#military fiction

[itsstrange]

The Promise

Relationship: Rip Wheeler x Reader

Fandom: Yellowstone

A/N: A small idea I had while daydreaming at work, hope y’all like it. 🥹

Summary: Saying Goodbye Is Always The Hardest. So Is Keeping A Promise.

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: (No) Angst, Mention of Military, Farewells, A Little Sad Moment, Angry Rip, Sad Rip, Arguments, Small Confessions.

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ENJOY 🐎

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“So… you’re really goin’ back?”

You look up, meeting his eyes before averting them back down to your duffel bag where you toss the stack of clothes inside. The clothes that have been folded, locked away underneath the bed for the past five years. The clothes you swore you wouldn’t wear again, wouldn’t dare to see until you had kids in the future to explain to them why you had a pile of clothes and photos locked away in some old worn trunk that dusted away underneath your bed.

Unfortunately it didn’t last to reach that day because here you are, packing away the clothes into your tactical duffel bag that was also locked away.

“How long?”

You inhale deeply through your nose before slowly exhaling, still not meeting their gaze you continue packing away, placing the frame photo of you and the boys in the center before zipping the duffel shut.

“Not sure.. too early to say,” You answer as you move the bag to the foot of the bed before sitting down,

“When do you leave?”

You swallow, feeling the way your chest tightens at the thought, “Tomorrow, before sunrise,”

Thick silence hovers the room. Everyone thinking and feeling the same thoughts, emotions.

“And why are you going back again?”

“Will you morons knock it off with the questions,” Lloyd’s husky voice bouncing off the wooden walls brings a small smile and a chuckle from you,

“A buddy of mine needs help,” You still answer Jimmy’s question, which he doesn’t respond with another mostly because he can see the way Lloyd gives him the look,

No other questions were sent your way, neither of them wanting a look from Lloyd as well, nor did they want you to dwell on the heavy mood that hovered. So instead, Ryan and Colby were the first to bring up a farewell party, change of topic. You kindly decline their idea, but of course neither men listens to you.

As Ryan and Colby begin listing items on what to bring for the farewell bonfire, and yelling at one another on who gets to keep your bunk (because it’s the closest one to the bathroom) you couldn’t help the small chuckle that falls from your lips. You were really going to miss every single person in this room. Despite them making you lose a few strands of hair from their idiotic actions, and constant bar brawls, you were surely going to miss them.

They made every other day interesting, every night annoying and fun at the same time with their childlike games that they come up with that sometimes leaves them with bruises or a chipped tooth. Everyday, every night, they made it special and you were definitely gonna miss it.

“Hey I’m not leaving just yet, I still got the whole day and the night before y’all start fighting over my bunk,” You say as you stand from the bed, punching both men on their shoulders,

They both share a laugh with you as they continue listing whatever alcohol they should buy, asking if you preferred hotdogs or burgers as you all walked out the house.

Saying goodbye to them was hard, but not as hard as it’s gonna be when you say it to him. Now that.. that will definitely break your heart. The look in his eyes when you tell him, you can already picture them and from the way your chest tightens, you know it’ll be difficult.

*******

You were currently feeding the rest of the horses inside the stables. Marking down the ones who needed a wash and a trim, which stables needed cleaning. Same old routine before having to check up on the rest of the animals, considering your main job at the ranch was analyzing and tracking the animals health. You weren’t exactly a veterinarian, but you learned a few things throughout the years which John persuaded you to take up on his offer of being in charge of the animals when it came to their monthly health checkups. So of course you took classes to advance your knowledge, to help around the ranch, make it easier for the old timer.

Yes he did have actual trained, experienced, veterinarians working on his animals before, but knowing how you easily picked up the job, how much love and care you gave to the livestock, he knew it was a good investment on both parts. Besides, he trusted you dearly in that department.

Hours had flown by, nearing six o’clock in the afternoon as you were finishing up in the stables before heading out to help Lloyd and the boys to check out some of the cows that were further up in the land. As well as putting up a new fence since the one hanging on was already rusting away due to the weather these past few days, as well as some idiotic trespassers cutting through the fence simply to test the Dutton family.

Just as you throw some fresh hay into one of the stables and patted the horse in its neck as he eats his dinner, the sound of loud rough boots marching against the ground ring in your ears.

“Were you ever gonna tell me?” His loud, rough voice settles behind you, words firm as you dumped hay into the last stable,

You sigh, taking off your gloves and placing them in your back pocket before looking up at him. Eyes wide, angry, betrayal, and fear were written in them. Just like you pictured.

“Yes.. I was,”

“When? Tomorrow? When you leave apparently?” Betrayal can be heard in his voice, blue eyes confirming his tone,

“There hasn’t been a good time to let you know,” You tell him, voice calm, tired, heartbroken,

It wasn’t a lie. When he had gotten back from running an errand with Kayce you were determined to lay it on him, but things got hectic that you weren’t even able to spare him a word. It remained that way for the rest of the day, work after work, problem after problem, when lunch came around he wasn’t at the table eating his supper with everyone else, he was out with Dutton, doing the man a favor, so wanting to talk to him during lunch didn’t happen like you were hoping for.

You told yourself you’d let him know when he came back, but apparently he was out and about with Dutton for the rest of the day. So by the time he had came back was at this very moment, catching you feeding the horses inside the stables. Dutton must’ve told him at some point during their errand runs, who else could have? You weren’t annoyed it was your boss who gave him the news, but you were hoping it’d be you who told him because it came from you, no one else.

“Do you not remember what that place did to you?!” He harshly whispers, taking a step closer to you, “Cause I sure as hell can!”

You lower your gaze to the floor with a faint sigh at his words. Of course you remember. How can one forget something like that? The constant nightmares, the flashbacks, mood swings, not knowing what was real or not, the cold sweats, all of it you remember. The first few weeks of being home after being honorably discharged were rather difficult, your body knew it was home, safe, but your mind was still at war. Constant nightmares played in your in head, bullets flying everywhere, blood stains surrounding you, staining your hands and vest. Screams echoing in your mind on a daily from those who were gunned down, who were injured and were slowly bleeding out in your hands.

