PNB Chapter 926
Chapter 926
Two o'clock in the morning. The Caribbean wind was still hot, but as it blew over the main camp at Victory Beach, it seemed to carry with it a damp, chilling scent.
This was supposed to be a victory celebration banquet.
Dozens of fires hadn't completely died down yet, and the beef ribs that had been grilling on them were now a bit charred, but they still hung there untouched. Cases of Budweiser beer, shipped from the local area, were scattered around, some already opened, the foam overflowing from the bottles and dripping onto the sand, attracting a few oblivious ants.
The entire camp was deathly quiet.
The landing craft pilots, who hadn't yet received orders to return, were smoking and playing cards on deck, but by now they'd long since thrown away their cards. They crowded around the ship's railing, craning their necks, watching the scene on the beach with the look of someone watching a horror movie.
Hundreds of people.
No, to be precise, there were only about two hundred relatively intact "people" slumped around the beer crates. Their once crisp military uniforms were now a mess, some even reduced to just half-trousers, their bodies and faces covered in soot and congealed purplish-black bloodstains.
No one spoke. Even the most severely wounded soldier, with a sharp piece of shrapnel still lodged in his thigh, was biting his collar, not daring to make a sound.
Their eyes were all fixed, staring blankly. It was hard to describe that look; it was like a half-dead pig just dragged out of a slaughterhouse, its eyes empty except for fear.
"I don't believe it! I don't believe a single punctuation mark!"
A furious roar erupted from the largest command tent, so loud that the canvas on top even shook twice.
The tent flap was suddenly kicked open by a foot wearing a general's boot.
General Smith, the commander-in-chief of the expeditionary force, charged out like a bull enraged by a red cloth. His face, usually flushed red from years of tropical sunshine, was now purplish-red with extreme anger. He brandished his cane, a symbol of command, as if he wanted to kill.
"Hansen! You filthy pig! Get up right now!"
He strode up to the middle-aged officer who was huddled next to the tire of a jeep, covering his ears with his hands.
That was Major Hansen. Or perhaps it was the shell of someone who was once called Major Hansen.
At this moment, he was like a quail soaked by the rain, showing almost no normal physiological reaction to Smith's roar. Only when he heard that name did his body suddenly shrink back.
"Look at me! You bastard!"
Smith grabbed Hansen by the collar, which was now only half-covered, and yanked him up from the ground. The smell of alcohol and anger mingled and sprayed onto Hansen's pale face.
"What did you just say in there? Huh? Say it again so everyone can hear!"
“A battalion… a whole fully equipped and reinforced 2nd Marine Battalion, even with a tank platoon as reinforcement!” Smith’s other finger pointed towards the dark sea, his finger trembling. “You’re telling me, you didn’t even see a hair on the enemy’s head, and you were taken down by three—three?! Haha, three what? Tin Men?”
He suddenly released his grip and slammed Hansen hard onto the sand.
"Do you think my brain is filled with mush? Huh? Even if ten thousand real bison charged at us, even if every single one of those guerrillas turned into Rambo! Could they wipe out your few hundred men like chickens in two hours—just two hours?"
"Sir...we..." A slightly more lucid adjutant tried to come forward and offer some words of advice, his voice trembling.
"Shut up!"
Smith slapped the adjutant across the face, sending him spinning around.
"What devils, what hellfire! Those are all excuses! I knew it! You bunch of good-for-nothings who only know how to collect your paychecks and chase after women!"
He paced back and forth among the soldiers sprawled on the ground, his military boots crushing beer bottles one after another.
"I know what's going on."
He suddenly stopped, a sinister smile appearing on his face, a smile that seemed somewhat extraordinary in the flickering firelight.
"Traitor. Right? Or arms dealing? Hmm?"
"Did you secretly sell those tanks and heavy artillery to some bigwig in the Banana Republic who's trying to stage a coup? And now you're coming back to me with this Wizard of Oz story to scam insurance?"
"or it could be……"
He drew the silver-plated revolver, which he usually used more as decoration, from his waist and slowly pressed it against Hansen's mud-covered forehead. The cold muzzle finally brought a sliver of focus to Hansen's unfocused pupils.
