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first of the last glaciers

Summary:

Tozer’s lot is both nondescript and so noticeable you’d have to be blind to miss their energy; laid back, utilitarian. He thinks of adrenaline junkies that make up half the troops there. Thinks of the antithesis of Tozer who operates in diametric opposition to that. Differently wired rather than teetotal, a synaptic freak.

Tommy through the memories of war and a life after.

Notes:

context: tozer and his men are SAS, armitage is a signaller. others are a background assortment. the setting and various discussions about it are intentionally vague. again, this is largely vibes and reflections.

works as a companion to horehound, but you don’t need to read that.

cw for graphic violence, serious injury, civilian deaths, actual war crimes (hickey, it's hickey) in the first half. i'm serious, moral bankruptcy and toxic environments--it's ugly. slurs, derogatory language, and general tox masc attitudes apply to the entire thing. that said, complete realism wouldn't be fun for anyone, so artistic licence has been taken. lots and lots of licence.

Chapter 1: guns before butter, or the venerable agusta westland

Summary:

Tommy is burdened with his first sortie in ages. Hickey tags along. Tozer tries to keep it together.

Notes:

cw: graphic injury, blood, civilian casualty.

Chapter Text

Ask your signaller, is what stray TA crows get thrown their way for bone questions about dailies, and Tommy, while never their signaller, would herd the babes to relevant personnel, as per his station. It’s only good manners.

Now this one, Farr of the sapper lot, barely a day off Chinook via coalition camp, is acutely unripe for what lies ahead but nevertheless determined in spite of it.

Jesus—Peglar’s look across the room seems to convey—can’t they vet them before sorting? Is that too much to ask?

Too right, said Tozer the night prior. That boot camp glow on him. That particular reserve shine; don’t piss yourself, mate, eyes on and grizz it.

“Do you know your patrol vehicle, Farr?” Tommy asks now. “Well, it’s not the lead one, which makes it the other one. The one that isn’t Tozer’s which makes it Heather’s. Big bald bloke, got this roadkill beard on him— oh, you know, do you, well why’re you still here then.” 

Farr appears uncertain as he keeps on loitering about, perhaps in anticipation of more helpful pointers.

“Farr. Go do something useful. No, no, that’s— don’t fucking salute me.”

Alone again with his two shift mates now that Peglar’s gone to his own station at the depot, Tommy sighs and resumes his UHF check-in rounds without interruption. Can’t envy Tozer’s duty of breaking in replacements, especially Farr, who seems to be of the tender-bellied sort despite his age and qualification.

Luck could be on his side though, since the FLET shifted farther north and security patrols in their sector have mostly grown static over the past week; keep the area of operation clean, dump welfare boxes, follow up on locations flagged for suspicious activity. Nothing happens on patrol this side of the line to the great anguish of adrenaline junkie central.

Base PA calls up the 33rd, all present units, to assemble at helipad two for ten hundred. Clankies, aid for estuary settlements out west. Could take weeks to unclog the sheer quagmire of it.

“Brownie,” Little’s head pops through the door, “you and Hickey, patrol with Tutu, chop chop.”

“Since when?”

“Since five seconds ago. Couple of Tozer’s were called up.”

“Flood relief?”

“Try and look less happy about it. Wheels are on stand by, so make it smart. And go grab Neil, I never know where that prick is skulking about.”

In the supply depot, is where Hickey is skulking, trying to sniff something in Tommy’s itinerary.

“Leave it, Neil, for fuck’s sake. And gear up.”

“You don’t say,” Hickey flips the spreadsheet. “By the grace of your sergeant?” Not his, not theirs, but Tommy’s done rising to it, especially when Hickey hooks a bait as obvious as that. “Were you running your mouth about my little enterprise, Armitage?”

Massive head on him, this one, is what Tozer prefers to say of Neil and his ways. Tommy scoffs, “Only the dogs round here don’t know about you fencing outside the wire. No, wait. Actually, they do.”

“Let me guess. Tozer wants a cut.”

“No. He doesn’t.”

To keep an eye on him, is Tommy’s guess, and maybe take a measure of the crisis while at it, what makes Hickey unwind into a full on nutcase in the broader corrupt picture of this here commission.

