Licking Wounds (Command)

[Flannigan, S.]

1100 Hours ZULU Time, June 19 2542 (MILITARY CALENDAR)
A-Deck, Vengeance, somewhere in slipspace

Sean looked over the reports, his pile of gear tossed aside and nearly forgotten in the corner. His boys had kicked some serious ass, meeting all objectives and carrying the lowest casualty rate of the Battalion. Still, there were fifteen bodies that didn't make it off the planet, three more that died on the ship, and another fifty that were in the infirmary, two of those being touch and go. Oscar Company was responsible for one hundred and fifty bodies. All were accounted for, but come the end of the week, he might only have a hundred serviceable. It was a sobering thought, but November and Mike companies were sitting closer to a 50% casualty rate. His boys certainly had done themselves proud.

However, the time had come to start making the UNSC happy and getting reports filed, requisitions signed, and all the other pieces needed. There were promotions to give, letters to send to next of kin, and all the other pieces of keeping a unit running. Flannigan hated this part, but it was vital to keeping Oscar Company the smooth running machine it was. He sifted through the memos and other news that sat in hard copy on his desk or holographically from his command lace network. The universe hadn't stopped working just because they had been in a battle for the last three days. Most of it was mundane and unimportant, but it was still his duty to get through the stack of reports, orders, and the like.

A knock came from his door.

"Enter," he said bruskly, not even bothering to put his top back on. He was in the privacy of his own room. He would piss in it in front of Command to make his point. Thankfully, it wasn't required today. The holographic image of Beatrice flickered to life in front of his desk with that playful, coy smile he had come to love.

"You don't need to knock lass," he said with a chuckle. "Though I do appreciate you not just showing up in front of me."

"I know," she said with her own laugh. "I had to make sure you were decent."

"I don't know about all that," he said with a shake of his head. If only that body were real. "I doubt you came down just to chat."

"No, unfortunately," the AI said blandly, her playfulness replaced at the mention of business. "The Admiral wanted to let you know we would be dropping out of slipspace at 2300. All your reports and requisitions need to be uploaded to the main servers by then so they can update properly."

"I'll be sure to have them ready ma'am," he said with a curt nod. Beatrice flickered out of existence again and he allowed himself a low whistle and another shake of his head. He was quite sure she showed up just to frustrate the men, but he was going to enjoy it as best as he could. He sighed, shaking his head one last time, before turning his mind back to work. Twelve hours was enough time, provided his lieutenants didn't waste time.

"PLs and PSGs to my quarters ASAP," he sent out of the neural lace. He would need them here to assign work and reports if they were going to get this all together. Thankfully the Colonel had given them permission to not put everyone back in Cryo immediately. A few days to lick their wounds and process what had happened was always a good idea for marines. It saved on mental trauma later, in his opinion. 

Picking up his datapad, he started to work through the list of reports and things that would be needed to keep O-Co in working order. It wasn't as bad as working down in supply, but that was the benefit of being a grunt.

[Durant, M.]

Lieutenant Durant reflected upon the events that had transpired over the course of the last operation, recalling the platoon's many victories fondly while, inevitably, being reminded of the terrible cost that those victories carried with them. Marines had perished over the course of the battle for Phoenix III, the majority of those casualties sustained initially, and the weight of those losses fell solely upon his shoulders. Some of the deaths had been preventable had the right calls been made, and it pained him to believe that his NCOs had a part in the loss of personnel.

He was, of course, thinking of Corporal Faust. Her team had taken losses virtually straight out the gate, when a pair of Hunters arrived upon the bridge to take the fight to the humans. Instead of remaining in a defensive position, she panicked, and ordered her team to retreat whilst under heavy fire. That had been a horrendous mistake, and a costly one.

However, despite wherever the blame may lie, Durant found some solace in the thought that the fallen suffered no longer, and that they had been granted a new life on the streets of Valhalla. There, his fallen brethren basked in the glory of the gods, and lived eternally as warriors. Valhalla was the ultimate paradise for the honorable warrior, and a place that Durant hoped he would one day see when his time in this realm finally reached its end.

