Being a mobian of the furred persuasion, I really hated the fact that humvees lacked proper air conditioning. Seriously, if the government could afford to give itself a raise every two months, why not spare some cash to outfit the military with at least a way to minimize risk of Marine heat stroke?
Well, as I said before, the humvee was unbearably hot, since the AC had broken the day before. Being in the open was hot enough in the Afgani desert, but being in a locked in a metal box with four other grown men while wearing forty pounds of gear made the experience even more hot.

I casually looked at my four other squadmates, who no doubt shared my thoughts. All of them were humans, and judging from their accents, were mainly from New York and New Hampshire. Yeah, I didn't really talk much to anyone beyond calling "frag out," "changing mag," and "suppressing fire." I wasn't antisocial by any means, but I only met these guys the week before. I am glad that the Marine Corps desegregated mobians from humans, but did they have to forcibly shuffle us around until we had an even mix? Oh, well. I supposed I would warm up to the new faces eventually.

I looked out the window towards the surrounding desert: rocks, cacti, and sand were the only things to see. Off in the distance I could see mountains, dotted with patches of green that I assumed to be trees. Ah, what would I have given for some proper tree shade, a cold canteen, and a meatloaf MRE right then!

KRAKBOOM

The world suddenly flipped upside-down as I felt my jaw slam into my lip and head connect with metal ceiling. Thank God for helmets, else I probably would have died at that moment. The humvee landed with a loud *thud*, and everything went black.

"Sergeant! Stay with me, buddy! Just a few...more...got it!" I felt someone grab my elbows and pull hard. I then felt myself being pulled up and over what I assumed to be what was left of the humvee and finally rested on solid ground. "You okay, Sergeant?" I opened my eyes and blinked twice. Kneeling by me was a dark brown mobian alligator. I looked at the patch on his arm: a lone silver bar.

"Yes," I coughed. I would have said "thanks", but the crack of gunfire cut off conversation.

"CONTACT, 45 DEGREES RIGHT!"

The gator went prone, rolled me onto my stomach, tossed me an M4, and started firing his sidearm. I looked around blearily; my glasses had fallen off, so everything seemed fuzzy. I knew I should have worn contact lenses; my brother Robert had always said it would make things much easier.
I could just make one of my comrades nearby; he was bleeding badly, but he was still returning fire to our attackers.
"What are y'all waitin' for?" the alligator said.

"I... I can't see properly," I coughed. "I had glasses on."

The reptilian lieutenant muttered a profanity and dove back into the wrecked humvee. He reappeared moments later with the M240B, which somehow survived the wreck. He threw it to me, pointing at a hill ninety yards away. "Pour it on 'em, Sergeant!" He ran to the wounded human on my left and began dragging him behind the wreck to safety.

I couldn't see the hill too well, but I aimed as best I could at the hilltop, pulled the trigger, and sprayed. I hear several shouts of "frag out!", accompanied by several explosions. But that didn't matter to me at the time: I simply held the trigger down.

CLICK

My heart froze when I saw that the ammo belt still had two feet of ammunition left: my weapon had jammed. Frantically, I pulled the charging handle to clear the jam. That was stuck, too. "Oh, piss all!" I shouted as a rolled for cover, return fire pinging all around me.

"Now what's up?" the lieutenant shouted over the noise as I ducked behind the Humvee's wreck with him and my injured comrade.

"My gun's jammed!" I shouted back. "And I'm out of ammo!"

"Now what do we do?" my human comrade yelled. "The radio's out, and I can't raise HQ! This Humvee won't stand for long!"

As suddenly as it had begun, the firing stopped. An eerie quiet settled on the desert plain, the only sounds being the deafening pulse in my ears and our collective ragged breathing. "Thank Christ," the human sighed.

Quietly, the gator searched his pockets and produced a pair of thick glasses. He then turned to me. "Here, Sergeant. They were my dad's, but you need 'em more than he does."

"Thanks, sir." I took the glasses and slid them onto my face. The world around me became much, *much* clearer than it had been for the past few minutes. I looked at the name patch on his vest: it simply read LANNIGAN in bold black lettering.