Loyalty is Tozer’s weakness, a loyalty to loyalty, but then also to men reliant on his judgement or protection. In his mind, he’d rather give them some benefit of trust, of doubt, would rather have done everything in his power before leading them to slaughter via pencil pushers.

“Neil,” Tommy interrupts his methodical packing of ration pouches; these are pre-filled with prescription speed as dispensed through medical. “Wheels standing by, get on with it.”

“There’s time.”

Four pouches, would go for eight hundred American plus grass. Neil is good at keeping his process from base CCTV, knows who to butter up too, the palm greaser.

“Neil. Twenty minutes.”

“Were you a cub, Armitage? Is that why they call you Brownie? And this— this is your way of honouring your Teamwork badge?”

“Don’t be a fucking bender.”

“Cub Scouts always do their best, think of others before themselves and do a good turn every day…”

“I pity your mother.”

Done with supply forms and ordnance, they exit into the unpleasant embrace of humid morning air and pass the helipads towards the cluster of Jackals guccied in full MAPIK. Off to their right is Tozer, hands hooked in the flak jacket, lounging by two very naked LRVs which have been stripped of mounts for mobility and space.

Patrol’s all on deck by the count of it: Heather, Wilkes, Hammond, Daly… Tozer’s lot is both nondescript and so noticeable you’d have to be blind to miss that energy; laid back, utilitarian. No patches or insignia, no standardised uniform, unshaven but put-together. Tommy does the count again. No Farr in sight.

“Tommy,” Tozer claps him on the back, gives Hickey a nod, “sorry for the short notice.”

“Which notice was that, Toz. Fuck all notice and a muck to boot, that notice?"

“Ah, you love it.”

Tommy hides a smile. “Had your brightest pilfered, I see.”

“Cheers for that. Can’t all be literate like you, now can we.”

He’s wearing that silly pair of nicked Gatorz that make him look a bit of a dickhead. Smiling despite the general air of him, so typical of sticky husks made threadbare by both routine patrols and Tutu need-to-knows.

More than that this time. He looks near cataclysmic. Completely wiped, like he’s been strung up to dry while it’s still pissing down. Drone energy and insomniac skin, a great briar of beard frizz concealing his mouth. Sun-bleached crown of hair now long enough to curl at the nape. It’s taken a dull shine of week-old grease, and the lifeless wheat of it is giving more discount Viking than one of Rafe Dorfman’s choir boys.

Tommy looks away, catches Hickey’s expression shifting into something more obscure. Fuck him.

“Yeah, I can count now too,” Tommy finally answers. “On both hands.”

“Have to teach me then. I’m still on my shapes and colours. Which reminds me, Little tell you who’s our side on JOC for this?”

"Des Voeux’s lot? Ah, who gives a fuck. What’s your deal with Little anyway, he owe you something? You know Gore’s boys have fuck all to do.”

“I don’t know Gore’s boys. Know you, though,” he directs it at Tommy rather than the unit or Hickey in particular.

“Crozier won’t be happy.”

“I’m sure I’ll cope somehow. It’s your job anyway.”

“Thank fuck for that. I’ll never get why you keep poking the bear when Fitz actually likes you.”

“I don’t have to be liked, Tommy. And Crozier’s sound, for a rupert, knows how to handle yous lot.” He notices Tommy’s displeased expression. “Cheer up now. Fresh air’ll do you good. Heads keep you on a chain in there, don’t they.”

“It’s alright. I can manage.”

“Can you now, wonder boy. On that piss scoff they toss you?”

“I do get a treat tossed my way too. Now and then.”

Tozer winks, checks his watch. “Where the fuck is that andy?”

“Wouldn’t put it past him to get lost in a shitter. We can’t be this undermanned.”

“Don’t be lying to yourself now, lad.”

They wait two more minutes.

“That bell end,” Tozer checks his watch again, “knew he were a neb, but I swear to fuck, Tommy, if he’s not here in five, HRO better start counting their blessings… ah fuck, there he is… would you look at it…”

The man in question is crossing the tarmac in a hurry both tragic and comical, lugging the bag and the rifle at a trot familiar to any late schoolboy.

“Olympic sportsmanship, this,” Tozer sounds only marginally entertained. “Oh, you absolute fucking whopper… may you live a long life… Farr,” he examines the sapper’s appearance once presented before him, “would you call this conduct appropriate?”

