March 5, Chulak Dusk

"All right gentlemen, we have now arrived at our destination. The powers that be have ordered us to hold this position indefinitely. So were going to make ourselves at home immediately," Sanders announced to his company as they got out of their Bradleys after a three-hour long ride to the front lines. "Watkins!" he barked.

"Yes sir?"

"Your platoon is on first watch. Meyer will relieve you at four hours time. We'll rotate shifts so that one platoon won't be stuck on watch for the entire night."

"Understood sir! First Platoon you heard the Captain, let's move!" he ordered, eagerly.

Sanders sighed. Watkins was a good officer, but he was often too eager to get things done, jumping in right away and forgetting to wait until all of the instructions were given out.

Although he and Watkins were the same age, Watkins was a newly commissioned Second Lieutenant with less than a year's experience under her belt, while he was a veteran Captain with half a decade's worth of knowledge about how to be a soldier. To make things worse, Watkins was also the Battalion's most junior officer with an inferiority complex as wide as an Aircraft Carrier, often feeling that he had to prove that he was a good officer. Unfortunately had the exact opposite effect and his platoon Sergeant, Sergeant First Class Brown was not impressed.

Sergeant Polanski was I ever like this? He thought to himself, remembering his own first command and Sergeant First Class Victor Polanski, the man who taught him the art of soldiering and who had transformed a dumbass Second Lieutenant into the officer he was today. Part of him wanted to relieve Watkins of his command and take over his duties as platoon commander in addition to his job as Company Commander. However, he reasoned that Watkins was still new and that exposure to combat would either quickly kill him or make him a better officer. If not, well he'd cross that bridge if it came.

"Lieutenant. I wasn't done speaking yet."

Watkins face flushed in embarrassment.

"Use your Night Vision Goggles. They're there for a reason. I don't want any Ori sneaking up on us in the middle of the night. If you see anything and I mean anything tell your Sergeant, Platoon Commander or myself. I don't care if its fucking Bigfoot or the whole damn Ori Army. It's a hell of a lot better to be safe than to be waking up in a God Damn ambush. Trust me. I know. I've been there. Is that understood?"

"Sir yes sir!" Watkins exclaimed, as if he were still in Basic Infantry Officers School back in Fort Benning instead of the battlefield.

"Another thing. Keep you voices down. I don't want the entire fucking planet to know that we're here."

Chastened Watkins led his platoon to set up positions across the encampment, securing the company's perimeter.

"Second and Third Platoons, you're dismissed until your respective guard shift begins," he told the other platoons of his company.

Immediately, what was once known as two companies of trained soldiers dissolved into a mob of individuals. Some chose to immediately prepare a place to sleep. While others chose to prepare MREs, the Terran military's standard combat ration for dinner. The more experienced soldiers chose to spend this time cleaning their weapons in preparation for the engagement against the enemy that was sure to come.

Immediately after making his speech, Sanders approached Masters who at the moment was sitting down on the ground disassembling his rifle.

"Hey Top, how's the men?" he asked as he too sat down onto the bare earth.

"Morale is good. The men are nervous but anxious for battle."

"Good," he responded. He took a look at the disassembled rifle on the ground. "Think these things are as good as the boys and girls at H and K told us?" he asked curious at the Sergeant's opinion.

"It's a good weapon. Don't get me wrong but I'm not a big fan of it. Call me a traditionalist or a stick in the mud but I prefer using the older M-16."

After the Terran Federal Army was formed, there was a fierce debate about what was to be the standard service rifle. The Americans wanted the M-4, the Russians and the Chinese wanted the AK-74, the French wanted the FAMAS, the Brits wanted the SA-80 and the Israelis wanted the Tavor.

To quell the rising arguments amongst its officers, the brass decided to test every service rifle in use against each other to see which came out on top. The results were surprising and the Heckler and Koch G36 Assault Rifle, which was in use by the German Army came out as the overall winner.

Although the G36 was an excellent rifle, there were some problems with it. There were less than million of these rifles built at the moment and even with wartime conditions and factories working around the clock to produce arms and other materiel, there was no way that they could manufacture enough rifles to keep up with the military's necessities in time. To make things worse, the magazines (1) for the G36 were not compatible with any other rifle.