"You are communists. You have been turned. Those who died were actually killed by your own people, weren't they? You want to demoralize the troops and force us to retreat. Isn't that right!"
This accusation is far more serious than any previous criticism.
The hands of the surrounding military police unconsciously reached for their holsters. In that era, the term "red element" was tantamount to a death sentence that required no trial.
"Tell me! Who are the pilots behind those three so-called mechs? Is it your mother?!"
Hansen's Adam's apple bobbed.
His cracked, bleeding lips parted, and the sound that came out was like two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together.
"This is... a... camera..."
His hand, the left hand that he hadn't let go of even while desperately running away, slowly, bit by bit, pulled a small, dark thing from deep inside the torn pocket.
That was a Leica battlefield camera.
The lenses were cracked, and the camera body was covered in a paste-like substance that looked like someone's brains or dirt.
"This isn't... what I wanted to... film..."
Hansen ignored the gun pointed at his head. He just kept his head down, his hand trembling as he fiddled with the shifter. The movement was slow, each click amplified in the deathly silence of the camp.
"I...don't want to..."
Finally, the last roll of film was poured out. Digital displays didn't exist back then.
But Hansen was more than just a survivor. When he escaped back, he rushed into the field news vehicle that was accompanying the team like a madman, dragged the terrified war photographer out of the darkroom, and then, with his trembling hands, used more force than to kill someone to develop a photograph under the swaying red light.
Even if there's only one.
He held up the still-wet photograph, its back damp, as if handing over his will, and presented it to Smith's eyes.
Smith subconsciously squinted, a habit formed from long-term exposure to darkness by firelight.
"What a piece of junk... You want a blurry one..."
His voice was loud. But halfway through his speech, it was like a speeding train suddenly crashing into a mountain.
broken.
The photo is in black and white. It's even a bit out of focus—which is understandable, given that the person who took the photo at that distance was probably no better off psychologically than the soldiers being slaughtered.
The center of the image is a blurry background of smoke.
And in that smoke.
A huge, black humanoid machine with a distinct inverted triangular torso.
It maintains a forward-moving momentum. In that still photograph, one can even feel the overwhelming sense of pressure.
And in its left hand, in that enormous mechanical claw filled with hydraulic lines and rivet details (or without rivets, in a more terrifying one-piece molding).
Holding half of something.
It was a tank turret that had been significantly altered and whose markings, including "M48" and the white five-pointed star, were clearly identifiable.
The cannon barrel was bent over like a noodle. The cast steel component, which normally weighs several tons, looked like a soda can that had been squeezed in half by a slightly violent child in that black palm.
There were also flames nearby. Those were white phosphorus. But on that black armor plate, the white flames did not devour the opponent; instead, they gilded this black demon with an even more eerie and sacred white edge.
In one corner of the photo, the photographer's own finger is visible. Or perhaps the back of the head of someone fleeing.
But none of that matters anymore.
Smith's beautiful revolver clattered to the ground.
His hand holding the photo began to tremble. Not the trembling of anger, but a chill that seeped from the depths of his bones, like that of a malaria patient.
This photograph is magical. It instantly drained all the blood from this veteran who fought his way from Normandy to Seoul.
His mouth was open, like a fish out of water.
His throat, which had been threatening to unleash a thousand curses, was now as if a steel hand had reached out from the photograph and blocked it, preventing him from uttering a single syllable.
Several staff officers and military police who had initially been aggressive also gathered around, and by the light of their flashlights, they could clearly see the hellish space within that small area.
"Clang."
A military policeman lost his grip on his M1 Garand rifle, which struck his foot. But he didn't seem to feel any pain.
What was originally a plague that had only spread among two hundred fleeing soldiers was, at this moment, like a silent but lethal nuclear bomb detonating in the center of the camp.
It's true.
The devil... is real.
"Connect...connect..."
It took General Smith a full half minute to find his tongue.
"Connect to the Pentagon! Now! Immediately!!!"
His voice was no longer a roar, but a wailing sound with a sob.
……