It was a dark and gloomy night, and it was a night shift for a Marine Raider. The second world war had started and people were shot and killed. This was something that not even boot camp, or any kind of training can prepare you for. The young man, was welding a Thompson sub-machine gun with a Colt .45 as a backup. 3 cartridges of ammunition for each gun he held. With eyes sharp as an owl, he watched the night with drooping eyes and a sense of discern on his dirtied face. Quickly, without any interruption, he shoved a clip, full with lead .45 ACP bullets into the gun's cartridge.
He struggled to keep his eyes open, no matter how much he tried to stay alert, to stay awake, his body was begging him to fall into comfort, into slumber. But he refused to do so. He wanted to show his squadron he was the best at taking night shifts. He wanted to be noticed by everyone. He wanted to become a war hero.
While in his subspace of emotions and trains of thoughts, his ear twitched and he payed attention to the sound of bushes being rambled and the small chatter of the young Japanese. He quickly and quietly ran to a tent were his team were asleep in. He was shaking them, he was even shaking himself. He didn't wanna die. Not now. Not ever. Back as he was a rookie, he was promised as long as they stood as a team and worked as a team, he would make it through.
Suddenly behind the young American was footsteps. All he saw around the grassy camouflaged tent was the shadows of young men, holding rifles with what seems to be bayonets and small caps on their heads. As one entered the tent, the Jap stabbed the American closest to him and shot dead the man and his team until they were reduced to nothing but bloody paste.