Advance

MAY 5TH, 2009
10:00 AM

The 1st Infantry set out to march the long read towards Molotov Heights. They lacked sufficient motorized transport, so they were forced to live up to their name, slogging it through the steaming, sweltering jungle and the poorly marked, muddy roads on foot, leading to blisters, fungus and fatigue. The most unromantic portion of the war was not the fighting, the killing or even the climate; it was the marching.

Groggy marched at the head of his column, refusing to borrow a jeep from the brigade commander while his men lacked motorized transport. With him was the ever-present Captain Harriman, while Lieutenant-Colonel Starbuck came directly behind with his battalion. They marched in perfect column formation on what roads they could, following the guidance of Lieutenant Emma and her detachment of Palacian partisans.

At 11:00 AM, after an early morning let up, the heavy tropical rain resume. With no shelter aside from their helmets and light tropical coats, the troops suffered miserably in the pelting rain and sweltering heat. The only consolation they had was that there were; but there were other dangers along the road to contend with.

A young Private Owen became a casualty early in the march. A member of B Company, he was marching along the road when a large Fer-de-lance appeared, clamping its jaws down on his right foot. Lieutenant Ackt, his face now scarred from his phosphorescent encounter, quickly slew the serpent, cutting off its head and bagging it for future use as a meal. Private Owen was taken to the rear, but an hour later the command learned he had died from his injury - a most inglorious and painful end, and one that none of the command hoped for.

By 1:00 PM, the regiment reached a small clearing outside of the main jungle. Groggy ordered the regiment to break for an hour's rest. Ordinarily this would have been unmilitary sloth, but after three hours of marching through the green hell of the Palacian jungle, his command sorely needed it.

As they rested, rubbing their feet, trying to stomach Ackatsis' Fer-de-lance gumbo, and seeking shelter from the constant rain showers, they saw the 71st New York marching through. Colonel Ackatsis drove by first in a jeep, and Groggy caught sight of him just long enough for his old nemesis to shoot him an evil glare. Groggy archly saluted as the Colonel drove past.

The men of the 71st smirked contemptuously as they marched by Groggy's exhausted troopers. Though hampered by the same lack of transport as the 1st, they had found a much easier road through the jungle and lacked the exhaustion that plagued their colleagues. "Look at the volunteers, boys!" a burly Corporal shouted. "All tuckered out! Maybe we should give them some sleeping bags and marshmallows for their campfire!"

Nirvana Naslund, the eternal troublemaker, rushed forward wielding his knife. "Tough talk coming from a bunch of pussy weekend warriors!" he shouted.

The Corporal suddenly stepped out of line. "What did you say, punk?" he grunted.

"You heard me, prick," Naslund hissed. "What's your slogan, one weekend a month, or some bullshit? You're really tough, ain't you, blogging and taking out the garbage between light exercise."

"You're only in the Army for the fighting, you sorry sack of shit!" the Corporal roared, his dander clearly up. "You're too busy robbing conveniece stores to serve your country."

"At least I work for a living, you sorry blue-blood sack of shit," Naslund continued, hitting the Corporal in - the aristocratic history of the 71st as a regiment for the rich, famous and well-thought-of.

Sufficiently egged on, the Corporal rushed forward, fists balled. "Put your money where your mouth is, gutter trash!" he roared. Naslund simply smiled and flashed his knife.

Before any pucnhes could be thrown or blood shed, two of the Corporal's colleagues rushed forward to restrain him. Similarly, Bunsher and Gordon Sumner happened to be nearby, and grabbed Naslund's arms.

After a moment, the Corporal ceased struggling. "You peckerwoods aren't worth it," he sneered. Then he marched back to rejoin his company.

"Tell your Colonel that Groggy Dundee fucked his daughter!" Naslund shouted after the Corporal, laughing as the 71st continued its march into the jungle. The men of the 1st burst out in raucous laughter, and some flipping of birds and mooning did occur before the 71st finally disappeared into the mountain mists.

The officers, too, overheard Naslund's ballsy remark. Captain Harriman smiled when she heard it, but Groggy's face went wide with horror. He really hoped the Corporal didn't.

4:00 PM

Finally, after another two hours of marching, the regiment reached the Nasos Heights. They had suffered even more along the way - another soldier had fallen victim to snakebite, a Private in D Company had somehow fallen into a bottomless bog, and mosquitos and flies incessantly bit and tore at the soldiers' flesh. There was an ever-present fear of malaria, yellow fever, and even worse diseases throughout the command.

Groggy assembled Captain Harriman and his three battalion commanders. "There they are, gentlemen - and lady," he said, pointing airly at a smudge of heights becoming visible behind a receding fog bank.

"The Molotov Heights," he said. "The cream of the Russian Army is there waiting for us, behind mortars and machine guns and artillery and God knows what else. That is where victory and glory lie."

The ever-present Jim Tate rushed forward, struggling to frame the far-off heights with his eye phones. "Beautiful," he uttered, looking at the image on his screen. He then turned to Colonel Dundee, assuming his faux-officious reporter's air.

"Are your men ready for the final throw-down with the Russian Army?" he asked.

Groggy looked at the young reporter with a mixture of contempt and exhaustion. "We'll be ready when we get through this damned jungle," he uttered tersely. Hanging on the Colonel's every inconsequential word, Tate struggled to enter this into his phone, but at this inopportune time, his battery died. Swearing, he skulked off to the rear.

"Half-hour rest for supper," Groggy ordered. "We need to be in the valley and link up with the rest of the brigade by nightfall." He then dismissed his officers with a salute, looking airily at the foreboding heights in the distance. There, before him, lie the path to true glory, redemption, and victory.