Foxhole // Mission One: Armor

[Watcher In The Myst]

I said corporal or lower

[Ad Bot]

[Frontrox]

I said corporal or lower

Whoops, didn't see that...

[Comatose]

I'm just going to start.


The trenches were anything but quiet, with the screams and moans of dying and injured soldiers mixed with the squeal of falling artillery. As the dirt and sand fell from the sky, I ran through the trenches, tripping over bodies of the dead and wounded.

I was a Dugout Sargeant, entrusted with running a barracks made of dirt and sand. I moved quickly down the steps as others ran up past me, getting ready to take watch. They acknowledged me with a curt nod as they turned a corner and disappeared from the entrance of the dugout.

I walked in after descending the steps, the smell of sweat hitting me immediately. Despite the fact that we were underground, it was a sweltering 93 degrees Fahrenheit which left many of our cots drenched in sweat as we took naps. You were lucky if your cot wasn't soiled when it was your shift to rest.

I opened a box of MREs, turning back toward the men. "Rations!"

[Gojira]

I see an enemy pop his head over a trench wall. Bam. Dead. I see him drop like a stone. The trenches weren't quiet at all, with artillery and moaning busrtsing our eardrums, not to mention the gunfire.
Going to bed, good night.

[Mikoyan]

"Der'mo" I say, wiping my dirty, sweaty face with my gloved hand. I pick up my M249 and walk over to the Dugout Sergeant. I nod my head and reach for one of the MREs. I take one from the box and look up at the Sergeant, "Thank you?" I say, confused, obviously knowing only a lick of English. I then start preparing the meal.

[SWAT One]

Lol, funny thing is, I made a Blockland TDM centered around Turkish tensions in 2037.

[NoZoner]

Name: Andrew McClellan
Class: Rifleman
Rank: Lance Private
Age: 22
Gender: Male
Physical Description: 6' tall, wiry, brown eyes, brown hair, average strength and agility
Personality: Generally irritable but occasionally quiet and contemplative, only bold enough to do what is necessary
Nationality: American


I glumly stare at the packet of food in my hand, wondering for the umpteenth time what exactly moved me to join the military and participate in this godforsaken war.

The loud boom of a shell explosion reverberates through the dirt walls, filling the room with deep vibrations.  A clod of dirt falls onto my head. I let out a sigh and claw at my hair with my free hand to brush off the coarse particulate.

It's been a few months since I began active duty, and maybe only a few days before I was stationed here. So far, every waking moment has been filled with nothing but suffering. I only expected as much, but despite everything I've done to condition my mind and body, nothing could have prepared me for this. I can't imagine that things aren't going to get better any time soon either.

After I finish eating the MRE, I do a field strip of my M8 and begin to wipe away some of the carbon buildup. I've fired a few thousand rounds since the last cleanup, so I figure I should get to work before things get too dirty.

XM8 v2

If it's no longer in development and being mass produced, you might want to remove the "X" and change the designation to "M8A2" or something

[blazerblock2]

Name: Alexander Schock
Class: Rifleman
Rank: Junior Sergeant
Age: 20
Gender: Male
Physical Description: Approx. 6'0, crew cut brown hair, various tactical pouches on kevlar, self-painted camouflage M8 carbine, most likely listening to his iPod.
Personality: Usually talkative unless wearing ear buds, probably scared out of his wits.
Nationality: American, German roots.
Other: Was drafted straight out of college, only combat experience is in video games.
Callsign: "Shock"
Picture:

[Mikoyan]

Name: Alexander

hey


bitch

[Comatose]

I hand out the MREs, half-smiling. Eventually a soldier walks up cradling an M249. "..Thank you?" His thick Russian accent hits me as he walks away, but I brush it off. His nationality means nothing.

As I hand out the last MRE, a boom sounds over our dugout, sprinkling dirt, dust, and sand in the dugout. I watch as men grumble and brush dirt off of their heads. Suddenly a soldier rushes up to me, panicking. "Sir, I need ammo! I lost it all trying to fight some Syrian ba-"

"I'm just going to stop you right there. Take your ammo and calm down," I say before handing him a couple MP7 mags. Embarrassed, he runs back up the stairs and disappears out of sight.

Behind me, I check my watch chart. Right on schedule, the two previous watchmen return. I hand them both MREs before announcing next watch.

"Private McClellan, Private Belousov! You're on watch!"

[blazerblock2]

hey


bitch

Alexander was originally a German name fcuk of

EDIT: Or was it Roman...?

[Watcher In The Myst]

OP updated


A heavy rain and a thick fog rolls in. I climb out of the entrance/exit of the low dugout wearing a trench and a hood. "loving- fog? God dammit." Walking back into the dugout, I call out, "Hey, I need all of you support guys out here, and get flashlights, ASAP. Fog is here, that gives the forgets a chance to attack."

[Comatose]

As McClellan and Belousov walk out for watch, a thick fog sets in. Suddenly, a woman walks in. "Hey, I need all of you support guys out here, and get flashlights, ASAP. Fog is here, that gives the forgets a chance to attack."

"You heard her, everybody that has some sort of light machine gun, get topside!"

[blazerblock2]

As Claire finishes her statement, Alexander and several others call out, the words echo eerily through the trenches, over, and over...
... "Contact left!  Contact left!"

[Watcher In The Myst]

"stuff! I got contacts front, open fire!"