It was an everyday thing. The boys, Rip, would beg you to get help, to talk to someone, but you’d just shrug them off telling them you were fine, that it’ll pass.

But you were in fact not okay and the nightmares never ceased.

It was after one particular night that everything had changed. The one night that had you finally reaching out for help, the night that had you admitting that you were not okay.

You had been home for two weeks when it had happened. All it took was a hectic, drunken brawl to trigger the episode. One minute you’re enjoying your beer, slightly laughing at a joke that one of the boys shared, letting lose to ease the noise in your head, then the next you’re being pulled off a blonde head who’s face was nearly disfigured beneath you. Blood covering her once fresh face and clean hair, along with your hands that shook from adrenaline, anger, fear, shell shock.

Once Rip got word of what happened he stormed his way to the bunkhouse which is where he had found you staring at your own reflection in the bathroom. The way a cold and lost look was written in your eyes will forever be embedded in his mind. It wasn’t you who stood standing in front of the mirror with tensed shoulders, hair a mess from sweat and dried blood, the real you was trapped in your mind.

It nearly took all night to bring you back, but not once did he give up.

“Rip,” You softly call his name with an exhausted sigh as you close the door to the stable,

“No. You’re not going!” Blue eyes widening more with fear and rage,

“Yes I am,” You respond in a whisper, “They need me,”

“And we need you here!” I need you here.

It was what he should’ve said, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. Wasn’t exactly how he wanted to let you know the truth, wanted to do it the right way, a more intimate, genuine way. But now, he’s out of time. And most likely lost his chance.

He lost you.

“Rip-,” You begin to say but was interrupted by Kacey walking in the stables,

“We’re loaded to fix the fence,” You turn to him before giving him a small nod,

The youngest Dutton switches his gaze from you to the brute man staring intensely at you, knowing then he had walked into something and immediately sensing the tension surrounding the air. He’s felt this mood before, felt tension between you two every so often, but for some reason this time it was stronger, as if one wrong word said would ignite the awaiting flame. So without another word and only a simple nod, he turns to walk away, giving you two privacy. However, you didn’t stick around. Both to just get the day over with and also to postpone the argument.

If you even get a chance to talk about it with him again.

You hear Rip call out to you as you walk out the stables, halting your steps. You glance over your shoulder, meeting his eyes, but no words were said, so instead you let out a sad sigh through your nose as you continue walking out the building. Leaving the brute man alone in the stables with angered thoughts.

*****

Hours had flown by. After fixing the fence, which took nearly the whole day since it was worse than anyone thought, doing daily health checks on the animals, running a quick errand with Beth, everyone was finally able to wash up and spend the remaining hours with you. Everyone sat around the bonfire sharing stories about anything and everything, chatter, laughter and music can be heard in the darkened night.

Empty beer and whiskey bottles, sticks with dried marshmallows and chocolate littered the ground around everyone’s feet. It was a night you’d deeply remember, a night you’d miss, a night you wished would happen every Friday, but you knew it wouldn’t be possible. At least not with you. Not anymore. You tried keeping a strong face, positive thoughts, positive energy, for the sake of everyone around you. They all had high hopes of you coming back home, claiming you’d be home in less than two months because you were tough as a bull, but you knew the truth. The reality of it all.

Obviously you didn’t remind them of the truth, didn’t want to take away the little happiness they held onto for you, the strong faith they had. So all you did was smile at them, raise your glass and down the last bit of your drink. Every so often you’d get lost in your thoughts, thinking of the mission, the serious consequences, the challenges that will come with it, the horror you’ll soon face, but before you can trap yourself in such thoughts they were there to bring you back. Invite you to their conversations, their stories they were sharing, their jokes, which you were thankful for.

What you didn’t notice was the way a pair of blue eyes have been secretly staring at you from across the fire pit. A dark corner where the fire barely illuminated his features. Light or not he didn’t care if he was caught staring at you, everyone was able to read his opinion of the whole situation but no one dared to ask him about it. He was already a fumed bull waiting to be provoked.

There were times where you’d glance up and catch him staring, but not once did you confront him. Making a scene in front of everyone was the last thing you wanted, so you ignored him and his glaring daggers.

Although, at one point during the night, Colby was the one to mention they had ran out of marshmallows, which you volunteered to grab the extra pack from the bunk house. Slightly buzzed you make your way through the Dutton ranch with sluggish steps till you push open the door to the bunks. Walking to the kitchen you grab the new pack of marshmallows sitting on the counter along with another couple chocolate bars. Just as you turn to head back out, your steps come to a stop when you see Rip standing by the couch.

Face emotionless, but eyes dark, red. Was he crying?

“Havin’ fun?” Rip questions, tone cold and firm, yet his blue eyes have another written emotion in them,

You shrug a shoulder, “Tryin’,”

He scoffs, “Yeah I see that.. but it ain’t workin’,”

You knew exactly what he was referring to. The constant lost in thought when the conversation was directed somewhere else. What you didn’t know until now was those same eyes that have been staring at you from the dark were analyzing you throughout the entire night. Watching the way your smile quickly faded as you once again lost yourself in your thoughts, watching the way your fingers peeled off the label from your beer bottle, the way your leg bounced uncontrollably from nerves, fear, and anxiousness. He knew you were afraid, he read you perfectly, but he knew nothing he’d say would change your mind. Not now, not ever.

You were stubborn like a goddamn mule.

“Yeah well, it’s a little hard to have fun when I got two sets of eyes throwing daggers at me all night,” You say, matching his tone as you stare into his eyes,

Heavy tension once again surrounds you two, the muffled music coming from outside was the only thing that can be heard in the room. Neither of you said anything for a good minute or so, just staring at one another with pain written in both your eyes with tears threatening to build. This wasn’t how you wanted to give your farewells to him. Having an argument with him before you left was something you did not want, but yet here you are.

“Can we just..,” You pause, letting out an exhausted sigh before continuing, “Enjoy the rest of the night before I have to catch a flight in a few hours?”

