Battlefield Feast
Corporal Charlie Barkin sighed as he looked down at the open body bag next to him. The Alsatian tore one of his fallen friend's dog tags free, glancing at the name. Private Itchiford, Maurice D.
"We'll see each other again real soon, Itchy." Charlie said, gently patting the fallen dachshund's shoulder. The corporal zipped Itchy's bag up and rose to see his squad's medic, Private Balto Wolfdog, looking forlornly over the rows of the Hell Hounds' recent fallen. Charlie gently, but firmly, grabbed the half dog/half wolf and began leading him away from the mournful site. "Yer thinkin' too hard, pup, just let it go. C'mon, if we hurry, we can be at the head of the chow line."
A dalmatian, Private Pongo Radcliffe, fell in step with his two friends, several more weary Hell Hounds following along. "He's right, Balto, we'll feel better once we get some food in us."
The canine militiamammals passed a platoon of Leopard 1s headed to the front lines as they moved further into the relative safety of the Militia's base camp, the sound of distant gunfire and explosions coming from the south and west. The Battle of Flander's Fields had been raging on for five weeks. It would continue to rage for four more and turn the tide of the Reptile War in favor of Mammalia. Balto and his squadmates knew none of this, however. They were simply focused on getting their first meal in twenty six hours.
The halfbreed medic allowed Charlie to place him first in line and walked up to the cook, the rest of his company's able-bodied survivors lining up behind him and his friends. The mess cook, a portly cougar in a stained apron, looked up at the expectant medic, "What do you want?"
"What you think he wants, MOG?" Charlie snapped, "He wants some chow like the rest of us!"
Several militiamammals yelled out in agreement, as the cook raised his paws for silence, "Hang on, I was told to prepare and serve food for the Second Company."
"That's us." Pongo stated plainly.
"You?" the feline cook asked, "That can't be right."
"What's the fuckin' hold up?" Sergeant Steele shouted from further down the line.
"What do you mean, 'can't be right'?" Balto repeated
"A company is a hundred and fifty mammals," the cougar glanced at the assembled canines, "there can't be more then eighty of you here."
"Eighty two." Balto confirmed
"I'm not gonna start serving half a company, might not be enough left for the rest." Several Hell Hounds shifted uncomfortably as the cook spoke, "Go wake 'em up, then we'll start serving."
Balto leaned toward the cook and spoke simply, "I wish we could 'wake 'em up'."
"Whattya mean?" was the unsure response.
"He means twenty tanks and who knows how many lizards came down on our heads first thing yesterday morning." Charlie explained, "Any Second Company pooch that ain't here is in the hospital."
"Or pushing up daisies." Pongo added in a deadpan.
The cook fidgeted guiltily as he looked over the unamused militiamammals eyeing him as they awaited their food. Finally, the chubby cougar cleared his throat and grabbed his ladle. "Eat your fill, boys."
With rations for nearly twice their number to go around, the tired, hungry, militiamammals were briefly in heaven. Balto, Pongo, Charlie, and the rest of their squad sang a song for Itchy, talked, joked, and laughed. They were still in the middle of a battlefield, but for a short time, the weary canines were able to forget their troubles.
Author's Note-Before anyone asks, MOG stands for 'Mammal Other than Grunt.' Just a little something I whipped up for fun while taking a break from my main project, inspired by a clip from 'All Quiet on the Western Front.' May write a few other vignettes set in my AU, if there's interest and/or inspiration strikes. I have one or two ideas.