No, sir, sorry, sir, won’t happen again, sir; starstruck formality never fails to amuse Tozer—you just don’t go around saluting grizzly fucking operators—but Farr will learn. It’s all in forward conditioning.

Heather beckons Farr close, slinging one arm around his shoulder to explain something away from prying ears and then introducing the rest of today’s little assortment.

…you can call me Buzz; now you already know Sig. Brownie here… that little mangy mutt with a bag blower is our other scaly, Neil’s the name, Tricky’s the game… Wilky’s there at the helm, give us a wave, go on, pal… that’s Daly the Tail and Ham, patrol medic… — …Alright, mate? Name’s Top Gear. — Shut it, Hammond, nobody fucking calls you that…

Across the apron, the relief convoy navigates through its supply assembly in packed swarms, like ants on water. A marvel to watch. Tommy likes their pristine logistics. Have to love engineers.

“Aye up,” Tozer’s up on the footboard to do the rote headcount but gets sidetracked by another troop senior from his regiment whom Tommy struggles to place—D mobility?—the two of them more than content to pull each other’s pricks from twenty metres apart. Regiment, eh. The lads. Oi oi. 

That you, Tozzo? Thought I heard that sweet babycroon of yours. Off to crèche again, wet nursing mush? — Only if you lend us your tits, you big homo. — Don’t have to, do I, they’ll make a scrubber out of you yet, top class nut muncher. — Watch it, princess. — Shitting myself here, Rav. — Say that again, you fucking cock smoker, no, go on, get yourself a proper smacking, fucking let’s go. — Promises, promises. All this chatting and no biting, makes a girl wonder. — Sorry, love, I don’t dip slapper juice. — Go fuck yourself, Red. — You too, princess.

Oi oi, thinks Tommy. Pass the salt. Inside their truck is no better: Wilkes is a-bow, mouth slapping through field rations and brain actively ignoring Hickey’s broad monologue from the rear. What’s he even saying?

Ah. Sounds like what Tozer’s labelled ‘another theosophy spiel’ which is by now notorious enough for old dogs to give Hickey a berth so wide it’s across the fucking Atlantic and a little on the side.

But that’s not how Wilky here operates, having perfected the mental routine of Hickey-deafness which Tommy, frankly, envies. Have to wonder whether Farr’ll manage to acquire that particular skill.

Done with his regimental mating ritual, Tozer drops in the front seat and snatches Wilky’s ration pack. “Fucking Connie,” he mutters, still smiling about the encounter. “Fucking dick swinger. God love him.” Switches to that voice of his, alright, lads, wheels up, then echoes it for command.

…hello zero, this is repo six, radio check, over. — repo six, OK, over. — zero, repo six, moving out to PASS charlie one-one. — roger, repo six, radio check at PASS…

Five minutes into the ride, Wilkes opens his mouth to no doubt deliver something precious but shuts it when the sergeant stabs a finger right in his face with a deadpan ‘no singing’.

“No fucking singing, Wilky, I fucking mean it.” 

Down the ridge and through the open space past the reservoir underbrush. Flash floods have come and gone with thunder, waking the land with mire, cattle waste, and foul mud, all drying now into something broken and dead once more.

They pass the familiar one-storey house where a village once stood, not far from the old pit rail tracks that lead to a dead-end siding.

Out there, come nightfall, you could walk its length and listen to silence so profound it’s near absolute, could see wrecked mine carts, shrapnel shells. Could see ruin.

“Right then, scaly twins,” Tozer throws the map across his shoulder directly into Tommy’s lap, “gather round.”

Regular rounds, you know the drill. As for APs, there are three locations to follow up on in connection with arms and ammo: the old pharmacy building at the market, the warehouse south of it, and an old mill to the southeast. Expect no contact. Probability of UEO on second and third APs minimal.

Now, you don’t need to be Tommy to catch the reservation in Tozer’s tone. The fact of it is made all the more clear by Hickey who is reacting with that particular brand of fuckface coyness.

They enter the town from the north and follow the secure route until they reach the market’s entrance, where the first cluster of stalls offers everything from pipe fittings and cap screws to second-hand car parts.

Tozer hops out and does a three-sixty, “Wilky, Ham, eyes on. Buzzems, Tail, Farr, clear the warehouse. Tommy, Tricky, on me.”