>>//"PCs and PSGs to my quarters ASAP."\\<<

The text materialized before his eyes suddenly, pulling him away from his thoughts. Michael blinked, and, just as quickly as it came, the message disappeared. He glanced at the digital clock at his bedside and noted that chow was in an hour. Durant knew that if Flannigan was calling the company's leadership to his personal quarters it was but for one reason, and thus concluded that he would not be attending afternoon chow.

With a soft sigh, the Lieutenant grabbed his eight-point cover and donned it, and then made his way out the door. The journey to the Captain's quarters from his own was not too terribly long; however, there was quite a bit more foot traffic along the path than he had anticipated. Most of the people he passed belonged to the Navy and, aside from the obligatory greetings from the enlistedmen, largely ignored him.

That was alright by him. He was not particularly in the mood to strike up casual conversation with strangers; especially those belonging to the Marine Corps' sister service. No, he was content with traveling in silence, intent of arriving at Flannigan's office in a timely manner. After all, it was not a great idea to keep your boss waiting, especially when one considered that he was a particularly crazy Irishman.

Durant rounded the corner, turning onto the home stretch, and noticed that Staff Sergeant Cruz had beaten him there. The grizzled SNCO was leaned up against the wall beside their CO's door, his arms crossed over his chest. When he approached, Cruz pushed off from the wall and turned towards him.

"Sir," the Staff Sergeant started, "you're late."

Michael chuckled. "It would seem so, Staff Sergeant."

Cruz shook his head and sighed, muttering under his breath, "Tsk, Tsk..."

Durant glanced around, noticing that the rest of the company's leadership was absent. He wondered how long it would take for them to arrive. The idea of standing around while their commanding officer was awaiting them did not sit well with the young Nord.

"I can't be too late," Durant finally said. "I see the others haven't arrived yet."

The Staff Sergeant nodded. "Buncha fuckin' slack asses if you ask me, sir."

Seconds later, the Lieutenant Hernandez and his platoon Sergeant rounded the corner down the hall. The look plastered across the SNCO's face was that of sheer annoyance. Were Michael to take a stab at it, he assumed that Hernandez was the cause in their tardiness, and the staff sergeant wasn't pleased. Hernandez was not known to be the most competent officer in the company, as the majority of the junior enlisted in the unit continually lamented.

"Hello Mike," Hernandez greeted with a wave. He turned to Cruz and issued him a curt nod. "Staff Sergeant."

Michael caught a glimmer of a scowl upon Cruz's face out of the corner of his vision. Jace had never held a high opinion of the officer in question. It was hard not to agree with him. Hernandez had shown over the course of his time with the unit that he was woefully uncomfortable in the billet he held. If it were not for his Staff Sergeant, Third Platoon would have been in trouble long ago.

A couple minutes passed in silence before Lieutenant Johansson arrived with her better half. Durant turned wordlessly to the door into Flannigan's office and knocked thrice. When the answer came, he keyed the manual release on the door and it slid open with a snik. The group marched inside and snapped to, awaiting the order to ease up.

[Flannigan, S.]

“At ease,” Flannigan said, still not in his blouse. First Sergeant Zieed had not even bothered to knock, walking in before the platoon leadership turned up. Zieed was not far away, having the next billet over and often stopped in without bothering to blouse up. It was that informality at times of convenience that made living on this tub bearable. Flannigan was lucky to have a First Sergeant that knew when to drop the act and just relax.

“Here’s the deal kids,” Flannigan said, tapping away quickly at his datapad. “First, pass my congratulations onto your marines. They did good work down there. That subway fighting is some of the nastiest shit we’ve seen in years and they passed with flying colors. I know we lost the planet, but all our objectives were met with minimal casualties. That being said, we now have to do our jobs. I need requisitions submitted to me before dinner chow for any extra marines needed. AAR’s for the op, any lost equipment so that supply has their chain of custody in order, and any personal DX orders. Everything must be uploaded by 2300 and I want to have a chance to review it. AAR’s and casualty reports are the most vital. Supply has done good in having extras in store to supply for DX needs, but it’s always good to have them prepared when we get the chance to resupply.”

