The Forward Observer
Glossary of substitute words:
Fug: used by Mailer in “The Naked And The Dead” to get around censorship in 1948.
Bustard: a large Asian bird
Sheet: a bed covering
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He had been very lucky so far. To escape before he was murdered by his captors, in the confusion of the explosions from the swarm of low flying kamikaze attack drones he had called in from his forward observation post just before he was captured. He had volunteered to be a forward observer after the enemy had learned how to nullify the high flying scout drones that done the job previously. And he had done such an infuriatingly effective job that, after his capture, the angry officer in command ordered his execution, contrary to the formal rules of combat. But in this war, rules were often ignored by both sides.
Now the man was huddled in a bomb crater in no-man’s-land, faced with a major problem. How to get back to friendly lines without getting killed since his FIDS dog tag had been ripped off his neck by his captors. (FIDS or Friend Identification System is an electronic signal that identifies the bearer to all drones as a friend, not to be targeted.) His captors were probably planning to use his in an infiltration. At least it was night, and until the engineers figured out a way to restore vision to the scout drones, attack drones would be directed to their targets by human forward observers like him. It was autumn so the nights were not freezing cold and yet cold enough so that the corpse he shared the crater with was not sickeningly-foul smelling, just rotten. Rain water pooled in the bottom of the crater. Not potable since the corpse lay part way in it. One of them, not us, he noted with satisfaction.
The whir of a drone over the background clatter of artillery and distant explosions. He kept very still as it passed to the left. Ours or theirs? Didn’t really matter since without his FIDS he would be a target. And he would be called a friendly fire statistic if anyone ever knew. I’d better try to move. Crater to crater. Earthy wet dirt smell, whiff of rot, mingled with that of TNT and burn. Stop listen for a whir, try to spot drones against clouds and patchy starry background. Nothing. Then move quickly. Gotta get beyond the sight of the enemy by morning. He hoped that the squad that captured him had been so decimated in the attack that their replacements would not know of his escape and would not specifically send out a drone to look for him.
The sky was turning grey to the east. Sun up soon. Time to find a deep crater and spend the day hiding. Think I’m about midway across no-man’s-land. Attack drones will likely not pay as close attention here than closer to the battle lines. Luck! A crater without a body or puddle. Getting thirsty and hungry. Just got to suck it up. And wait. Don’t even raise my head to look around. Just gotta hope they don’t send out a squad on foot to probe our defenses. Whir of a drone quadricopter. Sheet—damn fly walking across my face and I can’t move! Flying low towards the enemy line judging by the sound. Must be one of ours. Just one, so it must not have a specific target—just out to seek and kill some bustards. Damn—missed the fly! Aren’t they supposed to be gone now that it’s cold? Guess there’s a lot of corpses around for them. I’m not one—go find a real dead body. Like the one in here. But I could become fly bait if my luck runs out.
At last, sunset then twilight, and night with just a thin, waning moon in a partly cloudy sky. Dark enough. Time to move. He dared to lift his head at last and look around. Crater to crater again. And luck—a recently killed body to judge by just the faint odor of decay. One of theirs. Check the backpack. Yes! Full canteen and an unopened meal ration. Take a drink. No time to eat. Get closer to our lines, then I’ll stop and eat.
The man froze whenever he heard a drone, worried that if there were nearby explosions he would be unable to hear the soft whir. He was within a mile of friendly lines by first light. He found a shell hole. Now I can eat and have another drink. And plan. If I try to get closer by sneaking from hole to hole and get spotted, they’ll take me for an infiltrator and drone or shot me without a hesitation since those bustards took my FIDS. Or if I wait for one of our patrols to stumble on me, again someone will shoot before I can identify myself. Fat chance to have one of our patrols just happen to come my way anyway. I’m stuck. Sheet.
Night came at last. A waning crescent moon. He began to edge forward, praying that he wouldn’t be spotted through night vision glasses. He was in luck and by dawn he had found a shell hole within a half mile of friendly trenches. Now what? A plan, I need a plan. How can I let them know I’m one of us without my FIDS? If I move by day, they’ll just shoot first without questioning. But they’ll be especially trigger happy if I try to move closer by night. He was tired, hungry, filthy, and out of options. I’m fugged. And now the sun was up and head down, he hugged the earth. It’ll be noon, soon enough. So close. What to do?
In the forward trench the two drone controllers, Max and Jakob, had their virtual reality goggles on, as well as monitoring a large screen displaying the sector in front of them. The drones they oversaw were autonomous killing machines, programmed to attack any moving object without FIDS. The controllers’ function was to provide oversight and override through their goggles, seeing what the drones’ cameras viewed, so that the drones did not waste their weapons or themselves (if they were the kamikaze type) on a mistaken target or a dummy. It was noon.
“Look at that crazy bustard crawling out of that hole,“ said Max. “He’s buck naked and waving his hands in the air.”
“Civilian?” asked Jakob. “What’s he doing in no-man’s-land? Look he’s dancing! Fugger must be nuts!”
“No weapons, no clothes. Not a suicide bomber.”
“Drone’s zeroing in on him,” said Max. “Won’t matter anyway.”
“Wait,” said Jakob, pausing the drone. “Suppose that fugger is one of ours? Got lost out there.”
“No FIDS, can’t be,” said Max.
“Leon’s position was over-run four days ago and we don’t know what happened to him,” said Jakob.
“That crazy bustard. Did he get lucky?” asked Max. “I’m going to fly the drone up close so I can see his face.”
“The fugger isn’t running from the drone. In fact he’s standing there and waving his arms like he wants the drone to get closer,” Jakob said.
“Damn! Dirty as hell, but it sure as hell is Leon!” Max exclaimed. “Holy sheet!”
“Pause the drones and bring him in,” Jakob said. “I’ll tell the boys in the trenches to hold their fire. Leon’s coming home.”