Rip stares deep in your eyes. Hurt, sadness, anger, and fear were written in his blue ones, they were easy to read, especially when he stared at you the way he was staring. He didn’t bother to hide it, yet he didn’t express it to you verbally. Not like he had to or wanted to, it was obvious on how he felt of the whole situation.

“They’re out there celebrating your death..,” He says pointing a long finger at the door then continues with, “.. and I ain’t being apart of it,”

His voice slightly breaks with each word. His blue eyes standing out more when tears begin building, but not one dares to slide down his cheeks, at least not in front of you. Not saying another word, he turns around and heads out the door with a harsh shove that has it banging against the wall.

Whatever string was left holding your heart in place had finally snapped as you watched the door shut behind him. The last memory you’d have of him. This wasn’t how you wanted to leave things with him, he was the only one who could have helped you through it, fought through the dark times, the constant noises in your head. He was the only one who you stayed alive for while you were out in the field, but now that he’s walked away, not wanting any part of it, you didn’t know if it was even worth staying alive once you landed on base. He was your anchor to it all.

And now you’d be stranded in the dark, drowning with nothing to hold you upright. Keep you up float when you felt like sinking, when you felt like the water was too strong for your fighting body. The one person who could’ve saved you from it all was now walking away, leaving you alone.

‘Maybe it was for the best.’

You tell to yourself. You convince yourself. Maybe him not being apart of it, apart of your life would one day guide him to a better life with the love of his life, guide him to someone who can make him happier, stronger, happier.

It was for the best that he left.

*****

4:30 am

Throwing your duffle and backpack in the backseat you shut the door before facing the small crowd. You give everyone a big hug, including the man himself, John Dutton who hugged you for a good long minute before being slightly shoved by Beth who took you in a stronghold as she secretly let the tears fall down her cheeks. You don’t know how, but you kept your own tears from spilling down. Once departing from the woman you go ahead and start hugging the cowboys, sharing a few laughs with them as they joke with you one last time. Which you appreciated their effort in trying to lighten things up, but you knew they knew nothing they can say now will help. But still, you appreciate it.

“So.. who won?” You say when Ryan and Colby stand in front of you,

They both share a look, small smile forming on their lips, “Neither,” Colby says,

You give them a confused look, but Ryan continues with, “We decided to leave it ready for you when you come back,”

Come back. Something you knew was a big word at the moment.

“Can’t have it ready forever,” You say with a sad chuckle,

“We can and we will,” Ryan firmly states, letting you know no one will come near the empty bed unless it’s you,

It was a faint demand from them. They wanted you to come back, no matter how hard it will be, they demanded that you come back to reclaim your bed at the bunkhouse, and that alone brought the ball back in your throat.

“Gonna miss you dorks,” You manage to say before quickly bringing them both for a group hug,

Both men wrap their arms around you, burying their faces in your hair as they cherish the moment. As you go to pull away both their hands on either side of your hip tighten, not wanting the hug to end, but eventually step away from you.

You give them a small smile and then a small wave to everyone huddle in front of you before turning around to climb into the truck where Roscoe patiently waited for you.

“Ready?” The soldier asks as you take one last glance out the window, watching everyone wave at you with saddened smiles, the ranch standing tall and beautifully behind them.

Letting out a small sigh you give him a nod.

In a matter of seconds the truck roars to life before beginning to move down the driveway and out of the Duttons ranch. Silence engulfs the car, only the sound of the radio softly playing in the speakers is heard. Leaning your head against the headrest behind you, you let your mind drift away, thinking about everyone at the ranch, playing their faces in your mind to not forget them, your fingers softly playing with a small deer origami that Tate had made for you last night for good luck. Then thinking about him once again.

Remembering how things were left between you two. Wishing you could’ve fixed things before you left, wished you could’ve said the truth, wished he could’ve have given you the chance to let you show him just how much he meant to you. But he didn’t. None of it happened.

So now, all you’ll think about is What If.

While driving halfway out the ranch and you still being lost in thought, you didn’t capture the moment a large black figure blending in the dark speeding in your direction until the truck comes to an abrupt stop. Causing your seatbelt to lock just in time to catch your body from going forward.

“The fuck?” Roscoe reacts, putting the gear in park as he eyes the figure that is currently blocking his way,

You clench your jaw as you make eye contact with him, even in the dark and with the only source of light from the headlights you both immediately lock eyes.

Of course it’s Rip on top of his horse. Black hat on his head with his black jacket wrapped on his frame.

“I’ll take care of this,” You say, never breaking eye contact with him as you unbuckle yourself and open the door,

“(Y/n) we don’t have time for this,” Roscoe tries arguing back, but you repeat yourself as you hop off the truck,

Shutting the door and standing by it you face him, where he still remained on top of his horse.

“Rip seriously what is your problem? I don’t have time to deal with you right now!” You yell as the brute man climbs off his horse,

A grim look was written on his face as he makes his way towards you. A look he only has when he’s angry about something, and right about now he’s angry at you, you knew that.

“I swear to god Rip if you don’t get out the way I’m gonna-,” Your words were cut off by a pair of rough lips latching onto yours,

Your eyes grow wide in anger, shock, and confusion. But once you feel the way his hand gently cups the side of your face you realize what exactly is happening and only react back. Your own hands finding their way to his face, fingers slowly tangling themselves in his soft, dark curly hair at the base of his neck. A deep, saddened relieved sigh escapes from you two as you both pour the hidden truth into the kiss. Deepening it and cherishing the moment at the same time, neither one wanting or planning to break it off, but you both knew it had to happen, you had to leave.

Which is why Rip got a little selfish for a second, he deepened the kiss, licking his way into your mouth as he held a tight grip on your hip to not let you out of his hold. Just a few more seconds of this, he had to. If this was the only time he would get this opportunity until you came back home, then he was sure as hell he would take every second that was available to have you in his arms, have your lips molding with his, have your fingers tugging on his hair, have your breath fanning his lips, have both your hot tears smear against his own cheeks. He was taking advantage of the moment because he knew it would be more than a month that he would be able to feel it again. Feel this moment again.

