The spare batteries are a hell of a lot heavier than you expected. You have orders to carry them up to the top of Hill 199, where you're expected to meet a Corporal Henning.

Its already been quite an adventure. Again, the batteries are a nice addition to the pack on your back, the ammo at your waist, and the rifle you've got slung over your shoulder. The run was farther than you anticipated, but nothing you can't handle. The terrain is frankly hellish. A mixture of hard grey earth and reddish brown mud that sucks at your boots, trying to pull you under. The whole scene is pockmarked with craters.

As you hoof it to the Hill, she whispers coaxingly to you. "C'mon, you can do it. They're counting on you. They need those batteries for the radios."

You smile and respond between deep breaths. "Can't- get arty- on the Gooks- without radios."

Immediately you imagine her giving you a sharp nod as she speaks. "Damn straight. Now get up that hill."

As soon as the words leave her, you leave the ground, tumbling and rolling over something sickeningly soft. You scramble back to your feet, and your gaze drifts to a corpse. Facedown in the mud, half covered by earth. If you hadn't tripped over it, you would have never known it was there.

So, this is it. First time you saw a dead person. Sure, you saw some pretty awful injuries before you got to the front, but nobody that was dead. "Must be a Korean." She muses. You realize that you aren't the only green one here. Your rifle hasn't seen combat either.

You shake your head and continue your run. She's quiet for the rest of it.

The top of Hill 199 was as just as grey and miserable as the rest of the landscape, but thankfully not nearly as lifeless. Marines in olive drab move about stretches of sandbags and barbed wire that fortify shallow trenches and earthen dugouts.

You can see the Marines have their weapons close at hand, which makes you hesitantly unsling your own rifle. This is as close to the front as you've gotten. Your mind drifts to the corpse you found just minutes earlier.

Your white knuckle grip on the Garand slackens as you survey the scene more closely. Things seem to be calm, for the moment at least. You're still catching your breath from the run and subsequent climb, so you jog it out, moving towards a few squat looking tents that stick out among the dirt and defenses.

You begin to explore, looking for whoever is in charge. On your way, you pass two Thompsons chattering back and forth, albeit quietly. You walk pass a pillbox fortification, and as you glance in, you see the unmistakable rear end of Mama Deuce, who's facing away from you, gazing out of the view slit onto the landscape below. After a few moments of gazing in admiration, your Garand admonishes you. "Cmon, keep it moving." You blink a few times and head on.

You finally catch the familiar crackle and pop of a radio nearby. The inside is barely lit, with only a single lantern and the sun outside hidden behind steely gray clouds yet again.

At first, all you can make out is a stack of crates- what appears to be rations. Then, you make out a figure. Leaning against the crates and staring you down is a tall woman in faded fatigues. She has her hands crossed in front of her chest, and a bandolier across her waist. Thick blonde hair falls to her shoulders. Another Garand, you realize. Yet this one is different.

Your gaze breaks away from the menacing Garand and you see the outline of a man in the corner, fiddling with a radio set on top of some empty crates. He glances at you, and you can just barely see him in the gloom.

He turns and stares at you, arms crossed, not saying a word. He's eerily similar to the Garand who's still leaning against the wall. "Like rifle, like owner" you think to yourself.

The silent, shadowy Marine speaks up before you can. "You here for those batteries?" He brings a cigarette to his mouth, and the quick flash of the lighter illuminates his scarred and rough looking face.

"Yes sir." You pat the satchel at your side. He motions come hither with his hand. "Well, bring 'em over, and help me with th' damn thing." He speaks through the cigarette jutting out of his mouth, ash falling from the tip as his lips move.

You place the satchel by the radio and dig out a battery. "Curren' one ain't dead, but 's a little close for comfort, and I don't want it to go cold on me in a pinch."

You nod and help him take out the battery, replacing it with a fresh one. He growls some more at you as you work. "You got a name, son?"

You give him your name, and he smiles. Its a halfhearted, tired looking grin, and for a moment you can't help but pity the man.

He takes your hand and shakes it. "I'm C'poral Henning. But you can call me Uncle Sam."