As a result, a compromise was made. Heckler and Koch would instead upgrade the existing M-4/16 rifles, which had scored second in the competition with its HK416 design already in development. This would be economical since they would not have to build an entirely new rifle and would only have to modify the millions of existing M-4/16 rifles that were already in existence.

Thus, the M-4A2 and the M-16A5 were born. Although superficially, it looked similar to the M-4A1 or the M-16A4 respectively, technically it was a whole different story. It used a short stroke piston gas system that made cleaning easier and less frequent. Along with numerous internal upgrades, it incorporated a modular rail system on the rifle to allow flashlights, handgrips, grenade launchers, bipods, and other military accessories to be mounted directly onto the rifle with ease. It was much more accurate since it incorporated a Tritium (2) laser reflex sight as opposed to the iron sights (3) used on the earlier models of the M-4/16.

"Yeah. I agree with you. I miss the old M16. It feels much more comfortable in my hands," he replied, agreeing with the Sergeant. "What do you think about Watkins?" Sanders asked, curious to see what his senior NCO thought about the officer.

"Watkins? He's a good kid. His heart is in the right place. He'll shape up," the NCO responded confident in the young officer.

"I hope so," Sanders replied sighing once more. Masters didn't have to deal directly with him, but he did.

"Excuse me, Captain. Do you have a moment?" Chelsea Somerville asked nervously as she stood behind him.

"Yes Ms. Somerville I do," he answered. "Excuse me Top, but duty calls," he told the Sergeant, giving him a look that he did not look forward to this.

"Hey, I'm just Sergeant. Do what you have to do," he said shrugging glad that it was not his problem and turned back to cleaning his rifle.

"Captain Sanders, um … what are we going to do about dinner?" she asked, her stomach was growling. She hadn't eaten since morning and that had just been crumpets and marmalade.

"Follow me," he told her and walked to his Bradley and pulled out two brown packets along with a portable heater and a pot from inside the vehicle.

"This is a MRE or Meal Ready to Eat, the standard military ration of the Terran Military," he told her. Looking at the two labels of the two that he had brought out to see what they were he asked, "Which would you like; Hamburger patty or grilled beefsteak with mushroom gravy?"

"The hamburger patty please," picking to her what seemed to be the lesser of two evils.

He tossed the one marked as a hamburger to her and then proceeded to open his own and showed her the contents. "The MRE comes with a main course, side dish, dessert, cracker, spread, beverage powder which is most often Tang, coffee powder, and utensils."

Turning on the portable heater on low, he dumped water into the pot and placed it on top of the heater. "Your main course please," he asked.

Chelsea handed him her food, not knowing what he was going to do. Sanders then proceeded to drop both of their meals in the pot. "The MRE can be eaten right out of the box or hot. It tastes a lot better hot," he explained.

After ten minutes, Sanders decided that the meals were as hot as they were going to get and grabbed both meals out of the water. "Here's your meal back. Ma'am," he said as he gave her meal.

Chelsea then opened the packaging on her meal and grabbed her utensils, ready to eat.

"You might want to put some Tabasco sauce on it," he told her.

"Err. No thanks," she replied. Although she grew up in Britain, she hated spicy food especially curry found in many Indian restaurants that her parents often frequented.

"Suit yourself," Sanders shrugged. If she wanted to be stubborn and learn the hard way, then so be it.

Chelsea quickly cut a piece of the patty with her fork and knife as she was taught in public school (4) and put a piece in her mouth and began to chew. Five seconds later, as soon as she tasted what she was eating, she spit the contents out of her mouth and on to the ground. "What is this shite?" she asked insulted, thinking that it was practical joke. The food tasted like cardboard!

"That is your standard military ration, the MRE, standing for Meals Ready to Eat," replied Sanders soberly. "Also known as Meals Rejected by Everyone, Meals Rejected by Ethiopians, and my favorite MR. E's," Sanders finished off his statement with a grin.

"Are you serious?" she asked. All around her everyone was cracking up. She had heard the horror stories of military rations, however at the time she had figured that they were just urban legends.

"Yes. Now do you understand why you should put Tabasco on the burger?"