By all rights, Hickey should be with the second team instead and one of the bomb boys on theirs, but nobody questions it.

It’s a short walk to the location but cluttered and brimming with human sound. Further up the main street sits a burrow of a little hardware shop where Hickey swaps his pill pouches for Yankee green and two canvas bags of grass from a local pusher—family business—while Tommy follows Tozer to the pharmacy.

According to hounds on the ground—box five hundred plus Yank spooks plus a couple of RDA strays that work the civvy angle through a mercurial net of contacts which tends to yield intel that’s more miss than bullseye—there’s been an unusual spike in traffic around the site.

In a normal situation, this would indicate a transit point for mid to heavy hardware and munitions, but somehow Tommy—and, to a much greater degree, Tozer—doubts that this particular scrap of hearsay will hold any water.

At the nearby grocer’s stall, the two of them huddle under the canopy shade and have a rather frustrating chat with the seller regarding the objective.

…let me be clear, sir; it is absolutely crucial to your safety and the safety of this town, to report insurgent activity, however

After a rather fruitless back-and-forth, Tozer levels Tommy with a look. Empty leads, bad intel. Tommy wouldn’t admit it, but shit like this keeps him fed—being non-verbal and instinctive with Tozer in a way that supersedes the standard because it can’t be ordinary, he tells himself, surely it’s not.

He knows it the same way he knows the patterns on base. Like yesterday, before midnight, the town’s distant flickers greeted him on shift change, an eastward wind began to layer dust over the dark expanse between his sentry at the gate and the clock tower that loomed over the settlement’s cluster.

Tommy gazed into its maw and saw nothing. Recalled the old yearning—what is it like, to matter, to be worth something?—as if responding to something in the blood, stale, oppressive, of his father’s, and thought of winters by the Solent with bursts of sleet that roped across the sky, the sea.

After the patrol, he’ll think of bad ideas. He knows that Tozer will abandon his tent for the evening and swing by the barracks to bum some hemp skins off Tommy and drag him out to watch the lads kick about at footy.

They’ll settle at one of the tables where the floodlights bleach the cooling soil, all that sea of concrete, and Tommy will sketch from memory and listen to Tozer’s stream of mind and think, there’s the world, and I won’t ever be at home in any other, and the quiet in me has never been so mountain clear, and I will bend my head under the gravity of Sol and think, you are my friend, and I will follow that and never let go.

“What a piss take,” Tozer comments after they clear the pharmacy. Nothing there, not even furniture. In another ten, Heather transmits an all clear on the warehouse, so they can safely proceed to the final location.

As Tommy chugs water in the truck and blocks rancid Hickey-verbiage from immediate awareness, his mind begins to fuck with him.

What do you think you’re doing? Here? With these men? The voice seems to illuminate the paradox of his own ambition. How he’s ready to climb walls at the compound, dumb from cabin fever and deeply capricious at that, and then, once on the ground, becoming sick with yearning for the routine of his station.

He thinks of adrenaline junkies that make up half the troops there. Thinks of the antithesis of Tozer who operates in diametric opposition to that. Differently wired rather than teetotal, a synaptic freak.

He’s talking to Heather on dash radio now, his face blank with concentration, “Buzzems, get Matelot on the link, over.”

“You fucking get him,” Heather retorts. “Over.”

Once again, without the net. Tozer sighs, but hails Des Voeux himself. Matelot, say it like Mat-low, and don’t forget to take the piss.

…vanguard seven five, this is repo six, teams on route to PASS charlie one three, can I get dolly on that over… — …roger repo six, wait out … repo six, be advised illegal CP three k’s south of task location, proceed with caution… — roger vanguard, CM, out…

They ride. Like getting a shake in a blender, Tommy thinks, hitting his helmet on the frame. Used to be part of enemy MSR whose effects now echo deep in his ass. Uneven asphalt rumbles underwheel, then gravel, then something rougher and broken by years of HET traffic.

Tommy curses on another pothole dive—fucking watch it, Wilky—and grinds his teeth. Crushed tin of mackerel. The cabin stink of warm skin and stale breath. Has it really been that long, enough for him to register the man-odour of tiny spaces. Camp tramp, according to Hickey, that’s our Armitage.

