And once again I’m summoned, desires cast aside.

I don’t have a devil, a god, nor a wife…

列兵 Li, like the vast majority of the ten million strong 人民志愿军, was nondescript in the extreme. At 1.61m in height, 55 kg in weight, black hair in the standard military cut, black eyes in the same mold as the rest of his kind. Like all the others his dull tan cotton uniform was heavily worn and patched in the expected places, the various pouches festered with numerous random doodads commandeered from the surrounding lands from back on his earth. His 53式步騎槍 is well worn but also well cared for: For that ancient rifle is worth more than his life, not that that say much of the value of either.

They are the vanguard of the revolution into another world. To succeed where the decadent capitalist Americans [of a parallel universe, not that any of them knew that part] failed to do in their 20 fruitless years in that unhappy land. They will bring this nowfound wretched and backward world into the modern age of the new socialist man.

By bullet or bayonet, the savages will be indoctrinated into the light.

The west to me is foreign, it’s east is not my east.

Behind the smoldering bridges, my heart had made its peace.

As Li stared at the forests of this new world around him in muted bewilderment. A city dweller of some nameless and forgettable grayish hive of a city his entire life thus far, the level of untamed greenery before him was something he only saw in picture books and heard in public radio broadcasts, never in the flesh. He could almost say the same for the sights and sounds, If it weren't for the continuous rumbles of the a seemingly endless line of 59式坦克 battlemaster tanks rolling through the portal, bellowing clouds of smoke of hate and discontent, as if announcing to the the world their readiness to unleash hell upon all those in their way, whether they be protesting university students, starving peasants, pacifist monks, or unwanted newborns.

Whichever land, in whichever world. He knows his duty. What must be done. What will be done.

Today I see tomorrow, otherwise than then.

Victory, like payment, depends upon what’s spent.

As the hordes of conscripts fanned out across the land, descending upon the world like the horde of locusts that they were regardless of which world they’re in. While the trucks and tanks drink fuel and eat metal, the foot soldiers and pack mules can live off of the land just fine.

And this land is rich in resources, even though the peasants who they commandeered the grain and other stuff from all bore the marks of starvation and abuse. Nothing new here of course, for the liberation of the oppressed people of the worlds is the reason that they are sent here to this other world.

Soon after the local landlords were found, who had dressed themselves up in the archaic armors of them olden days white devils, charged at them. Equally ancient swords at their hands ready for battle.

And they were shot to pieces. The harsh barks of submachine guns and rifles from the PVA soldiers cut them down much like the other luckless armies before. The same dance of gunfire beating valor once again being played out. The difference is not for the always condemned natives, but for the interlopers, who for the first time in centuries are on the side of superior firepower.

The advantage they took advantage with relish.

I’ll die the 13th soldier, and I won’t give a damn!

I don’t know how to live life, much less how to kill.

Combat. That’s easy. Just follow orders, fire weapons, and fight. What happens after, not so much.

It's all something he has to live with, again and again.

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Best not to think of those things. People who do don’t live very long. There are things not meant to be known.

Another village, now just ashes and rubble. Another group of starving peasants, now relieved of their suffering through the release of death, their bodies disposed of in unmarked mass graves, the bones from the previous unmarked mass graves now stewed everyone. Blood flowed freely, as is fire and agony.

The country a cauldron bubbling upon those who are left.

And good luck charms aren’t needed for those who’ll be erased.

With shaken hands Li reslung his rifle, the adrenaline coursing through his veins and the ringing through his ears. They have survived yet another skirmish. Another group of something or the other, all out to slaughter them all the same. It’s dark out, and the shadows hungers for the souls of men.

It’s not supposed to be like this. They’re supposed to be the liberators. To be welcomed with open arms by the masses of the oppressed.

Yet they’re hated. By everyone. Everything. As if the very ground calls upon their death. Every blade of grass, every leaf of every tree, all cried out for their demise. For their death.

For their utter and complete destruction.

Just like all the others before them, and though he did not dare to even think of the possibility, all the ones after them too.

He is not special, their cause is not special. Nothing is special, and those who are not special are dead, will be dead.

He sees it all around him, the mountains of the dead, the dying, and the soon to be dead. He should have felt fear, but he did not. The shaking of his hands more of the reaction of a stranger than of his own body.

But we’ll be leaving early, our death will carry on.

With little more than a smile, and a pair of combat boots.

The day began like any other, more fighting, more shooting, more killing. The scenes all the same: picturesque places once again stained with the blood of many.

As he cycled through the motions of his rifle once again, the rote memorization picked up where his mind had already failed before.

This time it’s demons again, like a tide of red and black shadows they slither and leap through the ground, their claws glint off the sunlight of the day like bayonets ready for violence. Fireballs streaked above, smashing into the lines of PVA conscripts almost like… artillery. Almost like they’re fighting a real army, like the stories about the Americans, the Indians, the Soviets, or the Vietnamese…

The unsettling thought of these demonic enemies being possibly more than just mindless creatures had almost no time in his mind when a massive blast took Li off of his feet.

As he recovered from his shock and got back to his feet the first thing he noticed was that his cover had been blown off. It was a trivial thing to be concerned about, but something within him at that moment insists that it’s of the utmost importance, even more than his rifle, the same rifle that’s worth more than his life.

Then he saw it, lying in the dust, despite the usual grime and dirt, looked almost pristine. The world around also suddenly seemed to have gone quiet, as if to give him a moment of contemplation.

There is nothing to contemplate however, and Li reaches for the cover, only for his hands to go right through. Blinking, he tried again, and again, the same result each time. He looked at his hand, the same worn appearance as always, the same callouses, the same badly healed scars.

He looked around, the battle swirling around him with uninterrupted pace and intensity. Yet all felt so far away even if he could touch them- he reached out, and a demon barreled on through his arm, as if it’s not even there.

Then he saw it. Lying there, the crumpled body of which he only recognized from the tatters of what’s left of the uniform.

“Yes. it do be like that.” A voice cut through the still receding babble of combat as Li felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around, seeing the face of an American soldier, whose uniform was much more advanced but still worn with age.

“Who are you?” He asked the mysterious soldier, who now he sees is not alone, and behind him a group of other… soldiers? In various garbs in which even from his untrained eyes could see that they are from different times and places.

“Know that you’re not alone.” The American said, ignoring Li’s question.

And vanquished in the desert by mirages I marched on through.

As if through a swamp of heads of whom I have no idea who.

And now he’s dead. Dead as in his soul, which he didn’t even know he had before his demise, has left the physical body.

Yet he did not feel sadness, anguish, or all those things. It was all for nothing, yet at the same time he felt no great loss. Belatedly he realized a realization had hit him.

Forsaken by all but for all the other forsaken soldiers, he now joined a new brotherhood of the dead.

Stumbling like a drunkard, wherever I looked around-

-I’m one of Kipling’s soldiers, I wouldn’t tell a lie.