Chapter two: the sergeant
"Damn it's cold."
"Oh shut up, you've been saying that ever since we got here."
"But it is."
"Yes private Einstein, we've established that it's cold. It's Alaska, it's supposed to be cold," said Johnson, wrapping his flimsy military issue coat even tighter around his freezing body.
The two men sat around a weakly burning campfire, shivering and teasing each other. Talking was the only thing that kept most of the soldiers sane, so even when there was nothing to talk about, they came up with something.
"Look sharp you two, it's your day for k.p. and the men need lunch," said sergeant McClellan.
"Alright we're going," moaned the privates.
"That means now."
"Yes sir," they said blandly.
Sergeant McClellan was a man who deserved respect, and always got it. His men would probably follow him off a cliff if he asked them to, due to their sheer awe of his character and leadership skills. He was a witty man, who seemed to speak the right words always at the right time. quick on his feet, the sergeant had gotten his company out of more scrapes than they could count, and the only reason he hadn't been promoted was because of Uncle Sam's lack of observance and willingness to give him high priority missions. if the U.S government knew what this man was made of, he could do America a great service. Until then, he would continue to lead bravo company in combat on the most vicious battlefield of the war, Alaska.
Having been receiving reports, orders, and forms all day from command, McClellan was exhausted. When he was exhausted, there were ordinarily only two things that would sooth him. Whiskey and hearing jokes. Considering that whisky was not distributed by the U.S. government, McClellan had to settle for humor, and there was one place he knew he could get that.
"Ten hut!" one of the troops shouted upon seeing the sergeant enter the rec. tent.
McClellan surveyed the card game going on, and instead of telling his men to be at ease, like usual, he demanded, "who's cards are these?"
"Mine sir," timidly replied a corporal, surprised to see him looking so angry.
"So maybe you can answer a question for me corporal," his voice laced with a cold anger. "Are you really that bad at poker? Wow Pete, you've lost like ten desserts, if would have figured that if you own the cards you might actually be a decent poker player."
Immediately the group let out a collective breath. Realizing that he was messing with them, they cheerily invited him to join the game, and he obliged happily. Soon the men were cracking jokes and betting meals; trying to stay sane in the hellish world of war.
"Hey wanna' hear a joke?"
"Sure."
"Communism."
The men laughed, and started another round of poker.
"Hey, how many soviets does it take to screw in a ligh-?"
The sound of gunfire drowned out the end of the joke.
"Move!" shouted McClellan, "everyone find some cover!"
The men bolted out of the tent, grabbing their rifles and alerting the other troops. Soviets were coming over the hill near the camp and McClellan could hear the crack of machine gun fire and the bullets hitting the ground. Taking cover behind a sandbag wall at the edge of the camp, he assessed the situation. Organizing his company, the sergeant began to push the soviets back, and sent several squads around to flank them. A bullet whistled by his ear as he shouted commands to his troops. He had been inches from death so many times in the last couple minutes that it didn't even feel real. Ultimately these near death experiences would not phase him until his body stopped pumping adrenaline.
Finally, after twenty minutes of brutal combat, in which the sergeant lost two men and sustained five casualties, his company forced the enemy into a retreat. When the soviets were gone, McClellan ordered that the fallen Russian soldiers be stripped of their weapons and anything else useful they were carrying.
"Johnson, check that one," said McClellan.
As private Johnson began to search a Russian body, it sprang into action. In less than a second, the soldier pulled a knife from his ankle and stabbed the private in the leg. Screaming in pain, Johnson shot his already wounded assailant repeatedly with his machine gun, until blood covered both of them. The sergeant began to apply pressure on the wound, and suddenly realized how serious it was.
"You're going to make it soldier," McClellan said, in his most convincing voice, but Johnson knew. The blade had pierced his femoral artery, and McClellan could feel gushes of blood pushing against his hand like water from a faucet.
"It was an honor serving sir," the man coughed, before laying dead in a pool of blood. The sergeant was racked with pain, but was so numb from battle that he just sat there frozen. He reminded himself that he had to stay strong for his men, and attempted to steel himself against the misery of the recent loss. A single tear fell from his face, turning to ice as it hit the ground.
--- if you're still following, make sure to check out the third chapter and vote in it's poll, linked here topic73817.html ---
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