To give Wilky some credit, he does try to take it easy, but the surface here has been thorough-fucked into something barely approximating a road.

Tommy keeps his tongue firmly behind his teeth and watches the streets melt away, replaced by haphazard geometry of tradeland outskirts that smell of bad earth. On arrival, he resists the temptation to slap Wilky upside the head.

The mill is a box. It screams fifties production effort and looms over the choppy concrete of the loading bay. Tommy takes in the ravaged stretch of land with care, but refuses to invite any more of his useless empathy. Made it chronic, have to shake it. Shake off that brownie mindset.

On it then. To the one unblocked entry point, which is the back gate, where Tozer and Heather take the lead on either side. Daly’s hand on Tozer’s shoulder, Ham’s on Heathers.

A beat for confirmation, then filtering in to clear the courtyard where pavement morphs into spring-soaked dirt and mite clouds cake dense air. Beneath the tread of their boots, insect chatter and the distant barking of dogs.

They secure the outer perimeter and leave two to man the vehicles. He and Daly are on Tozer, the three of them entering through the loading ramp, which leaves Heather, Farr, and Hickey to take the admin.

Production floor offers more rust. Tommy strains his ears. Here it ebbs with echo, reminding him of shell grottos. They can only rely on clip-on torches that bite stark chunks out of the surrounding blackness. On hand cue, Tommy and Daly split to cover the flanks, while Tozer continues ahead.

Desolate up to the top window row. Wall hooks are still in place, and stray parts from textile equipment that’s been ripped apart for scrap long ago.

Tommy finds no trace of recent human presence or munitions, declaring it clear, which Daly echoes to his left.

They merge again at the entryway leading to the admin section and proceed single file through narrow corridors.

Clearing each corner and dead-end room, taking in the wreckage. What a waste, thinks Tommy, all of it here; to lose so much by no fault of their own.

Coming around another bend when Tozer halts them. Listen. Nothing for a beat, then a single automatic round followed by four bursts of threes.

They set for the source through two more passageways and thunder across a catwalk, then down service stairs.

The scene that opens up could be votive for its blocking. Farr’s head is cradled in Heather’s bloodied hands, their figures caught in a single beam piercing through the rotten roof. Across from them, Hickey, rooted motionless in half-light. Single contact, is what he says.

Tozer clicks his fingers at the storage door, “Tommy, get a confirm.” Goes to his knees to assist with Farr’s neck—how could you ever keep something like that from bursting apart? “Sitrep.”

“Stab wound,” Heather has managed to apply celox dressing but is now struggling to keep Farr still, “single entry, but it’s not clean, can’t tell if it nicked anything major.”

As critical as it could get out here when you can’t mend it with a tourniquet. It takes Ham forty seconds to get to their position from the truck, hauling the med bergen plus another day sack.

His assessment proves Farr to be immediate, something about zone one and RSI plus vent, but they’ve only got IVs, tourniquets, and morphine sticks.

Tozer motions for Hickey to come closer with the radio, fucking smart, Tricky, double in, and then, “Fucking hell, Tommy, go check the fucking terry.” Tommy goes, but retains partial attention on the unfolding crisis.

…repo six, contact at PASS charlie one three, single hostile, area clear, I repeat TIC is closed…

Behind them is a door to a storage room, where Tommy discovers a body sieved with close range rounds. What draws him in is the placement.

The man is splayed on his back, legs tucked under him and both hands locked in a death grip over his abdomen. Reflexive attempt to contain the blood. His thin cotton shirt is soaked through.

…cas rep one times T-one, requiring cas evac on location over… Farr, private, TR, 21 RE, foxtrot two four five six, T-one, PSI, vent required…

None of the gunshot wounds in his torso have left traces so devastating and so definite. Please don’t, Tommy thinks, please don’t be that. Not that. His pulse is stuck in his throat like a live pike bone.

…vanguard seven five, repo six, need a locstat on the MERT…— …negative on cas evac at your location, RPG threat on sector CP, advise extraction to secure HLS…

Slinging his rifle to the weak side, Tommy drops into a crouch to examine the entry wound. Takes a breath through his nose and unhooks the man’s red hands, his gloves and bare fingers catching on the dark glue of it. Exhales. Butchery. Fucking butchery in here. He knows what it looks like when a blade breaks tissue.