"Yes," she replied. She figured that having ones mouth burn as a result of flavor was better than eating something that tasted like cardboard.

"You know that if they served these at prisons, the prisoners would be immediately released as a result of cruel and unusual punishment," he told her, commenting on the quality and taste of the food.

Embarrassed by her outburst Chelsea ate the rest of her food in silence, hoping not to cause another incident and make a fool out of herself again.

After seeing that Ms. Somerville had finished her meal, Sanders once again approached her. "Ma'am I'm sorry about that. I should have told you about the taste before you began eating," he apologized.

"Captain, there is no need to apologize. I should have known. I have heard the horror stories about military rations before from my father. I thought that they were just made up."

"Your father?" Sanders asked dumbfounded. She didn't look like a military brat to him.

"My father's a Major in the Territorial Army, the British version of your National Guard or Reserves. He got called up a couple of months ago," she replied.

"Well Ms. Somerville, to show my apologies to the daughter of a superior officer, I have decided to give this to you as a token of my sorrow," he said pulling out something from his ACU. "Catch," he ordered just before he threw it to her.

She caught the object, examined it and found it to be an American Snickers bar.

"Open it. Its not going to do any good if it just sits there," he told her.

She needed no further encouragement and quickly opened the candy bar, taking a big bite out of it. The taste was orgasmic, its sweet and gooey insides tantalizing every taste bud for the full effect and taste. Compared to the bland-tasting MRE, the Snickers bar was like heaven. Although she was not a fan of American sweets, this was one of the best candies she had eaten in her life.

"Where did you get that?" she asked, curious at how the Captain possessed such items millions of miles away from home.

"Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies. Good night Ms. Somerville. We have a very busy day tomorrow," he told her.

"Call me Chelsea, Captain."

"Fine. Good night then Chelsea."

"Good night Captain."

March 6 Dawn

"All right ladies beauty sleep is over. Its time to get to work!" Sanders announced loudly to his sleeping men, rousing them from their slumber.

At his announcement the sleeping men of his company awoke, although groggily and proceeded to get ready for the day's work.

"Now that you're finally awake, we've got a hard days work ahead of us. Recon drones have reported that the Ori are around a day, two days at the most away from our position. Because of this, we are going to spend all day today fortifying the area," he told the still sleepy platoon.

"Captain, are we going to get any support from Echo Company," a soldier asked, hoping that the engineers would help.

"Negative Private. Echo and Alpha companies have their own positions to fortify. However if were lucky the tankers of Charlie and Delta companies will be able to assist us, once they finish camouflaging their tanks."

At this, his men groaned since they would have little or no help in their work today.

"Although you don't like working now, you'll be thankful later. A well-fortified position is what we're going to need against those Ori sons of bitches when they attack. This is what we're going to do…"

Around Noon

"Well Captain, looks like you've got things under control," remarked Jenkins.

"Well sir we better. I don't want the fucking Ori to overrun our position," remarked Sanders, panting hard, trying to catch his breath after doing hard manual labor alongside his men for the entire morning.

All around him, the men of Bravo Company were stripped down to their undershirts or even bare-chested working. Some were busy digging and camouflaging foxholes, while others were disguising their Bradleys from view.

"What are you doing now?" Jenkins asked.

"First platoon and I are going to seed the area with Claymores and C4 to make the area the Ori's worst nightmare," he replied, showing copper wiring in one hand and the explosives in the other.

"No wonder you requested so much explosives," Jenkins remarked, remembering the requisitions sheets filled out by Sanders before they left Earth.

"Well sir, I prefer landmines but unfortunately we can't use them," he grumbled, remembering the international treaty banning the use of landmines. "Claymores attached to trip wire will have do," he replied.

"That's what I was going to talk to you about."

"You mean that the politicians won't let us use Claymores?" he asked incensed. More of his men would now die since the politicians had now taken away one of the few advantages that they had over the alien bastards.

"Calm down. It's the exact opposite. As of yesterday March 5, the Legislature has voted to rescind the Geneva Conventions for the duration of the war."

"What in the hell convinced them do that?" asked Sanders, amazed. This was completely out of character for them.