"You okay, Private Hunt?" Lannigan asked the human.

I looked at the human again, and this time I could clarly see his injury: his entire lower leg had been taken off, leaving a bloody stump. My stomach knotted.

"I'm fine, sir," said Hunt. "It's just a cut. It's just a cut."

Lannigan looked at me and mouthed *morphine*. I carefully pried the humvee passenger door ajar, and I began rummaging through the glove compartment. Not only did I find two medpacks, but I also found six MREs, a D-ration, three canteens, and a spare M9 magazine. I opened one of the medpacks, removed the morphine syringe, and handed it to Lannigan. I then heard Hunt hiss as the needle jabbed into his leg. "See that? The pain's going already. You're going to be fine, Private." He looked back to me again. "Sergeant," he said, pointing at the treasures I had gathered from the wreck. "Put all that in your pack. I'm going to dig out Patillo and Ramsey's dogtags." We exchanged positions, Lannigan now searching through the wreck while I knelt by Hunt.

As I finished packing what little supplies we had, my ears perked up at a distant metallic pop pop pop. "What was that?"

The lieutenant pulled himself from the wreckage, eyes widened considerably. "Mortar fire." He tucked what I assumed to be the dogtags in his pocket, hefted Private Hunt onto his shoulders, and picked up a rifle. "MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!" He began running toward a small ditch twenty yards away. I followed half a step behind.

Lieutenant Lannigan dove into the ditch with Hunt over his shoulders. I was able to follow when...

BOOOM!

A mortar landed right behind me, blowing me forward and into the ditch, landing right on top of Lannigan in a heap. "Sorry," I said, getting up off him. "Mortar nearly got me."

"It's alright, Sergeant," Lannigan said, as he set Private Hunt down. "Let's just focus on taking shelter."

"Where exactly would that be?" I asked. "It's not like we can just find a cave, and I seriously doubt we could hike thirty miles back to base."

Lannigan looked at me, and then at Hunt. "You wouldn't happen to have a map, would you?" he said as he checked Hunt again.

Thankfully, I did indeed have a map in my pocket. God always seems to provide, doesn't He? I fumbled through my left breast pocket and found the desired item. I unfolded it, smoothed out the creases, and then set it out. I pointed at a large red circle on the map. "HQ is the circle." I traced my finger on the map. "We're about there." I smiled, relieved. "Kabul's only fifteen miles north from here."

"Hunt? You okay, kid? Hunt? Hunt!" I looked up from the map and saw Lannigan trying to keep Hunt awake. "C'mon, don't die on us now!" Hunt didn't move a muscle: he sat, a limp corpse. "Fuck." He quietly removed Hunt's dogtags.

So Hunt was dead too. He'd been the closest I'd had to a friend in our squad; he'd always treated me with the utmost respect, even though we hardly spoke. I placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'll tell your family you loved them, old friend," I said quietly. I turned to Lieutenant Lannigan. "Do you think you can still carry him?"

Lannigan shook his head. "Carrying him will only slow us down. We'll have to leave him here."

"But he was a good soldier," I protested. "He deserves a decent burial, rather than just rotting in a ditch!"

"And do you have an e-tool in your pocket, too?" Lannigan snarled "I sure don't, and digging a grave is just going to waste our energy and dehydrate us faster." He held out Hunt's dogtags. "Getting these back to his folks is the best we can do for him."

I was appalled that we had to leave Hunt, but the lieutenant did have a point. I nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Don't call me that, Sergeant. You actually had to work for your rank: I just went to ROTC in college."

"Fair enough, Lieutenant." I unclipped the canteen from my belt and took a few sips. "So, do we find someplace to hide, or do we head straight for Kabul?"

"Straight for Kabul when it starts to get dark. We don't want the towelheads to catch us in the open in broad day. For now, we stay here."

I looked at my watch: it read 1400 hours, about seven hours before nightfall.

I settled myself down as comfortably as I could against the side of the ditch; this was going to be a very long wait. For two hours, we just sat there in silence, doing nothing at all. Then...