Eventually, you both do break the kiss, but not once did he let an inch form between you two. Leaning his forehead against yours, he lets you both catch a breather from the intense, beautiful moment.

“You come back to me you hear?” He whispers, beautiful blue eyes now searching for your own,

When he finally does find your (E/c) eyes that he has grown to love, he whispers once again, “You come home,”

New tears fall down your cheeks at his words, you knew you couldn’t make such a big promise, especially in your line of work. It was a rule, a rule everyone in the military who serves knew they should never make, because they knew reality was always behind that promise.

You stare into those blue eyes of his that have tears of their own, some finding their way down his rough skin, while the rest build at the brim of his eyes. You knew he knew you couldn’t make that promise, but he knew you’d fight for it no matter what, no matter how impossible it might seem, because he knew you always kept your promise. That’s who you were. Loyal, loving, protective, unafraid, and a true fighter.

You stare into his eyes a little longer, feeling the way another tear slides down your cheeks then feeling the rough pad of his thumb gently wiping it away. The words get caught in your throat, the words where you wanted to tell him to be realistic, to not make you promise anything because disappointment and pain is the only thing he’ll receive, but before you can even force them out you hear your name being called from inside the truck.

“We gotta go,” Roscoe softly says, hating to interrupt the moment, hating to part you from the man you clearly love,

You sniff, looking down at the ground then back up to Rip where he only gives you a small smile.

“C’mon,” Rip whispers as he leads you back into the truck,

Once sitting inside, shutting the door, Rip points at the man behind the wheel before saying, “You look after her you hear?”

Roscoe nods at him, “You’ve got my word man,”

Rip nods back before averting his eye to you. You sat there, tears still slowly sliding down your cheeks, you weren’t ready to say goodbye to him, not after you both finally confessed to each other. Which reminds you, you had to say it, in fear of not being able to ever again.

“Rip I-,” You try but he cuts you off with a shake of his head,

“No. Don’t say it. You say it when you come back,” He demands, small smile tugging on the corner of his lips, “Just know I do too,”

I do too.

You sniff once again, tears falling down as you glance behind him, seeing the ranch and the bunkhouse glow in the background. Memories flash in your mind. All those laughs, tears, injuries that you’ve accumulated over the years with everyone who lives and works at the ranch played in your head, reminding you that you had a family to come back to once again, you had friends who were also waiting for you to come back with open arms. You had a life to get back to.

Come back.

Averting your eyes back to his that had tears of their own falling down his cheeks, you stare at him as you remembered, you had him to come back to. He was your main reason to come back home, he was the reason why you weren’t going to die in the field, he was the reason why you weren’t going to give up when shot down, he was the reason why you weren’t going bleed out. He was your reason why you were coming home.

And if anyone tried stopping you from doing so, then it would be the last thing they ever did.

Because you are coming home.

Reaching a hand out the window, you let your small held cup his bearded cheek before letting your own thumb wipe away the tears that fall down. Looking into his eyes with a firm stare, a promise, you let him hear the words.

“I’m coming home,”

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-Ahhh It’s Finally Here!!! I’m Not Kidding I Have Been Going Back & Forth With This One. Mostly Because I Had Writers Block, But Also Because I Would Change A Lot Things & Finding New Ideas To Replace The Old Ones.

-But Again! Thank You To Those Who Have Been Patient & Have Been Waiting For This Wheeler Fic! More To Come!!

-Lastly, Make Sure To Turn On Post Notifications!! 🔔 🔔 For More Updates!

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Part 2 << SOON

[jellyfishsthings]

Warnings: rough ummm yeah

For the military grumpy x grumpy situation in the beginning I had in mind that you are both in the military. Choose whichever branch you want (air force, navy etc.) You see each other all the time because you are in the same squad. You aren't friends exactly but there is some mutual respect.

Yet he always catches your eyes. Is he training for combat and his sweaty shirt clings to his body?

Of course you are looking at the practically see through shirt, admiring his abs.

Is he using his gun?

Well, look at how his hands flex.

Or is he carrying something while walking away?

His muscled back and sturdy shoulders need some attention don't you think ( hot take but this is the most attractive thing for a man, screw veiny arms). And well you get the point.

Now due to some kind of miracle you end up on a mission together, just the two you. But the stakes are high. You both know that there is a high possibility that you won't survive the following days. All the stress and tension ends up in...

You guessed it, a really hard fuck like it's the last time you will ever see each other. And I am talking against a wall, probably missionary because you want to see each other as you fear that soon one of you or both will be dead. Head banging in the wall and the sound of your skin slapping filling the room. You legs will be wrapped around his waist, your back resting in the wall and will everyone of his thrusts your body will move up and down.

But that is not enough. And he grabs your hips as leverage to bounce your body on his as much as possible.

Or... the needy sex you get when your military boyfriend is missing for a long time. Don't even get me started. Throwing you into the bed, grabbing handfuls of your body, trying to convince himself that you are real , that you are there with him and that you are not going anywhere, not letting you get out of your bed until you are both fucked out beyond recognition.

[threshergm]

ANNOUNCEMENT! I AM A PUBLISHED AUTHOR!

It only took me 22 years, but I'm finally a published author! I've been writing since I started with Halo fan fiction in the immediate wake of Halo: Combat Evolved, posting to the old HBO website. My writing style and interests have barely changed in that time, haha. But I am now finally published! I wrote a short story about the so-called E-4 Mafia; the corporals, specialists, and petty officers that make militaries past, present, and future actually function. It was included in the collection linked below. Henchman Press is a relatively new publisher, so please click the link, buy the collection, and leave a rating and review. Help put these guys on the map! https://a.co/d/4GBtpNp

[uwmspeccoll]

Steamy Saturday

"Flaring passions behind hospital doors."

". . . hospitals are sex-charged places full of the pressures of unfulfilled and unfulfillable yearnings. . . ."

