MUD CRUNCHER!

Local Post Office commandered by Mesean Military Postal Service

WAR 114, DAY 486, Thunderfoot, UMBRAL WILDWOOD --- At a quiet rally point, somewhere on a wet road to the port city of Thunderfoot, I observed the men of [116th] Infantry Regiment gathering their gear under dripping tree's. They were to be transported by bus to the front lines. These commandeered civilian bus are affectionately known as "Battle Bus". As they wrote last minute letters home and turned them in to the company clerk for post, there was hot rations being served. It may be their last meal. Then, during the somber quiet of the mist, the silence was broken. "No." a private said as he passed by in the sprinkling rain and looked around. "No to What?" another said. No one had said anything.

Wounded Colonial soldiers, lying in a trench

There was no answer from the soldier as he stopped, faced north towards his Warden enemy and just stared. The top of his helmet was black from boiling water. Dented from combat, there was no chin strap or markings of a unit. The look in his wide eyes showed the stress' of combat, while the dirt and grime that covered his face showed the horror's of war. The tunic, was full of cuts and tears as blood leaked from the holes. He probably needed a medic.

Hanging on slumped shoulders was web gear loaded with Bomastone's and ammo while hands gripped his Argenti rifle with white knuckles. The experience, and the fear was obvious. "No to what?" was said again. Everyone stood around waiting for an answer.

I nudged Lieutenant Colonel PointLoad of 116th Infantry Headquarters Squad with my elbow, and just looked over at the young soldier. The Lt Col leaned in and said quietly. "That? Oh, that's a greenhorn that just arrived last week from the replacement company. They have been out all night down the road holding back the blue push. The Wardens came at them with everything. Assault infantry, Flamethrowers, Silverhands, Chieftain's. You name it." He paused and looked back at the private in the road. "It was tough on 'em." The private leaned forward, forcing himself to take a step.

"It don't matter what kind of technology you have." continued the Lt Col. "If you don't have a Ground Pounder, an Eleven Bravo, a Gravel Agitator, A Mud Cruncher... In other words an infantry man, set foot on the enemy's front lawn. You haven't got s#%t!"

Looking back at the trooper who is still having a conversation with himself. I noticed his trousers were soaking wet with rips in the knees, bruising on the exposed skin. The cargo pockets on both sides of the legs were bulging with extra rations and bullets. At the bottom of one leg, two drawstrings to keep out the leeches were not tied. The other pant leg was tucked in the boot and bloused over the top to shed water. Clinging to the sides of the once shiny black dogs were clumps of sand, dirt, clay, and rocks from the long march. On the bottom of the soles was the knobby's digging in to the ground. Churning the earth, grinding, mashing, whatever was there. So he could advance forward.

And forward.

Writer: [PRESS] Ernie Smiles

Editor: [PRESS] Jean Baricave

Date of Publication: 09/09/2024

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