"I guess that the threat of total annihilation or subjugation really got to them." Jenkins mused philosophically. He shrugged, not caring. "Anyways, back onto subject. Orders are to arm your reporter."

"Sir?" Although Chelsea was all right for a civilian reporter the thought of a civilian running around armed with a loaded weapon sent shudders down his spine.

"You heard me."

"She's a civilian and she's European. (5) She probably doesn't know the difference between a breach and a barrel!" Sanders protested.

"Chances are, she's not going to use it anyways. And if she does, then we'll have more than enough to worry about it. Give her a sidearm. I have a spare M9."

"Sir, with all due respect, if she really has to use it then she'll need something with a hell of a lot more punch than a 9mm pistol. I doubt that the rounds will be able to pierce the Ori's personal armor. I'll give her a Colt M911 .45 ACP."

"Are you sure about that? There's only one of those in your company."

"Its about time that I learn how to use my MP-7 anyways." Sanders shrugged. The Army was busy phasing out its Beretta 92F, commonly known as the M9 in exchange for the MP-7 PDW and Sanders' company was one of the few units to receive them before going into combat.

"You have one right?"

"Yeah. It's still in its box though. It's a virgin gun, haven't even fired a single shot on it."

"Well it won't be virgin gun pretty soon. Listen I've got to go back to HQ. I'll see you later Captain."

"You too sir." Jenkins got back into his Humvee and drove back to his headquarters to plan for the upcoming Ori assault that was sure to be coming tomorrow.

Sanders grabbed his Claymores, wiring and walked to his Bradley where Chelsea was sitting down writing. "Ms. Somerville, a moment of your time please."

"Yes what is it?" she asked, puzzled at the Captain's sudden formality.

"Remember when I told you that since you were a journalist, you were not to be armed."

"Yes."

"Well that's changed."

"Are you drafting me now?"

"Not exactly. Ma'am, the Terran Legislature has just elected to throw out the Geneva Conventions for the duration of the war. That means that you can now be officially classified as a combatant."

"Why would the Legislature want to do that?"

"Right now, the politicians are beginning to panic since they just realized the reality of the war."

"What do you mean?"

"The tactical situation is not good at all. Right now we have one planet versus the forces of an entire galaxy. And those forces outnumber us at least twenty to one here on Chulak. We need every advantage that we can get and exploit. If we loose, there isn't going to be some peace treaty signed in Paris or Geneva. The objective of the Ori is to subjugate or annihilate. We'll either be forced to convert to their religion or most likely will be wiped out to the last."

"Surely our allies, the Tok'ra, the Jaffa and the Asgard can help."

"Ma'am no matter how much assistance that we get from our allies we're going to have to bear the brunt of the war. Tok'ra although very advanced, have less than a thousand people in their population. They don't even have enough people to muster an entire combat brigade.

"The Jaffa, although they have around a billion people they can't really do much. They're a race of warriors and only warriors. They don't have any scientists and live in a pre-industrial age environment and have no industrial base. That means that for every ship, zat and staff weapon they loose will be lost permanently. Pretty soon, they'll be dependent on us to provide weapons for the fight.

"The Asgard, they are advanced but they too are a small race. They can help, but they live in a different galaxy than we do, so they can only send a small percentage of their already small fleet. Coming down to it, it's going to be mainly Earth and only Earth's fight."

Chelsea sat there stunned. She hadn't considered the consequences to Earth loosing this war. Bloody hell, she hadn't even though about the events that were going to happen in the next year or so.

"To get back to the reason why I wanted to talk to you, you are going to be carrying a sidearm as long as you're in a combat zone." He pulled out his sidearm slowly out of his thigh holster, in order not to scare her. " This is the Colt M1911 semi-automatic pistol. You will be issued this pistol for the duration of your time here on Chulak. I assume that your father taught you how to use a firearm?"

"Yes. However that was years ago," she replied, trying to remember the last time her father had taken her and her mother shooting at one of the military bases.

"All right, let me re-familiarize yourself with how a pistol works." Pointing to the small lever on the grip, he told her, "This is the magazine catch. When you press this lever, the magazine will fall out of the pistol and can replaced with a full one." He then demonstrated, catching the magazine as it came out of the pistol.