". . . soldiers return bedridden . . . and women . . . were all too eager to supply what they missed."

". . . there are some who will read this book furtively, looking for the lurid passages."

". . . revealing the seamy side of hospital experiences."

". . . a dozen intertwined tales of love among the limbless."

Whoa, whoa, whoa!! What kind of steam is this?! Despite its lurid cover art with its inflammatory copy to entice readers, this pulp novel is not nearly as sordid as it is made out to be. But it is about the rehabilitation of soldiers disabled by war and the nurses who care for them. And, yes, there is some romance.

Ward 20 is by American military and Western writer James Warner Bellah (1899-1976). Despite writing for the pulps, a number of his stories were turned into films, such as John Ford's "Cavalry Trilogy," Fort Apache (1948), She Wore a Yellow Ribbon (1949), and Rio Grande (1950), and with Willis Goldbeck, Bellah wrote the screenplays for Sergeant Rutledge (1960) and The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (1962). Bellah himself was a veteran of both World Wars, leaving the service with the rank of Colonel. As a veteran, he wrote his military stories with authority, and Ward 20 was heralded for its stark authenticity.

Ward 20 was originally published in hardcover by Doubleday in 1946. Our copy is the first pulp-fiction edition published in New York by Popular Library in 1953.

View other nurse romance novels.

View other pulp fiction posts.

[thetruearchmagos]

Dunking On Some Fools

In Which I Whine About Star Wars, And Talk About Multi-Role Platforms (Mostly The Latter)

Yes, the none-awaited sequel to this post a few days ago has arrived! If no one reads this, I don't think I'd mind, but I am tagging @coffeexafterxmidnight since you asked and @theprissythumbelina because I vaguely recall you reacting positively to something star wars related a while ago.

Anyhow, more below the cut;

Now, the way I see it, a lot of the pro-LAAT arguments come from the perspective that using 'multi-role' vehicles, or 'platforms' to be technical, is inherently better than splitting those roles across multiple platforms in unison. These two comments, for example;

---

---

Now, I'm gonna start by saying that while I am a very big fan of most multi-role platforms (F-35 my beloved I never doubted you), I am of the opinion that the 'Low Altitude Assault Transport', or LAAT, is absolutely not a good example of one, and I'm here to explain why.

"Multi-Role' VS 'Multi-Form'

Basically, the way I see it is that it's a good idea to design one or a small number of platforms to be able to conduct a variety of missions as long as the ability to actually do that doesn't require making absolutely detrimental sacrifices in that platform's ability to fulfil its core functions.

Now, what does that look like?

This is a Nimitz-class nuclear powered aircraft carrier of the United States Navy, and in my opinion such platforms are an excellent example of what it means to be multi-mission right.

The base, structural form of aircraft carriers is basically a flat deck, a hangar beneath it, and all the engineering, navigational, and communications gear needed to make it go places and do things.

And what can an aircraft carrier do? Anything, depending on what you put on it.

Fight for and win air superiority? Launch fighters.

Bomb something? Send up some strike aircraft.

Hunt submarines? Sic anti-submarine helicopters on them.

And you don't even need to change the ship itself! There's not really a structural difference between a carrier that can 'do' air warfare VS one that can fight surface targets, and the same hold true in other domains. Modern missile cells on ships, or launch rails / bomb bays on aircraft, can store and fire many types of ordnance (if you've designed them to), allowing the platform with these systems to be easily re-tasked between various missions.

The exact opposite of this fortunate state of affairs can be seen when improving a platform's ability to do A actively weakens its ability to do B. This often happens when the structural components needed to carry out one task take up weight or volume while providing nothing to the platform's ability to do another.

Such as, say, having to have both a large transport compartment and all the lasers in the galaxy.

Where Does The LAAT Fit?

Now, to return to the vehicle that started all this.

I believe the LAAT is a flawed concept, and my proposition to replace it while retaining a similar level of 'orbit to surface assault' capability would be to divide the roles of 'fire support' and 'troop transport' between two separate platforms. Frankly, I'm more than a little sceptical of this whole doctrine to begin with, but I'm not gonna get into that.

The main problem here is weight. It shouldn't be controversial to say that in the air more than any other domain, weight is at an absolute premium, and speed is often your best protection. Just by stripping the basic hull of either the armament or the troop bay would give the resulting craft a good boost to speed or range, especially if you take the effort to make a more aerodynamic hull form. Alternatively, you could use the saved weight to cut back on thrusters / repulsors, or boost carrying capacity, armament (as if it isn't already armed enough), or shielding / armour.

A second point that I think is also relevant is that, by splitting these two conflicting missions and design requirements into different aircraft, you can now get away with adapting the new platforms into even more roles which their now non-contradictory frames might be better able to handle. The troop transport can also haul cargo or vehicles without wasting capacity on weapons, and on the flip side the gunship can carry out independent attack missions without subtracting from the transport fleet.

With these arguments made, though, I'd like to take some time to properly shoot the two YouTube commenters who started this right between the eyes. Their takes, I think, are dumb.

Take 1; 'Sequencing Bad, Actually'

Okay, well.

First of all, surely the idea of 'easily anticipated stages' applies equally to the approach best described as 'mass identical waves coming right at you'? Like, just using the LAAT is no less predictable the split idea? Military operations are always broken up into clearly defined stages for a reason, which brings me to my next point.

Let's say you send in the LAAT in your first, second, and third waves, as you'll need to because there's no way in hell you're getting a 'large' amount of troops down at once. The first wave will take the most fire since the defenders haven't been suppressed yet, and since the troop transports and gunships are the same, losing gunships while attempting to clear defences also condemns their passengers to dying with them.

Unless you mean to tell me you intend on dropping troops while the enemy's guns are pointing right at you. In which case, please watch Saving Private Ryan Opening Beach Scene on Holo-Tube.

On the other hand, breaking up the mission into discrete and sequential stages, and splitting attack and transport craft into separate roles, allows you to cut back on risk massively. Take the LAAT hull, leave the droops on ship, and replace all that weight with even more lasers (but preferably rockets or something), and now you have a craft for that 'first wave', which can hit defences with speed and firepower without risking a single ground trooper's life. Then, once and only once the Landing Zone is ready, you can send in the ground pounders to do their work.

