PFC Hoskins (was RE: Berets and other head varients.)

>
>>>"knowledge is power."
>
>Pfc Hoskins said nothing,  he was dead, more interested in comfort than
>knowledge he died unaware of what killed him, lying on top of a helmet
that
>would have told him about the patrols' manuevring first. 
>
>Tom Hughes
>>>The deadliest weapon is knowledge

The reason he was using his helmet as a seat was a logistical one.
Logistics is hellish on any Terrestrial Campaign, much less on an
interstellar scale. If the Hapless PFC had been properly supplied, yes,
he would not have taken it in the shorts. That, and the fact that field
discipline was lacking, maybe. My point was if you rely on information
from high tech sources you may be let down, especially in the 'gritty'
future as I see it. My vision owes more to Jerry Pournelle's CO-DO
stuff, Forlorn Hope, or other 'back to basics' military SF, than
unlimited ammo fests of ridiculous 'pseudohigh-tech' P.S.B.-tron guns
guided by the Omniscient 2000 super spy-o-comp. But hey, that's my
opinion.

(BTW, Hoskins ain't dead, folks like Hoskins rarely get what they
deserve, more's the pity.....)

Private Hoskins moaned and shuddered on the stretcher in the casevac (at
least the VTOL fans were replaced last shuttle run). Two other of his
squadmates were here, battered and bleeding, and the El-Tee was sunning
himself, sans the upper third of his cranium back in the veldt-grass
under the spreading pseudo-mesquites. Hoskins could barely bubble up red
arterial blood seemingly in time to the throb of the VecFan engines,
luckily for him the Bird he was in was a sturdy Lockheed/MiG 3027, built
like a tank and reliable as a bull-ox. The '27 circled over Forward Base
McCarthy, home of the "Fighting Forty-Five" commonly known amongst the
other formations as the Forlorn 45's. Settling in a plume of dust,
Hoskins was processed and sent into peaceful oblivion with a quick shot
from a spray hypo.

Hoskins began to wonder where they had managed to find the space for
brass band and a top-fuel dragster in his throbbing head. The buzz of
painkillers mixed with the 'badger-in-a-microwave' screech and
pop-squeal of forced regen-equipment created a fuzzy, hellish distance
from his battered body. Doctors and MedTechs came and went, saying
cryptic things like....

	"Vatgrown replacement colon..."
	"Had to have ricochetted....."
	"Million to one odds...."
	"Lucky S.O.B. must have been sitting on his helmet..."
>