did they really prepare for us this hard?
Swearing and making sure to warn the others to watch their step, we moved on, leaving our two comrades to die in agony. Still, another three fell victim to further traps. Fifteen of us left - almost half of us have gone down.
Finally, we made it into their chain-link fence. Usually, it was electrified, but one of the prior setup runs made sure to destroy the generators that gave it juice.
"Bolt cutters!" came the call, and along with it our first lucky break; four of the five guys entrusted with the bolt cutters were still alive. They made short work of the fence.
"Hey, why are the watchtowers not gunning us down?" asked a guy beside me. I shifted my gaze up, to where his was centered. It was true. I could see the black barrel of an assault rifle poking out of its side, but no shots had been fired. The other watchtowers were quiet, as well.
They're coaxing us in, maybe," chimed in another guy. "Make it look like they were relying on those static defenses."
I had little time to consider it as I made my way inside through the sizable hole on the fence.
The others who had entered earlier were climbing up the watchtowers eagerly. The assault rifles we saw would be a marked improvement over our handguns.
"Man, no extra clips!"
"Hey leave some for me!"
"Whoa, hey, C4!"
I barely registered what they were all so excited about when the tops of the watchtowers exploded. Flaming bits and pieces of metal and body parts rained down on my prone form; the explosions had driven me flat on my back.
Were we failing or succeeding in our suicide mission, I wondered as figures came out from behind the small buildings just ahead. I scrambled to my knees and back out through the hole on the fence.
Gunfire rained down at the few of us remaining. A few guys screamed out as rifle bullets tore through their flesh. We made our way to a small ditch, leaving the others to be target practice.
"Fire back," I said to the guy beside me, who was weeping, and reciting something in a language I couldn't understand. I was sure he was praying. I grabbed him by the shoulder, shook him, and repeated myself. He nodded, pulled out his revolver and fired haphazardly back. I followed suit, unwilling to look out and aim properly.
Laughter rang out from the direction of the fence. I risked a peek, and saw some armored men walk over to one of our fallen comrades. He let loose a volley of bullets that tore the half-dead man's guts open. He opened fire at another man lying a few feet to his left, watching the body twitch as his bullets tore through it.
I shot him. My first shot missed, but my second tore through his right cheek. He cried out in pain as the others resumed spraying bullets at our position. I pulled my head back in time, but the guy beside me had not been so lucky.
Trembling, I dug out one of our old two-way radios. It was set to our distress frequency.
"Listen, we are being slaughtered. Please, anyone!" I pleaded, hoping this old thing still worked; that someone out there would hear me. Maybe I had enough time to warn them: they knew our plan.
"Continue with the mission at all costs. Victory in defeat," came the reply. Good God, he thinks this distress call is part of the mission.
I was about to shout my warning out for him to hear when my hand - and the radio was smashed in a hail of blood and electronics. I screamed in agony, and looked up; the man with blood flowing down his cheek looked down at me, sneering.
"Thank you for the scar," he said, mocking me. I made to grab my gun with my left hand, and one of the men slammed my temple with the stock of his rifle. I almost blacked out. In fact, I would have welcomed that.
I watched, through fuzzy, teary vision, as the scarred man skipped down the ditch. He grabbed the gun from the limp fingers of my left hand.
"Hey," he said as he turned toward me. "Don't pass out on me now. The... experience, it's more fun when you're conscious." The others around me laughed as he stamped down on what remained of my right hand. Fresh agony ripped through me, but it cleared my head.
Damn.
"You think you can play us for fools, huh?" he asked me. "Say your prayers, little man. I think you deserve that at least, before I blow your brains out with your own gun." He leveled my gun at my head.
I looked him in the eye. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me break down. My mind had emptied; no pain, no memories, nothing. "Your mother sure was fine," I said, and laughed.
My last thought was that I was right all along. We were indeed fools. Our reason, however, was a sham.
Darkness...
END
NOTES:
- IMHO, one of the worst kinds of tragedies is when a plan comes together so well and so badly at the same time. Seriously, how well did this suicide mission go? [guess "kamikaze run" or "banzai attack" is slightly more appropriate, but whatever] And inversely, how bad?
- I couldn't really think up a better "famous last words", so I stuck with the classic "your mom" insult.
- Not too many other details this time around. As it is, I'm late about half an hour for the football match on TV. LOL