Flannigan looked over the platoon pairings, knowing who was going to excel and who was going to lag behind in the process already. There was extra labor needed in this process as well, and he had to make sure Oscar Company was still at the top when it came to efficiency. Hernandez would need to redo his report three times minimum, and Johansson would likely skip lunch to ensure it was done ASAP. Women were odd like that.

“Hernandez, your first draft of an AAR for Third Herd needs to be on my desk in one hour. Faster would be better. If I have come find you one minute later, you’ll be in charge of details till we hit the freezers. Johansson, when the equipment loss reports are verified, you will work with supply to ensure they’re complete on their end. I expect our piece to be wrapped up with chain of custody by 2000. Durant, before you start your AAR and casualty reports, I want a final work up from medical on our wounded down in sickbay. Any that can’t be back to full duty status in a month need to be wiped off our books and counted as non mission capable. One month is a hard deadline. Matheson is still in with supply counting beans and bullets with the other XOs. Are there any questions?”

They were a good staff, all in all, they just needed the proper motivation at times. Thankfully, he knew what that was. Hernandez would want to go eat, so his first report would be a half-assed attempt at appeasement so he could eat. He likely wouldn’t be eating today. The other two provided their own motivation. He could have overloaded them and not worried about it. However, that wasn’t his style.

[Durant, M.]

Durant shifted in place, spreading his legs apart as he placed his hands in front of him, and focused upon Oscar Company's commander. Captain Flannigan, shirtless, was a far more imposing individual than when fully clothed, the Lieutenant thought. The Captain's reputation alone was cause for some to find him intimidating; he was quite unlike any officer Durant had so far encountered in the short time he had been in the Marine Corps.

Michael glanced at Staff Sergeant Cruz, who stood casually by his side, soaking in the words of Flannigan with half-interest. He imagined Cruz had been to these types of debriefs millions of times over the course of his rather lengthy career, and probably could recite the whole spiel while upside down and fast asleep. It was just another reminder that he lacked the level of experience and knowledge that the vast majority of his subordinates possessed. By the nature of his rank, he was trusted with the supervision and welfare of his platoon, and thus considered more valuable to the military than a private fresh out of training. However, as Durant had long ago realized, he was no different than that same private aside from the bars that glistened upon his collar.

It was that realization that made life so much simpler for him. He relied on Staff Sergeant Cruz to know what to do when he didn't. Durant trusted Cruz implicitly, and respected him one hundred percent for never putting on a show for him. The first day he had met Cruz, he found the man to be straightforward and brutally honest; almost bordering on insubordinate behavior. Despite that assessment, Mike had learned that that was perhaps the SNCO's greatest quirk.

He was blunt as all hell and would just as soon punch you in the face as shake your hand.

When Captain Flannigan spoke to the Lieutenant directly, he stiffened up and listened intently. As he listened to the carefully considered instructions of his CO, he quietly dressed the hours that were to follow. Michael had never been much of a writer - favoring the sword over the pen - and never liked the deskwork that was tacked on to his job description. Reports and the like were all necessary evils; ones that he loathed beyond what words could describe. Were it solely up to him, Durant would have settled with issuing an oral report of his platoon's disposition and let the rest work itself out.

However, that was not how the military worked, and Michael figured that the Captain was under a great deal of pressure from On High to speed the paper pushing process along. He sighed inwardly and nodded his head as Flannigan finished speaking. "Aye, sir," he replied.

"No worries, sir," Cruz said, the faintest hint of a smirk sprawled across his chiseled features. "I'll make sure he dots his i's and crosses his t's."

It took every ounce of discipline Durant had to keep from bursting out into laughter. He shot a glare at his platoon Sergeant and shook his head, hoping he received the hidden message behind his expression. Cruz nodded, his smile growing larger. "Message received," the gesture told him.

"Are there any questions?" Flannigan finally asked.