"Say, Sergeant," Lannigan said, making me start in surprise, "I never asked your name; nor have I told you mine." He held out his hand. "First Lieutenant Jeremy M. Lannigan; but you can call me Jerry."

I shook it. "Sergeant Thomas C. Holmes II, but most people just call me Tom or Thomas."

Jerry cocked an eyebrow. "Interesting accent you got there. New US citizen?"

I chuckled. "Well, yes. I emigrated from England to America a few years back."

"So, what are you doing in the USMC?" Jerry asked. "Problems at home, or did you want a change of scenery?"

"You could say problems at home, in a sense. Ever since the US, Israel, and Russia pulled out of the UN, things became strained amongst the family. I moved to the US to get away from all the arguments over political nonsense."

Jerry smiled. "I hear ya. But why the Marines? Of all the military branches you could choose from, why Marines?"

It was my turn to smile. "I figured they could use some more smart people, break the stereotype that Marines are stupid."

Jerry nodded. "Yeah, me too. My brother Jimmy, an Air Force brat, always had a certain disdain for Marines."

"Why is that?"

"Eh, I've chalked it up to that rivalry all military branches have. It's natural, I guess."

We didn't speak for another three hours, mainly because I accidentally took a nap while we waited for night. I guess the adrenaline in my system finally faded and told my body to crash. Jerry didn't seem to mind when he woke me up. "Sergeant, get up: we're moving out early."

I looked at the sky: the sun had just begun to set. I then checked the mag in my M4: I had a full mag of thirty rounds, in addition the other three mags strapped to my vest. "Why are we leaving?"

Jerry looked around suspiciously. "Hear that?"

I strained my ears. Being a cat, my hearing is about six times better than a human's hearing, and yet I heard nothing. "No..."

"Exactly. Let's move."

I glanced back at Hunt's corpse. I was still reluctant to leave him in this ditch. Jerry noticed this. "Sergeant, I'm really sorry we have to leave him. I assure you that, under different circumstances, I would agree that we can't leave him, but we have to report to HQ and burying him will only waste energy."

"I know, Jerry," I said absently. "It's just that; you know...?"

Jerry sighed. "Yes, I do know: 'A good soldier never leaves a man behind.' However, that rule only counts if the Marine in question is still alive. I know it's hard, but we have to go."

I took a deep breath. "Goodbye, comrade," I said, before turning away. "Alright, Lieutenant, let's move out."

So we walked north, toward Kabul. I'm glad we set out when the air began to cool down, else I may have suffered heat stroke. That's the problem with having darkish colored fur: not only does the fur keep in heat, the color actually attracts heat. Did I mention I was glad that we set out at night? I thought so. Anyway, while it was nice to be traveling without the oppressive daytime heat, hiking ten miles of hilly desert was still no picnic. At times, we had to move slowly as well: both Jerry and I knew rapid movement was a major cause of catching a sniper's eye.

Around 2300, we stopped. The moon shone brightly amongst the billions of stars above. It looked very peaceful indeed… until the silhouette of a helicopter squadron roared past the scene northward, toward Kabul. "'It is well war is terrible, else we should grow too fond of it.'"

I turned to Jerry, who was setting down our packs in preparation for a long night on guard. "Who said that?" I asked.

"General Robert E. Lee of Virginia, supreme commander of the Confederate Army. He was the greatest general of the American Civil War."

"The American Civil War?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "I've read about it. Wasn't it the war that was fought over slavery of black people? And was Abraham Lincoln the President at the time? Is that really why he's so famous?"

Jerry sighed contentedly as he sat down. "Well, it wasn't over slavery until the very last year of the war, when Lincoln needed to find a moral cause to boost the Union troops' morale." He patted the ground, motioning for me to sit. I complied. "No, the Civil War wasn't completely over slavery: it was over several different issues, mainly the issue of whether the states or the federal government had more power. Most of the South believed that as the people control the state governments, the states should control the federal government. Specifically, if the federal government oversteps the restrictions placed on it by the Constitution, then the states had the right to voluntarily secede from the Union as they had voluntarily joined. Mr. Lincoln disagreed with this view, so he called out the US Army to rein in the "rebel" states. This only succeeded in angering more Southern states into leaving the Union, and before Lincoln knew it, the country was literally split in two."