Take 2; Muh Multi Role

Ah, screw me I guess.

Look, first of all, who the hell 'needs; to do so? Like, the video and commenter made a point of saying that there very much was no need to slap weapons on the blackhawk or Mi-8, so what exactly are you trying to say??

Also, the point about multi-role fighters is so stupid it spawned this whole post. In the modern day, where the divide between ground attack and air combat capabilities are summed up quite well by 'stick the bloody weapon on a launch rail and chuck it from beyond the horizon', the structural concessions you need to support both roles are much lower than having to accomodate, I don't know, a vacuum pressurised passenger compartment, and a absolute crap ton of lasers. So, yeah! You can't compare the two!

And with that... I don't feel like trawling through the video for more dumb takes. So, Arch out.

[lgbtqreads]

Fave Five: Queer Historical Military Fiction

In Memoriam by Alice Winn Regeneration by Pat Barker As Meat Loves Salt by Maria McCann The Charioteer by Mary Renault The Night Watch by Sarah Waters

[notfcknsoryu]

THIS REST WAS EARNED

"Good morning Sister-231 Catherine" said Sister Eirnan as she sat down across the dining table from the hollow looking girl, "how are you settling in?"

Sister-231 Catherine didn't answer, nor did she take a bite from the plate of eggs, toast, and turkey bacon that sat before her. All the other girls had finished their breakfast almost half an hour ago, and Sister-231 Catherine was the only one left in the dining room.

Sister Eirnan sighed and stood up. Some of the retirees took longer than others to adapt to their new lives out of the service, and Sister-231 Catherine hadn't eaten a bite since she finished the ration pack she'd arrived with on the truck five days ago. It was time to try another tack.

"Sister-231 Catherine," she barked in clipped military patois, "you have lost 7 kilos since you arrived to this duty post! Eat your damn breakfast or I'll take take you off the duty roster so fast your fuckin head'll spin for the next three weeks! Do you understand?"

"Yes sir!" Sister-231 Catherine shouted in the strongest voice her hunger weakened body could muster, and she began to eat. She nibbled cautiously on her slice of toast, then moved onto the eggs. By the time she finished the eggs she was shoveling them into her mouth with gusto.

Sister Eirnan hated to speak to her retirees this way, it wasn't at all conducive to their recovery, but neither was ration starvation. This was probably the first time in three years that Sister-231 Catherine had eaten real food instead of ration paste, and Sister Eirnan took the opportunity to go into the hall to fetch a bucket.

She got back just in time, and shoved the bucket under Sister-231 Catherine's chin barely a second before the poor girl vomited up her breakfast. Sister Eirnan patted her on the back.

"There there, let it all out," she cooed softly, "You're okay, sweetie. You did well. It's hard at first."

Sister-231 Catherine stopped heaving, and Sister Eirnan wiped her mouth with a handkerchief she pulled from her pocket.

"I want to try again" said Sister-231 Catherine in her shakey voice, and Sister Eirnan smiled. She looked up, up at the symbol emblazoned on the cieling. The same symbol that was on the handkerchief she'd just tossed into the bucket: a fallen mech, its guns broken, its cockpit cracked open, birthing its pilot into a circle of women kneeling in benediction. Around this image was text, written in gold filagree; "THIS REST WAS EARNED".

A tear welled up in Sister Eirnan's eye. The girl would make it yet.

"Of course, honey. Let me make you another plate."

[runningmechafighterpantera]

WIP, Sketch

Military mecha system M1123A, Labor Model "Bulldog"

[odysseywritings]

Insignificant Bugs

@flashfictionfridayofficial

(Tw death, blood, organs)

Standard procedure: extermination.

It's easy to turn a man of God, of humanity, of love to kill when he has a gun pointing at an incoming target. Especially when it's not human.

The soldiers of the space age bombarded, shot, enslaved, defiled an alien race without a second thought. A collective catharsis to indulge in the primordial urge to make the strange vanish and to unite the honorable.

They were insects after all. Mere vermin to be gassed and to replace as a better master to utilize this world. Civilization and peace built from faceless corpses necessary to give the right people control over life. The celebration of blood brothers who risked death for each other in the heat of war and desires to return or create a home for their children to play atop forgotten funerals.

They were savages, mindless and violent. Distorted faces on posters and newscasts. No one needed further knowledge of their lives. How they communicated with fear of their ancestral homes being overtaken and ensuring their harmless young lived. The intricate underground tunnels generations in the making. Cooperating for the greater good even if one must die to protect many.

How under their frightening appearance they bore a heart. One that beat and throb like everyone else. One that kept moving despite hell inflicted on the body. One that forced men to confront the other end of a bullet's mission. Evidence of blood spilled for the sake of primitive safety and comfort for minds ill prepared for sober reflection as all other actions shot down and never again to fly under Heaven.

[shadows-on-the-sky]

Beach Head by Ensan Case

Beach Head is Ensan Case's (author of Wingmen) second novel. It was published in 1983 and has been out of print ever since, so I decided to digitize it to share with my fellow Wingmen fans.

There are some notable similarities between Beach Head and Wingmen, like their structure, the World War II setting and the realistic and slow burn style. However, the (mostly investigative) latter half of Beach Head takes place in the 1960s, and the story has American and Japanese characters. The plot is also much more complex, and there's also much more explicit violence. And while it doesn’t center its narrative around a gay romance like Wingmen, Beach Head has LGBT characters as well.

You can download Beach Head here.

If the link isn't working, or if you have any additional questions, don't hesitate to contact me!

For those who want to know a little more about the novel's plot, here's the (spoiler-ish!) back cover synopsis:

The sand and water were stained red, the beach littered with the bodies of young Marines he had just met. The screams of the wounded and dying rose above the sound of the gunfire.