"To reload the pistol, just insert the magazine back into the grip," he said as he put the magazine back into the pistol. "However, to arm the pistol you have to pull back the slide to cock it." He pulled back the top of pistol, making the distinctive chik-chik sound of a gun being cocked.

"The safeties are in two places. The first is right next to the hammer." He pointed to the lever at the rear of the gun. "This allows the gun to be safe when it is in your holster," he explained. "The second safety is behind the grip. This allows you to keep your pistol safe when you are holding it." He pointed to the large button like object at the back of the grip. "If one or both of these safeties are engaged, then the weapon will not fire. You have to disable both safeties in order to discharge your weapon," he explained.

He handed her the weapon, which was already safe. "Here you try what I just showed you."

Chelsea fumbled with the weapon, trying to mimic what the Captain had done and meanwhile trying to regain some of the muscle memory that had not been used in years. After loading, unloading and reloading the magazine ten times, she quickly got accustomed to it.

"For aiming the pistol, line up the rear sight at the back of pistol with the sight in the front. To fire, disengage the safeties and pull the trigger. Only use this weapon when you are less than 100m from the enemy. Anything longer, and you might as well be shooting at the sky. Since given the area that we are in, I cannot permit you to fire live rounds for practice. Lets hope that you'll never have to use it." Sanders took off his holster and asked, "Are you left or right handed?"

"Right."

Sanders then proceeded to fasten the holster on her right thigh. "Keep this on you at all times. You'll never know when you'll need it."

"Oh and another thing. This pistol is not the property of the Army. This pistol belongs to me. It's been in my family for over sixty years. My grandfather used it in World War II and Korea, my father used it in Vietnam and I've used it in Iraq. In my family, this pistol is somewhat of a good luck charm."

He pointed to slide where a large nick was present. "When my grandfather was a Lieutenant fighting in the 101st Airborne in siege of Bastogne during the Battle of the Bulge, this pistol deflected a German bullet aimed straight at his heart, thus saving his life from certain death.

"After that no one in my family since then has ever been wounded in battle. My father was in Vietnam during the Tet offensive and didn't even get a scratch on him the entire time he was there. I fought my way to Baghdad in the 3rd Infantry Division and didn't even get a paper cut. Perhaps some of its luck will rub off you."

"Why are you giving me this?" she asked, wondering why the Captain would loan her, a total stranger such a precious item.

'Two reasons; one I don't want you to die; and second I want you to have a decent side arm. The standard issue M9 pistol won't cut it against the Ori. Besides, I already have a new sidearm, the MP-7 Personal Defense Weapon and it's about time that I learn how to use it."

Sanders grabbed his claymores and wiring and joined First Platoon as they began to seed the area with explosives in anticipation for the attack to come.

March 7 Morning

"Recon drones report that the Ori are less than ten minutes away from our position. Drones estimate that the enemy strength is around two large battalions. Let's show these bastards what we're made out of. HUA!" radioed Lieutenant Colonel Jenkins from his Headquarters as he addressed the men of his battalion.

"You heard the Colonel. The bastards are coming down on our position. We've trained for this moment for a long time. Remember your training. Stick to your axis of fire. Set your rifles on three round burst or single shot only. If you go full auto, your ass is mine. Bradley crews do not fire until I give the okay. You are our trump card and I don't want it revealed too soon. Men…I'm honored to be your company commander and I wouldn't be anywhere else in this universe besides right here, next to you, watching your flank and you watching mine. Lets avenge those who we lost," he told his men.

The men of Bravo Company lay silent and still in their camouflaged positions as they waited for the enemy to attack. Time passed by slowly, each second lasting an eternity.

Sanders turned to Chelsea Somerville, who was laying directly to his left. Despite his objections, she had decided to be with Bravo Company to witness the skirmish. "Chelsea, I want you to keep you head down at all times. Trying to risk your life for a better view of the battle is stupid and suicidal. Cover your ears. This is going to get really loud," he whispered.

An Ori soldier appeared from the forest ahead of them. And another soon followed. And another. After thirty seconds, over three hundred Ori soldiers had appeared with more coming every second.