You can't help but smile back. "Uncle Sam?"

Henning slowly reaches up and removes his helmet. Underneath is a shock of grey and white hair. You're understandably shocked. 

He shrugs, plopping down on a sandbag. "Jus' came in early, I suppose. Why don'cha make some coffee? Its f'ckin freezing out."

Sure enough, there's a short squat stove near the radio. You lean your rifle against the wall, next to Henning's Garand, who is still silently staring, but now only at the opposite wall, avoiding eye contact with anyone.

You pour out two canteen cups of the stuff that passes for coffee and take a seat ontop of a wooden crate marked "RATIONS". You take down as much of the boiling hot liquid as you can, eager to be rid of the bitter, biting cold that encompasses this awful place. Henning smokes and drinks intermittently.

"Where's home, boy?" 

Your begin to tell him about your sleepy little hometown. About how boring it was. But when you tell him how few people live there, he's surprised. "Hot damn! We've got near three times tha' in Norfo'k."

Coming from a big city, Henning is interested in your small town life. You're not entirely sure why, but you don't have much to do or many people to talk to right now, so you launch into detail. About your school, your family, your highschool sweetheart.

Henning seems particularly interested in the girl. He throws a thumb over at his rifle, and she glowers at him. "Tha' there is Sally." He covers his mouth and whispers conspiratorially. "I named her after my gal back home- don't you go tellin' now. A jealous woman is the las' thing I need out here." 

You drain the last of the coffee and pour yourself another. Henning looks like he's practically been living on the stuff. Just as you start to drink, all hell breaks loose outside.

There's a whining sound, and then a dull boom. Like a firecracker in a tin can. You stand straight up, spilling coffee all over yourself. Its scary that you heard the sound of what must be artillery, but didn't realize what it was until a few round had fell. You could be dead already, you realize.

Henning grimaces and grinds out his cig. He jerks his head towards the wall. "Grab your rifle and double time it out there. I'll be right behind you." You nod and take your Garand in shaking hands. "Don't worry about the mortars, they ain' hittin' us, they're bombin' the hill next door. But they'll be comin' for us too."

You charge outside the tent, still not entirely convinced those shells don't have your name on them. The sounds intensify, a constant attack on your ears. As you look around wildly for safety, you relax a little. The other Marines seem to be not so bothered by the sounds. They move calmly, taking up positions in the trenches and in earthen pillboxes. You decide that the latter would be safer (mortar rounds come from above, after all) and move inside. 

You peek out the firing ports, trying to get a glimpse of anything, but all you can see is the same old damn landscape you've been looking at for the last week and a half. Cold, grey, and lifeless. 

"I'm ready. Let's do this. Let's go." Your rifle is whispering, more to herself than anything. But unlike her, you don't feel ready. You don't want to go. You're not even supposed to be here. 

It feels like forever before Henning moves in next to you. You jump as he enters, your mind only imagining a bloodthirsty Communist coming to slit your throat from behind. He punches you in the arm. 

"Cmon kid. Keep it together. You'll be okay."

You shake your head slowly, still shaking. "I'm not supposed to be here." 

He ignores you and stacks grenades near the firing ports, ready to be thrown. Henning has his rifle at the ready, and you can see that he has added a bandolier to the stock to hold extra ammunition. Which is probably a good idea, you realize. He looks at you and waves his hands angrily.

"Get ready! This ain' fuckin' break time!"

You nod and hurriedly remove some stripper clips from the belt at your waist and set them next to your rifle, ready to grab in case... in case you needed them. You didn't want to think about it, but there was hardly anything else you could imagine. You want to think about your sweetheart, Anna, and how you're going home to her, your little brother, your dogs, your mom and dad and most of all your boring little town where no one would drop mortar rounds on your head. 

There was silence for a little while. You look outside again, but you still can't see anything. Henning puts his rifle against his shoulder and aims outside. "I called in arty. If they're comin' they're gettin' fucked up. That's fer fuckin' sure."

