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As the sky sublimed into the ground, while the storm of rounds raged on. On that 7th day of that month, in that forsaken and accursed land.

For the handful of marines of the platoon, their orders are as simple as hard: to defend and hold their zone, till the end.

The sergeant looked at the men, that he trained for the upcoming baptism of fire. Trusted in him they do, as they trusted in God, Country, and the Corps.

He was the one who snapped them into shape through sharp obscenities, and he'll bear the burden of rounds in combat. All as the orders condemned them to-

That accursed land.

……

There’s a saying among the old timers, that ‘the gods here aren't so great after all’. And thus none of its inhabitants will ever be pardoned by that [damn place].

Already the first of the savage attacks have died down to a dull roar, joining the screech of trucks behind them leaving, loaded with those who they sworn to protect.

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Throughout the line they held, facing countless thousands of enemies. Not another word needs to be penned of their devotion to duty.

The sergeant looked at his men proudly, for so far there’s not a single casualty. Meaning that they have taken their lessons well, through their baptism of fire.

Maybe there’s something about a NCO’s prestige, the meaning of a sergeant’s bravado. That the green silkies of theirs may never be stained red with blood.

That he might shield his troops but for a moment longer, till Valhalla and beyond. And to leave not a single soul behind.

Maybe it’s a NCO’s privilege, to bear the burden of war. No whining, no theatrics, just grim professionalism.

Not a complaint about the withdrawal, but to cover their departure. The last one to leave, in that bitter and fruitless month.

……

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Then there’ll be the return back home, a march down the streets of Camp Lejeune. Where their return will be met with praise and scorn.

Afterwards there’ll be the shower of ribbons and awards, and remain with them forever the cruel untreated PTSD. Where all hopes fall apart, like their relations with their loved ones.

Later on, всё потом.

But for now they still have a duty to do, to secure the perimeter, and to fill the sandbags with dirt. For what are they but those ready to lay down their lives?

As the forward observers informed them once again of yet another wave of the enemy. All just a week before the withdrawal…

Of that accursed world.