Disclaimer: The entirety of the research involved in writing this post comes from a mish-mash of all the war video games I have played over the last few years. So don't expect it to make a whole lot of sense. Fighting Germans in the jungle? Why not? I am also aware of the intense focus exhibited by a well-trained soldier. This, I would not be. I imagine it'd be like in the video games, where my character spends most of his time bumping into walls, tripping over logs and trying to find his grenades. Getting shot also takes up a good deal of my time, but at least in video games, all you have to do is rest up a little. Who knew you could cure existing gunshot wounds by simply not incurring any new ones?
In the hundred-and-eight degree jungle, the heat was nearly anthropomorphic in its unrelenting hostility. Only another member of the human race would know what buttons to press, which weaknesses to expoit; how to be so perfectly unpleasant. The sandy rattle of semi-automatic rifle fire and the relentless mosquitoes churned the air into a eddying pool of exquisite hatefulness.
"Sweatin' like a fuckin' giraffe over here," muttered Pvt. Jake Toboggan. He lay flat on his back in the trench, staring up into the hazy afternoon sky, balancing his M1 Garand rifle, barrel down, on the palm of his hand. "When do we get that ice cream you promised us?"
Major General Whack Buffalo glared over his shoulder at the private. "You'll get your goddamn ice cream whenever I jolly the damn well fucking damn say you get it! Damn!"
The Major was a big angry man. He always had been. That's why he had those stripes and was the only one Central Command allowed to carry the big box of C4.
"Now sit the shit still, soldiers! Fuck it sideways, Toboggan, would you fix yer puking gig line! Zip your goddamn fly, son, or your goddamn bayonet'll fall the damn out! Jesus Christ!"
Private Toboggan put down the grenades he was juggling and zipped his fly. He didn't bother lining up all his buttons. Most of them were missing anyway.
"Hey. I, uh, can't find my Browning. You seen it?" asked Randy Sourhill. Randy was the worst sniper in the world, and Jake's best friend.
"You were using it to shoot at those beetles about half a mile back. What'd you do with it after that?" said Jake.
"Holy dancing whores! Would you two fucktards shut the dick up? You want Jerry to find us down here? Balls!" Major General Buffalo screamed. Brightly colored birds took startled flight for miles around.
The Major General was mad. The company could tell because of the way he kept eating C4 by the handful.
"No, I meant my little chocolate cakes. Brownies, I guess. I always get those two mixed up. I have my pistol gun thing right here," Randy whispered, patting his cargo pants. Suddenly there was a sharp crack and a flash of light from Randy's thigh.
"You really shouldn't keep it cocked," advised Jake, handing him a roll of tactical duct tape. "This should stop the bleeding."
"Fuckitty damn damn balls!" screamed the Major. "Cockin' yer gun, boy? Jesus Bob Christ!" He pulled a dirty magazine out of his pack, ogled it furiously for three seconds, then punched a hole in the earthen wall of the trench.
A Focke-Wulf droned by overhead.
"Germans! Aw, crap, man, right there! Take 'em down! Americaaaaaa!" Jake and Randy both emptied an M1 clip at the plane. When the hammer clicked on an empty chamber, Randy threw his gun at the aircraft and fished a beer out of his flak jacket.
"Time to celebrate!" he said. He popped the cap, and stood up. "To the Allies!" he said, and got shot in the shoulder.
"Ow."
"Dropped your beer," Jake said, pointing.
"Rusty ass-varnish!" thundered Major Buffalo. "Fer chrissake boy, quit getting shot! We're gonna flank the fuck outta that machine gun nest and we need you to stop the damn shit rabbit fuck chocolate--!"
At this point, the Major became too enraged to see straight, so the chaplain had to lead him by the hand so he could in turn lead the charge. The Whoop of Victory tore from the throats of Cheddar Squad, as they broke cover and fanned out.
"Holy shit! These guys have guns! Nobody said they'd have guns!" Jake screamed, dodging machine gun fire and flying debris. "This is totally not fair!"
Limping and grasping his shoulder, Randy followed close behind. "Let's see if we can get behind that hill. I can take out that gun emplacement. Cover me?"
"Hell no! Didn't you just hear me? Jerry has guns!"
"Bah fuckitty cunt a ding dong!" howled the Major General. He skidded to a halt and wrenched the bumper off an infantry transport truck. Holding it like a Samurai sword, he charged a line of German infantry. He detonated a smoke grenade, and was lost from view. Metallic bonging noises and German curses drifted out of the cloud.
"Hope the Major don't get shot," Jake muttered, throwing himself behind the hill. Bullets pelted the dirt and mud on the other side. "Hey, a Snickers wrapper! What's this doing here?"
"Okay. Jake, keep an eye out for guys in the trees. See that gunner in the pillbox over there?"
"Roger."
"Whatever his name is, that cracker's gettin' broke."
Randy went prone. He opened the case and extracted his gun's stock, action, scope and barrel and began to quickly assemble them.
"Is that a Springfield M1903A4?" Jake asked, tucking the Snickers wapper under his helmet.
"Only the finest!" squealed Randy, happily twisting the screw on a hose clamp.
"I, uh, didn't know they came apart like that."
"They do. This thing was a bitch to disassemble, though. I had to use a hacksaw. Hand me that C-clamp, wouldja?"
Randy mounted his gun on a tripod and took a deep breath. He squinted into the glass eye of his scope. He took the cap off the end and tried again. He slowly let his held breath escape in a carefully measured--
"What the hell!?" The Springfield toppled off the tripod and into the mud as nearby gunfire startled the hapless sniper.
"Oh, sorry. Saw a parrot," grinned Jake, re-holstering his Browning.
"Did you get him?"
Jake's grin melted like wax lips on the sun-washed hood of a Willys Jeep. "No."
"Hey man, don't cry. Maybe we can shoot at some monkeys when we're done here. Remember when we were back in Japan and you shot that lizard?"
"That wasn't in Japan," sniffed Jake.
"Wasn't it? Oh. Well. Still."
Randy re-mounted his rifle and took careful aim. He centered on his target, then moved slightly up and to the right to compensate for wind and distance. He slowly squeezed the trigger. The Springfield spat a brief burst of flame from its muzzle and the scope fell off.
"Ow! Hey, what the fuck?" A dismayed cry from Cheddar Company.
"Oh, geez. Sorry Gerard!"
"You shot me in the ass, Sourhill! Goddammit, that's the second time today!"
"Totally uncalled for, man! I said I was sorry!"
Jake stealthily pulled the pin on a grenade. "Look. A turtle."
...to be continued!