Disregarding all common sense they charged, yelling out battle cries and letting the entire planet know where they were.

Like lambs to the slaughter Sanders thought. These people had no military sense at all.

CRACK! One of the battalion's snipers had just fired his weapon, putting a 7.62 X 51 mm round in one of the warrior's heads. The soldier stood for a second as if he was not affected in any way and then suddenly fell to the ground dead as a doornail.

All of the battalion's attached twelve-man sniper section opened fire and began to pick off the enemy one by one.

Incensed, the Ori just charged harder and faster toward the battalion, intent on destroying in what they believed to be apostates and heretics.

They're going to cross… right…. about… now.

Boom! One of the Ori had just tripped on the trip wire, activating one of the many Claymores hidden in the area. It exploded, killing ten and injuring fifteen more.

"OPEN FIRE!" he radioed his company.

Needing no further bidding, Bravo Company with the exception of its Bradleys returned the favor.

Sanders aimed his rifle at the nearest enemy that he could see and pulled the trigger, sending three bullets at the enemy. Upon being hit, the soldier dropped like a sack of potatoes, never to rise again.

The Ori after two minutes had finally realized what was going on and began to fight back. However by this time, they were down to 40 percent of their original number. To make things worse their enemies were well concealed and they could not make out their positions very effectively.

Sanders had just changed his now empty magazine for the fourth time for a full one. Spying a cluster of Ori, he reached into his ammunition pouch and grabbed a 20mm grenade round and loaded it into his M320 grenade launcher attached directly underneath the barrel of his M-4.

Taking careful aim, he fired the grenade in the middle of where the enemy was clustered. The grenade burst in midair, sending shrapnel everywhere killing more of the enemy. Not taking a moment to enjoy the fruits of his success, Sanders quickly found another target for his weapon and fired once again.

After twenty minutes of intense fighting, the tattered remains of the Ori force began to retreat. With over 80 percent of their forces wiped out, the only thing that they could do was run.

Even as the enemy began to move out of range, some diehard members of his Company had decided to keep on firing at the enemy, hoping to kill some more Ori before they completely went out of range and sight.

"Cease fire. You're wasting ammunition," he ordered. Ammunition was precious here on Chulak. With the nearest munitions factory light years away from here, one could not depend on having a constant supply of ammo. He wasn't about to waste any by shooting at targets that he wasn't reasonably sure that he or his men could hit.

At once, the firing stopped and all was still once more. Sanders grinned. He didn't have to reveal the capabilities or presence of his Bradleys. He still had his trump card for the time being.

"Sir?" a voice asked from behind him.

Sanders turned around and looked at who was addressing him. It was Carmella, one of the Sergeants in his company. "Yes Sergeant?"

"First Sergeant Masters requests your presence sir."

"Tell him I'll be there in a couple of minutes."

"Sir. He wants you there now. Its urgent."

Knowing that Masters had a good reason to call him, Sanders grabbed his rifle and ran to Master's position fifty meters away from him.

"What's going on here?" he asked as he got there. A cluster of personnel had formed a circle around someone or something. Sanders knew what was probably going on, but asked for courtesy's sake.

"Sir. It's good that you're here. Its Watkins," Masters said as he saluted his superior officer.

"What happened?"

"You should see for yourself sir."

The crowd parted to reveal a messy sight.

Second Lieutenant Harold Watkins lay on the ground mortally wounded. A large gaping hole the size of a Frisbee now occupied what used to be his left pectoral. Beside him, medics tried valiantly to keep him alive.

"Captain…" he croaked as he tried to salute.

"I'm here Lieutenant. You're going to be okay," he said, trying to reassure the platoon commander. It had been a long time since he had to go through this.

"Don't lie … to me… sir. I know I'm a goner," he replied stubbornly, his face deathly ashen, from the lack of blood.

Sanders turned to a medic. "Give me some morphine right now," he ordered.

"Shoulda… kept my head down… like you told me to. At least I got three or four before I got hit though," he smiled ruefully.

"Lieutenant, I'm going to give you some morphine. You won't feel a thing." At least Watkins would die painlessly from a narcotic-induced bliss. It was the least he could do.

