Tales from the Foxhole

The Legionnaire

Everything hurts. That's the first thing the Legionnaire thinks as he regains consciousness. It's difficult to breathe. No doubt his lungs are slowly filling with blood.

The trench he once called home is now a mass grave. All around him are the bodies of his fellow soldiers and his hated enemies. All of them mutilated in some form. Some still with their hands wrapped around their rifles, their knives, and the necks of their opponent. One soldier, his commanding officer, is missing his head. Yet his sword is still held tightly in his grip.

He checks where the pain is greatest. He finds a bayonet embedded in his stomach. Blood has soaked his uniform, running down to his muddy boots. Strange, he also remembers being shot. Right where the bayonet was. Perhaps one of these greenbacks thought it best to push the bullet further in.

The Legionnaire tries to move. Pain flares across every fiber of his being. He shuns the pain and lifts his arm. Just out of reach is his rifle. The rifle he was given when he was a trainee. The rifle that he carried with him as an auxiliary, and the rifle that he held this trench with.

With some effort, he finally has a grip on his weapon. He checks the chamber. It's empty. Of course. He spent all twelve of his rounds keeping the enemy back. What good that did. He scavenges through his pouches until he finds two stripper clips. The last two on his person. Twelve rounds left to hold this line.

He loads his rifle and pushes his muscles to their limit so that he may move to the firing step. Every step through the pile of bodies and slippery trench is agonizing. But he is a legionnaire, pain is merely an obstacle. He leans himself against the edge of the trench to catch his breath. He looks over the top to see nothing but destruction. The wreckages of tanks zig zag across the barren wasteland that was once a field of flowers. Bodies of his enemy, Colonials foolish enough to launch an assault, lay everywhere.

It's quiet here. In the distance, he can hear the endless thunder of artillery, bursts of a machine gun, and explosions that would claim the lives of Warden and Colonial alike. But in his little sector. It's the calm before the storm.

The Legionnaire looks back. He can see Legion's Ranch, a shell of its former glory. Buildings crumbled, fires raged, and smoke rose high into the blackened sky. But through the destruction of the city he calls home, standing tall over the Town Hall is the beautiful Blue Flag of Coaiva. The Symbol of the Callahan's Legion still stands above the Ranch- and so shall he.

The Legionnaire raises his rifle toward the enemy and waits. He can see them approaching now. Only a small platoon. More than his rifle has the ammo capacity for. But that's why he had the bayonet. The pain in his stomach flares. He vomits out some blood. It's getting much more difficult to breathe. Short breaths.

Callahan, he wheezes, grant me the strength... to defeat your enemy. Grant me the strength... to hold this line to my last breath. Grant me victory as Legion Ranch stands.

Bestow upon me the strength to kill one last traitor.

The Legionnaire, with breath in his lungs and his rifle in his hands, takes steady aim at his approaching foe.

"For Callahan."