It wasn't what Carl Randall expected when he left his job on the society pages to become the war correspondent for his father's San Francisco newspaper. When he left the smouldering ruins of Pearl Harbor, he still expected his role to be drinking and storytelling. Randall never imagined that the end of the war would find him stranded on a deserted Pacific island… or the key to a secret the government would never want revealed!

The nightmare of the war stayed with Randall. A generation after the Japanese surrender, it was about to become reality… again!

[alovelywaytospendanevening]

She dreams. The smell of the place is present even in her dreams. The rice paddies, so benign in appearance from the air, reek with the stench of mud, decaying vegetation and fertilizer dung. The Marines tramp through the boot-clinging muck, sloshing and splashing, wet up to the knees, tired and miserable. It is her first, and last, patrol. The officers refer to it by various means: armed reconnaissance, intelligence gathering, routine incursion. But to the men it is simply patrol. They have been on patrol for twelve enervating hours, and it is nearly over. But something terrible is lurking up ahead. She knows this, but in her dream can do nothing about it.

— Ensan Case, Beach Head (1983)

[casbooks]

Book 62 of 2024 (★★★★★)

Title: The Phantom Patrol Authors: James R. Benn

Series: 19 of Billy Boyle WWII ISBN: 9781641295437 Rating: ★★★★★

Subject: Books.Fiction.Military.WW2.James Benn, Books.Military.20th-21st Century.WW2.Fiction.James Benn

Description: An investigation into a gang of Nazi-affiliated art thieves leads Billy Boyle and his comrades directly into the line of fire at the catastrophic Battle of the Bulge. Winter 1944: Months after the Liberation of France, ex-Boston cop Billy Boyle finds himself in a Paris reeling from the carnage it has endured but hopeful that an end to war is in sight. When Billy finds a rare piece of artwork after a tense shoot-out in the Père Lachaise Cemetery, he thinks it could be connected to the Syndicat du Renard, a shadowy network of Nazi sympathizers known to be smuggling stolen artwork out of France. Trailing the Syndicat, Billy discovers that someone with a high level of communications clearance—someone in the Phantom regiment of the British Army—may be using his position to aid the thieves. Billy, determined to stop the abettor, heads up to the frontlines where he experiences a last-ditch battle against overwhelming odds. There, the ruinous Battle of the Bulge unfurls in the Ardennes Forest. Can Billy and his team survive the bracing onslaught and return the stolen artwork to its rightful protectors?

My Review: Yet another great Billy Boyle book!

I'm always delighted to see who he brings into each story and this one had such a fascinating mix of characters that kept popping up!

The case this time was a little bit of a swirling ball of confusion at times, and when it felt like it went off the rails, or tacked on, or even had a bit of a deus ex machina weirdness to it, Benn was able to really find a way to make it work into the whole overarching narrative. It was also really nice to see dead ends in the case, things that seemed major turning into something minor/inconsequential. Authors rarely due this for brevity's sake and yet it's really what investigators spend most of their time on!

One thing that Benn does really well is convey the feelings and emotional toll incidents have on a single subject and wide spread. Previously broaching the topics of the Holocaust and the Katyn Forest massacre, this book once again shows the horrors of the Holocaust in a new way, as well as torturing Boyle with more and more of the worst historical experiences the war had to offer.

For those familiar with the war, there are certain names - people and places - that are mentioned throughout the book that foreshadow the later chapters events. And while you may know what is coming, trust that Benn does a great job covering them and their importance.

Overall, it was a great read, with a great cast of characters, a lot of different places, scenes, and events. The case wasn't the best, but it fit the overall narrative in an interesting way, and there are some real gut wrenching moments that hit pretty hard - everything you want in a book like this!

[hoppinghare08]

I don't feel like there's enough love for the book, Rainbow Six

Never even played the game lolol

[lightdancer1]

This also applies to one of the most basic tropes separating military fiction from military reality:

Now granted, at the start, there is always the reality that a story is a story and reality is reality. Real life differs from fiction in all kinds of ways and just as it's perfectly acceptable to portray a medieval past without reliance on a historically accurate dung-filled literal shithole unless you're doing a Monty Python movie, there are good and cogent reasons why these factors of real wars tend to be left out.

Yet, and I admit to a bias here because it's how I write my own stories, I believe that aspects of this can enhance a war story told in another fashion while not bogging down the narrative.

The most obvious factor is that war stories, most often because writers do not bother to really read into how real wars are fought, neglect logistics entirely. In reality real wars are almost entirely matters of logistics, which shape what actually happens in a battle or a campaign. It is this side of real wars that is almost invisible in war stories because unless you've got a Good Soldier Svjek style approach it's rather boring to write some REMF making sure the armies are fed, equipped, clothed, or to get into the kind of detailed aspects that account for what gives higher officers their actual ranks.

In reality generalship really is an artform requiring a person to blend multiple skills at once, only some of which are military. Bullshitting and political aspects are very important aspects to a point that generals that pretend they can ignore them are forgotten and the ones that are remembered excel at them. But fiction will show you a general pulling an Albert Sidney Johnston and acting like an overranked sergeant and seldom shows you the general getting killed like the actual people who did that tended to do.

The second is the factor of friction/fog/confusion, aka Murphy's Law in military uniform. Anything that can and will go wrong always does in the most grimly hilarious ways possible, people do not have perfect information about what's happening and the misunderstandings can have a gallows humor all their very own. This factor is left out of fictional wars not because it's not dramatic, but because people like their wars with superheroic wunderkinder who always know what's on the other side of the hill, where in reality the wunderkinder was a lucky son of a bitch and the other side was taking a shit break and he timed the attack right when they were crapping.

And the third and especially blunt factor is that no matter the era war is long elements of boredom (with all the havoc that can happen with armed people trained to kill) interspersed with deadly peril. Whether or not it's face to face with the more visceral aspects or the indirect and impersonal horror of a modern battlefield, actual peril is a relatively small, if extremely memorable, part of military life. Fiction, of course, really leaves this bit out unless it's the rare (these days) military comedy where this is the primary setting.