Lieutenant Hernandez was the first to speak up. "Sir, do you have any word on where we are headed next?" Durant turned his head, scrutinizing his fellow officer with a look of disapproval. The question was a legitimate one, he supposed, but it seemed kind of soon to be asking those sort of questions, especially in light of all the things that presently needed to be done. Hernandez's right hand remained stoic and unreadable, although Michael got the sense he would have preferred temporary authorization to physically berate his platoon's commander. Hernandez was by no means an easy man to put up with.

Lieutenant Johansson stepped forward and turned to her peer. "Bit early for that, Hernandez," she said. Technically she was the most-senior officer next to Flannigan present in the room. If Durant remembered correctly, were something to happen to him and the XO, she would be next in line to assume command of the company. "Your focus needs to be on the task at hand, not on what our future may hold."

Michael fully agreed with that statement. He looked away from the pair and back to the company commander. "Do you have any idea how many of our own made it off the planet?"

First Sergeant Zieed glanced at Flannigan, and then stepped forward, nodding his head. "We don't have an exact headcount right now, but so far as we can tell the majority of the battalion made it back aboard safely. November Company took heavy casualties during the assault through the city, mostly during the seizure of the Governor's Plaza. Dope is Mike Company had it the worst of all. Sixty percent casualties sustained from touchdown til egress; the spaceport assault really did a number on 'em."

Durant nodded solemnly. He'd listened to some of the radio traffic from Mike Company on the battalion net before the company had plunged into the subways. The chatter back and forth between them and the battalion's command elements had been sobering, to say the least. Mike Company had been chopped up pretty good by stiff Covenant resistance, backed by armor and limited artillery support. Force Recon had managed to eliminate most of the Covenant's long-range assets, but a few had remained operational further back behind enemy lines until the ODSTs could reach them and personally blow them to kingdom come. Those artillery pieces hammered Mike Company for hours on the night that phase two began.

"What's going on with their wounded, First Sergeant?" Johansson asked.

"The Vengeance is taking on those with moderate to minor injuries and should have them treated and back to combat effectiveness within a matter of days," the company's senior enlistedman replied. "However, the more seriously wounded, to include critical patients, have all been transferred to the hospital ship Hope where they will remain until further notice. I've heard they're pretty busy right now. What that means, I don't know, but I'd keep those soldiers, sailors, and Marines in your thoughts and prayers right now. They're gonna need it."

[Flannigan, S.]

"Enough chit chat then," Flannigan said, wishing they had started a different topic. The Corp and  the UNSC expected them to treat the dead and wounded like numbers, with terms like 'acceptable losses' and 'minimal casualties', but at the end of the day, they were people, good people, who were spilling out their blood in service to humanity. No matter how long he did this, Flannigan had never forgotten that. "Make sure promotions and awards are added to your requisitions. CSVs get updated after every battle, even posthumously. If you need assistance typing, I would recommend seeing if Beatrice is killing time. Dismissed. One hour Hernandez. The clock already started."

As his officers and NCO's exited, First Sergeant Zieed stayed back, as he always did. The two veterans sat in silence for a while before Flannigan opened a drawer, pulling out two tumblers and a fifth of Irish whiskey. It was half empty, and the two tumblers took a greedy spot more. Jamming the cork back in, Flannigan handed his tumbler across to Zieed and they sipped a moment in silence. It was a ritual for Flannigan at this point, and he was glad Zieed partook with him.

"Too many kids Zieed," Flannigan finally spoke after they each had taken a few sips. "One third of our kids are in sickbay or caskets. Too many letters to write. Too many dead."

"Less than Mike and No-co," Zieed reminded. "Shows your training paid off. We were in just as deep as they were and walked away more in tact. Keep up the fight Sean."

"Roger that," Flannigan said with a smile and a nod. "See that all the KIAs get the usual. Their loved ones deserve some hardware as a reminder."

"As always sir, I'll see to it personally."

"Finish your drink and get back to work then First Sergeant," Flannigan said with a chuckle, his order half hearted.

"Already ahead of you sir," Zieed said with a grin, setting the empty tumbler on Flannigan's desk. Flannigan chuckled before downing the rest of his drink and picking up his data pad. Zieed wasn't the only one with work to do.