…cas evac inbound ETA one five minutes to HLS Wakefield over… — …confirm one five minutes… repo six to all repos, Merlin inbound to HLS Wakefield…

The man’s face is exsanguinated and, Tommy is sorry to learn, weathered beyond the effects of his violent death.

Early sixties, is his guess, worn civvies and labourer’s hands. A bag by his side with a medley of parts he must’ve collected from all over the site.

Underneath it, a knife. Not a combat type, not a multi-tool, but a standard kitchen utility knife. Can’t be theirs.

Can it? Fuck. Fuck. Can’t look him in the eye like this. Will he be remembered, Tommy wonders, has he anyone to wait for him.

…moving casualty to repo two position… repo one bravo, request direct comms with MERT via JOC…

Moving out. Into the atrium, finding Farr’s been secured for the transfer. The pale skin of his cheek is marked with black sharpie.

Hickey observes the scene with cold distance, blood up to his wrists. Farr’s, he said, had to apply pressure till Heather got here. He wears remorse well, Neil does, talking of regret and being too late—Farr’d already been stabbed. Hickey meets his gaze, and Tommy finds himself responding with stupor.

They move out to the trucks at triple speed and gas it to the landing site, with Heather on patrol comms reading out Farr’s status as they go. Cutting too close. Too fucking close. Hammie’s got it, he says. But there’s only so much Hammie can do in the field, bless him.

“Fuck me, how the fuck do you even get stabbed in there?” Wilky addresses no one in particular. “Gonna need a massive piss up afters. Red?”

Tozer watches the road. “Pass.”

No heli on site when they arrive, and Tozer unclips the on-board radio to get an update. Des Voeux can’t deliver, and asks to wait out. While Tozer remains even throughout, his worry is betrayed by how soft he gets around the eyes.

“Come on, Matelot.” Tozer lets go a little, drumming on the dashboard, then clicks the receiver, “Buzzems, status.”

Two, three seconds, then Heather responding: “Nothing good.”

Wilky clears his throat, “He’ll be fine.”

“Henry,” Tozer pulls off his sweatband, “shut the fuck up.” Sounds a bit like a question, as most things do in his rising tones. Like he’s perpetually sardonic regardless of the situation.

Then static breaks: “Repo six, Vanguard seven five—” Tozer leans in his seat at the sound of Des Voeux’s even voice, says something under his breath in a language Tommy can’t understand, “—Merlin on TACSAT, call sign Eureka one, over.” 

“Roger, Vanguard,” Tozer exhales. “Eureka one, this is Repo six, what’s your ETA, over.”

“Eureka one, five out.”

Five minutes can be stretched to infinity out here. Tachypsychia, the bosom brother of every close combat freak. Tommy paces circles around Heather’s truck, listening for any change. Declining by minute. Declining. Don’t crash, mate. Don’t go fucking crashing.

Then comes the sweet chop of Mk2 westward of the ridge. The bird lands with smooth precision to spit a duo of medics who strap Farr to a stretcher and nod at whatever Hammond is shouting through the roar of sixty-foot blades.

Lift off. They brace for the rotor wash, but Tommy risks an eyeful of dust to watch the bird ascend. She’s barely cleared the treeline when he goes to one knee, as if released from some great weight. Bending at the waist and rubbing the grit from his eyes. Taking a breath. Feels like a first.

The area is secure, so Tozer gives them five to clean up and get rid of the shakes. Hammond lights a smoke and leans against the bumper grill. Daly is next to him making corrections on the map he’s unfolded over the bonnet. Heather is by his ride, washing his hands with bottled water.

Inside the truck, in Farr’s place where blood has yet to dry, rests Hickey, his eyes closed though not in sleep.

Tommy unfolds and allows his feet to take him where he should’ve been long ago. Tozer is mid-report with command, but Tommy can’t process the exchange. Can’t speak. Can’t look him in the eye.

He checks the horizon, finding the chopper reduced to a spot of paint. So clear today and bright with the onset of mad spring. He loves the open sky here, dome-like yet boundless and so impossible, as if newborn.

First breath. Tomorrow is a day, it will be a day, and things will feel different. Something grabs him by the shoulder. He leans into the weight of Tozer’s hand, so warm where it brushes his neck, and keeps breathing.