This is by no means stating that stories should mirror reality. There are entirely cogent reasons why they don't, but this is also why it's very hard to do a truly antiwar film because films almost always leave the boring and ugly parts out, and the result makes war look ten times more glamorous than it is.

The extra factor is that almost any kind of story you can think of will have these points where they fiddle with reality for the sake of the story. The task of a good writer is to deal with this very truthful problem for all writers and make the story so good the readers never really notice all the bits fudged for the sake of the craft.

[out-of-context-fanfics]

"the US Air Force's Early warning and control aircraft Operators had quite a shock when they see a swarm of Type 022 flying through the air. "

——Unmanned Swarms: type 022 tactical vessel, armed with 48 Cruise missiles with the range of 300 kilometers by Xiaoyingping

This is from one among a series of well thought out what if naval vessels which I would recommend if you can read Chinese or has a good translator and doesn't mind the political view, and when I read that sentence I legit loled.

[silverslipstream]

Executive Decisions

Two hundred miles west of the Soviet city of Orel, four participants of the apocalypse were making a habit of ignoring each other. 

Other crews of nuclear-armed B-52 Stratofortresses had a brotherly camaraderie, a resolute sense of duty, or at the very least a morbid kind of cordiality. It was a natural consequence of holding Armageddon aloft day in, day out. On board this plane, however, the occupants appeared to have ignored most of that nature. Silence seemed to fester in the fuselage’s spartan shadows. Fulton, the pilot, had received the go-ahead to drop their precious cargo a scant fifteen minutes ago, and had not spoken to the others since. 

The cargo itself sat behind the wall of the crew compartment, nestled securely in the bomb bay. The four men working in the crew compartment made a point of not looking at the wall. They had a job to do and orders to follow. 

After a moment, a voice broke through the tinny crackling of the aircraft’s communications unit and the muffled whine of the Stratofortress's engines. 

“Second attempt at hailing Travis is down. Vandenburg and Edwards aren’t responding. Spokane, Detroit and Seattle are FUBAR,” said Hayes, the electronics officer. His broad Californian accent slowed his vowels, a relic of the surfer culture he’d grown up in. Sweat inundated his wispy ginger moustache. He spun in his chair to face Carsen, the aircraft commander. 

“Sir, what do we do? I can’t receive further instruct—” 

“The orders were clear,” Gilroy, the navigator, drawled superciliously. “The Russkies got the drop on us. Sure. Now we,” he waved an arm in the direction of the bomb bay, “get the drop on them. Simple.” 

Carsen raised an eyebrow at the thickset Texan, who simply glared back. 

“We have no way of knowing if our target has been changed,” replied Carsen, enunciating his words slowly and carefully. “Therefore, we must proceed under our original objective.” 

Gilroy nodded with a barely concealed grin and turned back to his console. Hayes looked slightly punch-drunk. 

“But, sir, if we don’t have communications from base, surely we could—” 

The young man hesitated over his words, his brown eyes flickering around the cabin. 

“—we could, you know, withhold the payload—” 

He was immediately cut off by an anguished curse from Gilroy, who had burst out of his seat and was now jabbing his fingers in Hayes’ face. 

“You shut your goddamn trap right now, Gingersnap. Shut the fuck up. The commies nuked us. They hit American soil. Those are American corpses, burning in the streets.” 

Carsen opened his mouth to intervene, cringing at the brutal imagery, but Gilroy held up a callused, exertion-reddened palm before continuing. 

“The whole point of your job, Hayes, is to strike back. If Americans are gonna live under the shadow of a mushroom cloud, I’m gonna make sure every damn Russian on the planet sees the same thing.” 

“We don’t have to—” 

Gilroy sprang into action, grabbing Hayes by the shoulders and leaning in until their foreheads were almost touching. The Texan’s chest heaved. A red pallor, like the colour of raw beef, spread across his face. His eyes were bloodshot at the corners, and the whites were a putrid-looking pale yellow.  

“You fucking traitor! You college-boy asshole! I was on the beaches in Cuba while you were still buttoning your—” 

“Sergeant Gilroy, that is enough!” Carsen bellowed, grabbing him by the shoulder and wrenching him backward. “You are a member of the United States Air Force, and it would do you well to act like it. Now sit. Back. Down.” 

He levelled a withering glance at Hayes. 

“We did not come all this way to suddenly develop a conscience, Corporal Hayes. Our duty is to America, and our orders are clear.”  

Sufficiently cowed, Hayes nodded hastily and turned back to his station. 

There were a few more minutes of deafening silence. By now, the city of Orel was visible from the windows, peeking through scarce wisps of cloud under the late-afternoon sun. 

“It looks like Oakland from up here,” said Hayes to nobody in particular, and Carsen felt a pang of guilt, as well as a deeper twist of shame. He looked through the window. Hayes was right; from the air it looked like any American city. High-rises, schools, a river winding its way through the urban sprawl like a deep blue string. A church of elegant redbrick stood on the embankment; a stone cross stood dozens of feet high in its courtyard, almost equalling the church’s own roof. 

“Spare the bomb.” 

The words felt foreign on his lips. Hayes turned towards him in shock. 

“I’m sorry, sir?” 

“I said, spare the bomb. There will be more anguish in the world today, but I want no part of it. My duty is to America, but my pledge is to God, and I will not send Russians to heaven knowing I will be weighted down to hell.” 

He looked around the compartment. Hayes was staring at him, awed. Gilroy was studiously inspecting his console, not daring to look either of the other men in the eye. Carsen felt liberated, in a way. It was an odd sensation to have during of the end of the world, refusing your duty for your conscience, but despite that— 

“Drop zone reached. Releasing payload,” came the sibilant hiss of Fulton’s voice over the intercom. For a moment, nobody moved, spoke or thought. It was as if the bomb had gone off next to them and they were frozen, the first frame of a grisly slide.  

The bay doors whooshed open behind them, filling the cramped space with the rushing sound of buffeted wind. Squinting through the window as the B-52 banked away from Orel, Carsen thought he could see a tiny silver glint in the air, descending to Earth.