You can hear now that the mortars are in fact landing farther away. On friendly heads, no doubt. Poor guys. Any of them could be you. You only hope that the Commies called in the artillery wrong. On their own men, maybe. 

Suddenly, a nearby machinegun opens up. The .50 cal blasts away for two short bursts and then goes silent. Your shaking hands grip tight around the rifle, finger near the trigger, not on it for fear that you'd fire it without meaning to.

You imagine a Chinese soldier somewhere below, a savage man with American ears as war trophies hanging around his neck. He's aiming a scoped rifle towards the hill, placing the crosshairs over the tiny firing slit that you occupy and pulling the trigger. Its enough to make you want to duck, but you stand firm. 

"Its dark as fuck. We need a damn flare." A feminine voice mutters. You realize it must be Sally, as Henning said. She sounds remarkably like him- gruff and stony. Henning grunts in reply. 

A shrill scream sounds from below. Before you know what you're doing, you fire off two rounds, back to back, without really meaning to. "You see em? Where are they?" Henning growls, moving his head left to right, scanning.

"N-no, I-" Through the gloom, you make out just the slightest bit of movement. "Wait- I think-"

Apart from the mortars, which have let up a little, is a different whining sound. Louder. You cringe instinctively, ready to be blown apart, but instead you're momentarily blinded. Not by an explosion. But by the sun.

A trio of suns hang in the sky- flares, that bathe the ground in a golden glow. Suddenly everything is displayed before you. And its horrifying. 

"They- They're in the wire!" You scream, sighting figures trying to navigate the spiders web of barbed wire. The air is suddenly filled with gunfire. The .50 cal begins to fire again, and you can see the tracers cut across the ground and throw dirt into the air. You see soldiers fall and tumble backwards, or simply crumble to the ground as if they fainted. 

"Fire! Fire!" Henning yells, already unloading his Sally at the men below. You take a moment to aim and count off as you fire. Three. Four. Bang bang. A charging Chinaman gets knocked back like a ragdoll.

Henning takes a grenade and lets it fly. You follow suit, going through the motions, pulling the pin and chucking it. There's a boom, much closer and louder than the artillery, although you're pretty deafened at this point from all the gunfire. All along the line you can hear rifles firing and automatic weapons chattering away. 

You take another grenade but before you can throw it, you feel something slap against your throat. You fall back, terrified, and put your hand to the spot, feeling your skin slicked with blood. You try to scream but nothing comes out. There's no sound at all. Its actually quiet. 

Your comrade crouches beside you and shakes you, moving his mouth, but no sound comes out. After a few more seconds, he stands back up and starts shooting again. You crawl over to the sandbag wall and lean up against it, your hand hard against the side of throat, trying to stem the bleeding.

Slowly sound comes back, with a high pitched ringing sound being the first thing you can hear. You stagger back to your feet and pick up your rifle, moving back to the firing port. Again, you're hit in the face, but this time by dirt. You see a sea of attackers moving below, charging the hill, and hand grenades are being thrown at your position. Another explodes in front of your bunker.

Frantically, you try to thin the horde. Five, six, seven. You feel hot blood run down your chest. Suddenly an enemy pops up very close, appearing to be wounded but still on his feet. You send a round into him, and he falls backwards, out of sight. Ping! 

You scramble for fresh rounds, slamming them in, and starting over at one. Soon enough another eight rounds are gone and again you rush to reload. Its easier this time. You're shaking a lot less. 

Out of the corner of your eye you see Henning's left arm drop a little. You duck and look over, and you see his uniform stained dark red over his shoulder. He grits his teeth and brings his rifle to bear again. 

Your fifth round strikes down a Chinaman who was firing bursts of his submachinegun at your hill. You scan for more targets, but there are none. After more looking, the lack of gunfire confirms it. The attack seems to be over. You breathe a sigh of relief. 

The slowly spreading grin on your face fades a little as you look at your partner. Henning is slumped against a wall, Sally in his lap, a cigarette between his teeth. "We lived!" You scream, still a bit deaf. "We're still aliggg.." Your last word is cut off as your neck burns in agony.