"Capt'n… One last thing… before I go. Tell my momma… that I died well. Tell her… that I died fighting," he breathed.

Sanders stuck a needle into Watkins' right arm. Immediately the morphine began to have an immediate effect. Watkins' face changed from one of agony and pain to happiness and delight.

Thirty seconds later, Harold Watkins, Second Lieutenant, of the Terran Federal Army breathed his last breath and lay still, fated to an endless slumber, from which he would never wake up.

"He's dead sir," one of the medics reported as he checked Watkins' pulse to officially declare his demise.

The medics then proceeded to grab a body bag, or human remains pouches as the Pentagon preferred to call them from one of the Bradleys, put him inside and zipped him up.

"How many other casualties are there?" he asked Masters, hoping that Watkins wasn't the only one, but knowing otherwise.

"We were lucky. Damned lucky. Watkins was the only fatality. We've got twenty wounded of various degrees though."

"Any of them serious?"

"Two of them. One of them lost a leg. Another lost an arm. We're calling in a chopper to MEDEVAC them back to base."

"Keep me updated on the situation," he said as he began to walk away.

"Will do sir."

Sanders walked to his Bradley, wishing that he had a cigarette. He'd quit two years ago after his grandfather died from lung cancer, vowing that he wouldn't die that way. However, as unhealthy as they were, they did have a tendency to calm his nerves.

"Is it always like this?" Chelsea Somerville asked still in a daze from the battle. She was still shaking even though the skirmish ended fifteen minutes ago. Her heart rate was racing and her body would not stay still.

Sanders fought back the urge to lash out at her. She didn't know that Watkins was now dead. Nor she or anyone else was the reason behind his death. They were at war, and in a war people died. "Yeah it is," he replied, trying to keep his voice calm and even.

"How do you deal with this, when it happens so constantly?"

Sanders sighed. How do you explain this to someone who didn't know what it was like to be a soldier? It was trying to explain to a robot, the meaning of taste. "You just get used to it. Everyone deals with it in a different way. After a while it becomes part of a routine, like waking up in the morning and brushing your teeth."

The sudden sound of artillery firing in the distance brought them back into the present. Despite the fact that the source of the noise was kilometers way, it was still very loud for civilian ears. Putting her hands over her ears, to shield out the noise, she asked, "What is that racket?"

"Looks like a position around ten klicks east of us is engaging the enemy?"

"But the battle has just ended here. Why would there be fighting in another area?" Chelsea stated confused.

"Chelsea, what just happened here wasn't a battle it was just a skirmish, a small conflict in a very large war. This war isn't about just us. There are millions of people just on this planet alone fighting this war," Sanders replied.

The thock-thock of a UH-60 Blackhawk helicopter's blades informed Sanders that the MEDEVAC that he had requested had arrived. "Excuse me, I've got to go," he said as he ran to the chopper.

As he got there, the men had just finished putting the first wounded man into the chopper and were getting ready to put the second one in. Already loaded inside the chopper, was the body bag containing Watkins' body.

He turned to the two wounded men who were now fully loaded inside the chopper. "Get well you two," he ordered.

Soon after, the chopper lifted off, having many more trips to make. Sanders stared at sky even after the chopper was long gone, remembering Watkins and knowing that he would only be the first of the many casualties that were to come.

Sanders turned his attention back to the situation at hand for there were many things to be done at the moment. They were at war and many would die.

No matter how good of a commander he was and how good his orders were, someone would always die following his instructions. The only thing that he could hope for was that the minimal amount of people would die following his commands.

Author's Notes

(1)- magazines are specifically designed to fit a certain rifle. Some rifles use the same magazines as others. An example of this is the magazine used by the M-4/16, SA-80 and the FAMAS. It is completely interchangeable with those rifles mentioned. However, this is often not the case.

(2)- Tritium, not Trinium is an isotope of hydrogen often used in mounted laser sights.

(3)- Iron sights is an open unmagnified aiming system used by many rifles.

(4)- In England, they teach you everything in school since many schools are boarding schools

(5)- I have nothing against Europeans. In Europe, gun laws are a lot stricter than in America, and thus the average person does not know how to use a weapon. Switzerland is the exception to this.