The Future Thanksgiving Story

[Madcap_Magician]

This is a formal announcement: Madcap_Magician hereby announces his intention to write a fanfic with a Thanksgiving theme. He hereby claims dibs on the subject. If Wesforce, VO, etc. even THINK about stealing my topic, they be dead!

[Madcap_Magician]

Five men were left. They huddled about the dying embers of the fire, desolate and forlorn. The gaunt looks on their faces testified to the depths of their suffering. The silent night stood in stark contrast to the blazing gunfire, screaming shells, and screaming men whose faint shadows still danced in the eyes of the survivors. Five men were left.
The ranking officer was a sergeant. A buck sergeant, not that much older than the corporal and three privates around him. They looked to him with sad, questioning eyes, and for the first time, he could not find the answers in the three stripes on his sleeves. It was a cold November in Russia.
With all the glory going to the chronosphere assault on Moscow, many people had forgotten about the everyday line grunt still slogging his way through Western Russia. But these survivors were members of the 7th Light Infantry Division, one of three American divisions still fighting their way through the plains of Poland into the heart of the Iron Curtain.
The war may have been one of blinding speed and miraculous weapons. If you were in Moscow. But here in the red-spattered snow, the war was going nowhere. And the combatants were just as likely to use rocks to smash the enemy as they were to use rifles.
Sergeant Johnson kicked off his boots. The lull in the fighting was unbelieveable, and he was experienced enough to take full advantage of that.
"Change your socks."
"Sergeant?" Private McWhorter said. He was the least experienced of all of them. Two months out of basic training. Heaven certainly favored the new people. The meat grinder of Central Eurasia was not so kind.
"Change your socks. They're wet. If you don't change your socks, your feet will rot." Sergeant Johnson was tired.
"Sergeant. It's almost Thanksgiving. I wonder if the Russians celebrate Thanksgiving."
"Private McWhorter, the Russians don't have Thanksgiving. It's an American holiday. Besides, what have you got to be thankful for?" The bitter, caustic voice of Corporal Sanders cut into the naive young private. Sanders survived on grit, cynicism, and pure meanness. He was a professional survivor.
McWhorter was near tears. "I remember my Mom's cooking. She and my grandma would always be baking around this time. Two days before Thanksgiving. We'd all be together..."
"Makes you think." Private Allen spoke up. "Last year I wanted a new car. Now, I'd be in heaven if I was warm and dry and safe."
The last private spoke in a whimper. "My grandpa's at home right now. Splittin' would. We'd have a big turkey roast over a fire, all the family was there."
"Just shut up. You're going to get us killed." Corporal Sanders was less than enthralled.
"Let them talk, Corporal." Sergeant Johnson's voice was kindly and sad. "It's about all they've got left to do."
The eerily empty landscape greeted them the next morning. A bank of dense fog swept in, covering the foxholes in a blanket of cool mist. Peace swept the field.
Distant rumbles announced a storm. Lightning flashed, and a hard rain poured down. It didn't look like the survivors had anything to be thankful for this rainy Thanksgiving.



To be continued.

(Note: I continue stories in the same post, I just edit them. So when this story is done, it will all be on this post. Thank you! - Madcap.)

[KÖNIGSTIGER]

well, until you run out of room, that is.

otherwise, nice start mon ami!

[Toxic10x]

ahh... just fow I remember the thanksgivings of my youth...


heh, pretty cool so far MM ;)