Drinking Buddies
Submission for "The Canteen" prompt on Ironage.media
The sergeant sat at the remnants of the canteen, wondering how the bombardment managed to destroy this place. The heavy rain on this planet seemed more than capable. He was drenched to the bone from the moment he stepped off the drop ship, along with 250 other soldiers, to the moment he set foot in this building all alone. The last there was, as far as he knew.
Their mission was simple. Clean up what was left of the enemy force hiding in the ruins of the final fort on Ravena. The orbital cannons could rearrange the landscape on any rock in the cosmos, but if there was one thing he and his comrades of the Interplanetary Alliance had learned in all the years they’d been fighting, it was that roaches always survive, and the roaches of the Solar Union were no exception.
As simple as the orders were, their execution proved the opposite. His battalion found out, in the most difficult way possible, that even the lowest vermin will fight like lions when cornered. Once the command ships above came to the same realization, the shelling commenced.
He would have felt total abandonment if not for the only thing on the planet to go untouched by the near endless salvos. A single bottle of whisky. He hated whisky, but there, in that bombed-out hole in the universe, he found comfort in the liquid. What had once burned his mouth and throat now only felt warm. The numbness that followed would help too.
Drinking was a pastime he’d grown fond of in his years of service, but this was the first time he practiced it alone, and the last memories he would have of those he used to with were soured by the assault.
With each swig of the bottle, he thought of his fellow soldiers. Brooks, the captain of his squad, cut down by the first union volley. Corporal Lopez. He hadn’t known him for more than a few hours, but now the only memory he’d have of him was his torso, a dozen meters away from his legs.
He was a dozen sips in when he got to Riley. Poor, poor Riley. The private who would have made it if not for the last orbital shell that liquified him not even fifteen feet from where the sergeant currently sat, the last visage of which had long been washed away by the downpour.
“To Riley,” he said out loud, raising the more than half-empty bottle over his head.
“To Riley,” another voice said from behind him.
He swiveled 180 degrees on his bar stool, nearly falling out of it as he did. When his vision settled, he saw someone standing in a doorway he hadn’t even noticed yet. He didn’t recognize the face of the man, but he knew the uniform well; he’d stood opposite it for most of his life.
“Easy,” the man said, holding his hands up with his fingers splayed out. “I’m unarmed. Have been since the guy we sent to get more ammo from the depot blew up along with it. How about you?”
The sergeant held the bottle up again. “All I’ve got. Though I think it’ll do more damage to me than you.”
“Sometimes damage like that helps,” the union trooper said.
The sergeant took another drink before holding it out in front of him. “You need any help?”
Without hesitation, the other solider took the offering. “whenever I can get it.”
He took a drink of the brown liquid, handling it with more ease than his counterpart, then sat down at the only other remaining chair in the establishment, the light from the two moons revealing the lieutenant insignia on his shoulder.
“You all that’s left?” The alliance officer asked as he turned his seat back to its original position.
“As far as I know,” The other solider spoke before sliding the bottle across the bar top. “How about you?”
The sergeant nodded. “I suppose that means we’ve come to a draw.”
The lieutenant looked up at the night sky through the hole in the roof. “I’d say not. You’ve still got troops up there. No one’s coming for me.
With his face now turned skyward, the sergeant saw just how young his counterpart was. The same age as Riley, if he had to guess, if not younger.
“You’re young for an officer,” he said.
“Well, up until twelve hours ago, I was still a cadet, desperate times and all that,” said the lieutenant.
“For what it’s worth, you gave us hell,” said the sergeant, passing the bottle back.
“Look around you, my friend,” the freshly minted officer said after taking a drink. “We didn’t give it to you; it was here long before you arrived.”
They sat in silence for a while, the only noise being the rain falling through the gaps in the ceiling and the sound of glass sliding across the countertop. Eventually, the bottle was empty, but the two men, despite what their bodies were telling them, were far from full.
“What now, sir?” The sergeant asked, staring into the empty vial with longing.
“I’ve got an idea or two,” answered the lieutenant in slurred speech. “How long before your next wave arrives?”
“No clue; I don’t even know how long we’ve been sitting here.” Replied the sergeant.
"Well, I know one thing,” the union solider began. “I won’t be taken alive.”
This statement was enough to clear the fog from the Alliance member’s head.
“My orders were to defend this place to my dying breath,” the lieutenant said when he noticed the change in expression across his drinking partner’s face.
“It seems we both have commands we can’t compromise on,” the sergeant said as he wrapped his hand around the neck of the bottle, ready to complete his mission.
“I would prefer something less barbaric,” said the commissioned officer, noticing the noncommissioned one’s actions.
“What would you suggest?”
The lieutenant got up from his stool and walked to the other side of the bar.
“I suggest we arm ourselves properly,” he said, pressing his thumb against a button on the underside of the bar. A hatch on the side of the room opened when he did so. “I always wanted to open that, but only officers had clearance. Let’s go.”
With shaky, hesitant legs and the bottle still in his hand, the sergeant rose from his bar stool and followed the other man to the hole in the floor. He dropped the bottle when he saw what was inside; he wouldn’t need that one any longer.
“This is where they kept all the high-quality goods,” the union solider said, pulling several full bottles from the ground. “They used to tell us that any cadet tampering with it would be killed. In the end, it seems that even an officer is destined for such a fate. Now, which would you like?”
The sergeant chuckled. “All of them.”
The lieutenant broke the seal on one of the bottles. “Right answer.”
The sound of jet engines roused the sergeant from his sleep with the worst headache and nausea of his entire life. He’d had concussions that were more pleasant, and he more than likely would have vomited if his stomach had anything left in it.
The rain had subsided and was replaced by the medical ships descending from orbit, ready to administer aid to survivors, unaware of how little they would be needed.
A beam of light shined through the open door, worsening the soldier’s migraine further. He held his hand in front of his eyes to alleviate the agony, but the gaps between his fingers let in too much glare to be of use.
“We’ve got one over here,” A voice spoke from behind the beam.
The medic lowered the light, much to the relief of the sergeant, and entered the building.
“Are you hurt?” He questiond.
“Not in any way you can help,” the sergeant replied. “Check him, though.”
“who?” Asked the corpsman.
“Him,” the sergeant replied before rolling over to tap the lieutenant’s shoulder. He was motionless on the floor, cold to the touch, with several bottles drained of contents lying around him.
The medic walked over and examined the union solider. “He’s gone, sir. Has been for some time.”
The sergeant rose to his feet, unsteadied by hangover and sorrow, as he looked down at the man whose name he’d never known yet still felt closer to than anyone.
“It’s for the best,” said the doctor. “One less to worry about, right?”
The sergeant nodded his head, though he didn’t mean it, at least not fully. One less to worry about, yet one more to remember, and the only one whose final memory was not one of sadness.
It was thanks to him that the sergeant still never had to drink alone.