I was intrigued. "That's incredible! I never knew that."

Jerry chuckled. "There are many things about the United States you have no idea of."

"So do you think the Southern states had the right idea?" I asked tentatively. "I mean, judging by your accent, you're Southern, aren't you?"

"Technically yes," said Jerry. "I was born in Arizona, but I've lived most of my life in the great state of Georgia. And yes, I do think the South had the right idea, they just picked the wrong time to act." He yawned. "Heh, funny thing is that before the war, there were more anti-slavery groups in the South than there were in the North."

"Did not know that," I said. "What about during and after?"

"Well, the abolitionists up north switched from attacking the institution of slavery to attacking the South as a whole, which gave the pro-slavery and anti-slavery Southerners a common enemy. It's one thing to attack a morally reprehensible institution, but to condemn a whole region because five percent of the population takes part in it is a whole different ball game."

"I can agree on that," I said, nodding. "I guess the abolitionists got rather extremist in their determination to get rid of slavery. I am totally against slavery, but if what you say is true, then the Union is just as guilty for the war as the Confederacy is."

Jerry nodded. "Indeed. The American Civil War is the bloodiest convict in American conflict; 600,000 dead and most of the South's infrastructure destroyed after 4 years. It would be many years before America fully recovered."

"How long did it take the South to recover?" I asked.

"Let's see...about forty years, give or take. We still feel some of the scars, especially from Union General Sherman's sacking of Georgia. The only city he came across that he didn't burn down was Savannah. I thank God he didn't, because that is where I spent most of my childhood." He yawned again. "Ah, good old Savannah. Tell you what, next time we get leave, would you like a look around the place? Maybe a couple drinks down at the Churchhill's Pub?"

"Um, sure thing," I replied, not knowing what else to say.

"Which state *did* you move to?" he suddenly asked. "After you left Britain?"

"Well, what if my family in dispute, I decided to go to Florida to relax and unwind for a bit. However, my stay there didn't last long; the heat took to me. I live in Hampton, Massachusetts these days: the climate's much more agreeable. Heh, Sometimes, I wonder whether I should dye my fur a lighter colour; then it wouldn't trap so much heat. I even once suggested it to my parents, but they didn't like that idea. They always insist I continue to be a spitting image of my dad."

"Who are your parents?"

"They are Sir Thomas Holmes Senior and Lady Mary Holmes, nee Smith. My father is one of the greatest agents Britain has ever had; he works for the Special Air Service and MI6. He is a brave and willful man and has never let our nation down. I am quite proud to be his son, you know."

"Is your mother a spy?"

"No. She used to be a Royal Marine, but now she does freelance mercenary work; last I heard, she was performing some security detail in Azerbaijan."

"Interesting. Anyone else?"

"I have two older siblings; a brother and sister, named Robert and Sophia."

"What do they do?"

I screwed my eyes upward in concentration."Let's see… Sophia's currently attending Oxford to get her doctorate in Physics and her master's degree in Anthropology; Robert, last I heard, became accepted into the SAS and is actually working in Lebanon right now."

Jerry gave a little "huh" of thought, pulled a canteen out of the bag, and took a swig. He spat it back out almost instantly. "Well, ain't that a kick in the head. Looks like you grabbed someone's flask, because I just got hit with some warm Kentucky bourbon." He threw the container to me. "Try that. Nasty as hell, but it'll wake you up nicely." His head dipped toward his chest, and almost instantly my new friend was snoring away.

I sipped, and I too spat the liquid out. I never had bourbon before, and I resolved to never have it again. As I screwed the cap back on the canteen-turned-flask, I looked back up at the starry sky. For some reason, "God Save the Queen" began playing through my head. I started to hum the tune, loudly enough for me to hear but quietly enough to not wake Jerry. It was to be a long, long night.