Disclaimer: Any recognized characters are the exclusive property of Marvel Comics. The author is in no way or form earning financial profit from this story.

The only beta for this story is you!Any mistake found, please report to me. Grammar, plot, character…any flaw, I want to know and fix. (Almost) nothing is too small.

Summary: He's the Wolverine. He's fought in countless wars, lived through history. There are many battles he knew, many he forgot. Or did he? What is more forgettable than war to men? To beasts? To the Wolverine?

Warning: Violence and profanity.

Suggested and thus dedicated to MolonLabe 300.

Apologies for anything bad writing, I was sick when I wrote this.

Battle Fatigue

James Howlett grunted as the musket ball bore into his shoulder. He didn't even wince as his flesh ejected the bullet. Snarling, he bulled forward into the fray, cracking his musket into the gut of a gray-clad soldier. He ducked as a volley erupted from both armies. Coming to America was a bad idea, but the war called to him like in seductive purr. He was born to fight, this he knew.

More Confederates rushed him. Roaring, he charged and smacked them aside with his gun. He normally used his bare hands, but a blunt weapon worked just as well. With this in mind, he raised the musket again and broke it across the back of another soldier.

Slowly, he fought his way through the men before he reached his target: the cannons. He tackled the group surrounded the big gun, ending them quickly with his claws. He swiveled the cannon around with a grunt and fired.

Another Confederate screamed as the cannonball exploded into his chest.

James Howlett allowed himself a feral grin.

James sent a bullet into the chest of his enemy, sending him screaming over the wall.

"Isn't this festive?" Davy joked, slamming the butt of his gun into another.

"Like Christmas," James grumbled.

"Then I guess it's a good thing we're already at church."

James shook his head and took out a knife, slashing another enemy soldier's chest. He'd come south, farther south than he intended, into Texas.

Into another war.

The man let out a shriek as James ran his bayonet through him. He swung the rifle around to dislodge the corpse and struck another soldier. He thought back to before, when he could remember the faces that he'd killed. Now all the faces blurred together. They all had one thing in common: terror.

Because that was what James Howlett was. Terror. He bitterly remembered when he was just as young, and new to war. Now he was…experienced. It was an art, and he was van Gogh; painting his canvas red with blood. The Great War? There was nothing great about war.

He jumped into the trench, toppling a soldier to the ground. Swinging his rifle onto his shoulder, he pulled the trigger, sending another soul into oblivion. He dropped to the ground as the soldiers realized his presence and fired on him. He snorted. His claws came out with a snikt and he charged into them.

He'd always liked painters.

The rocking motion of the boat, plus battle jitters, made everyone in the craft uneasy.

"Oh hell, I'm gonna be sick," a kid groaned.

"Just don't barf on me," James growled as the landing craft ground up on the beach.

"Go, go, go!" an officer barked.

The soldiers surged forwards, out of the small craft. Almost immediately as they stepped on the beach, they fell dead, riddled by bullets. The yellow sand slowly began to change color.

James strode out onto the beach, casually shooting down any enemies that he saw. He was aware of the hail of bullets pouring into him and his fellow soldiers, but they had little to no effect on him. Speeding up, he began to run across the sand until he reached one of the many machine-gun "nests".

He swung his rifle up and cracked his rifle across a soldier's face. James grabbed the machine gun and turned it on the others, spitting out a shower of deadly bullets.

"I don't like this," James growled, gnawing at his cigar. "I remember when fighting was up close and personal. Now we don't even see them before killin' them."

"No one's holding you back, Howlett," an officer replied sarcastically over the roar of the howitzer. "Feel free to go frolicking with them tanks."

"Thank ya, sir," the feral drawled. Spitting his cigar at the ground, he hefted his rifle and charged at the line of tanks. The officer's jaw dropped in surprise.

"Get back here, soldier!" he roared. James waved him off. Dodging explosions, he fired his rifle at the approaching army.

With a boom, a shell exploded into his chest.

James kept charging.

"They're killing us!" the man shouted. "We have to do something!"

James whacked one of the guerillas upside the head with his M16, moving to stand in front of him.

"Listen, kid," he growled. "We're doing all we can. Much as I'd love to get rid of these psychos, I'm doing all I can."

"I know," the man replied quietly. "And I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" James replied. "For what."

"For doing all I could."

Moments later, they heard the whine of a B-52 bomber.

"Watch yer back, Red Eye," Wolverine snapped as he slashed his gleaming claws at Mystique. The blue-skinned beauty danced away.

"Thanks, Logan," Cyclops panted. "Thought that was Jean."

"Yeah, well, Jean smells," Wolverine replied. He paused. "Uh, I mean she doesn't not have a smell."

"How 'bout a little less heart to heart and more kicking butt!" Iceman called. In the distance, he could hear Pyro cackling.

"Yeah, but with us kicking your butts!" Blob grinned. His fist pulverized the ground where Wolverine had been standing.

"You think up the line by yerself?" Wolverine drawled, before slamming an adamantium knee into his chin.

Toad let out a shriek of laughter. "Hey, Logan, mind if I cut in?"

He spat a glob of slime at Wolverine's face, but yelped as it flew back.

"Sorry, Frog-Face!" Jean called. "That one was a present for Magneto!"

Logan grinned.

"Look out!"

Hellion threw up a shield just in time. Nevertheless, a single chunk of debris flew past him, grazing his head.

"Getting slow, old man," Wolverine smirked.

"I can still help you cross the street, gramps," Hellion shot back as he rubbed his beard. He was far from the little punk he had been, Logan had to admit. Almost thirty and built like an athlete, the arrogant telekinetic had become a valuable asset to the team.

"Less talking," X-23 told them. "More fighting."

She too had matured, but it was much less apparent than Julian. Her feral abilities would leave her in her prime forever, leaving little appearance of change.

Surge dashed up to them and hurled a bolt of electricity at the robot. Like the others, she was much more mature. She had forsaken her electric-blue hair dye long ago for its more practical, natural color.

"I can't believe Nimrod's still around," Hellion grumbled, flinging a car at it.

"I can't believe we're still around," Surge replied.

"Well, you guys can thank me for that later," a new voice said. with a flash of light, another man appeared. He was barely a man, actually. He looked more like an older teenager, but one look in his eyes told the truth.

"I'll be frank," the man said. "When I left this morning to meet up with Hope, I didn't think you'd get attacked by uber freaky robots."

"Punny as ever, Richards," Wolverine drawled. "And it's just one robot."

"One, one-hundred," Franklin Richards shrugged. "It's all the same to me."

Even as he bantered, the entire world flipped. They were standing back in the Jean Grey School for Higher Learning.

Wolverine shook his head at the display of power. He loved this team.

Still missed the old one, though.

For those curious, the guy with Wolverine in Vietnam (Battle #6) was Forge. The guy in Battle #2 was Davy Crockett.

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—Jangling Bacon