War!!!
July 19, 1997
As you walk along Myrtle Beach, you see all the people lying on the white sand, happy and content. They haven't seen what you've seen. They haven't killed hundreds of people. They haven't had their best friends die before their eyes. Most of all, none of them ever lost the use of their right leg. You remember the time like it was yesterday.
It was in World War II. You and your comrades were providing cover fire on a bunker so that another team could proceed up the hill. At first, everything went smoothly... until the bunker stopped firing. You halted the machine gunner beside you. "There's no way we killed them all," he had argued.
You did not give him the command to stop, however. You first noticed something was wrong when an explosion erupted from the bunker, and you heard the screams of the advancing squad. "Mortars!" the sergeant screamed. "They have damn mortars!"
"Fire!" you scream to the gunner, but it is too late.
A single mortar shell catapults from the building, landing only a few feet away from your team. The last thing you saw before you blacked out was your old college roommate, Steve Cartleson, being knocked to the ground, and blood staining the grass.
You were the only survivor of that failed mission. It wasn't even recorded. Nobody knew what you and your team had struggled with. To them, it was nothing. The medics told you that your leg had suffered severe nerve damage, and would have to be cut off.
You remember the pain as the blades cut through your flesh. The leg you use now is fully mechanic, except for a single flap of skin. They put it there to help you, but all it does is hurt you. Suddenly, your cell phone interrupts your thoughts. It's Sergeant Rocksin. "Gerald Hilster?" the military officer asked.
"Yes, sir," you reply.
"Germany has just attacked the White House," he said. "The President, the Vice President, and all of Congress are dead."
"How did this happen?" you ask unbelievingly.
"We think that a small group of Nazi survivors banded together with terrorists throughout Europe and are now residing on a remote island in the Northern Pacific. They have enlisted troops to attack all surrounding countries to ensure their safety and increase territorial boundaries. We need you in San Francisco tomorrow at 3:00."
"But my leg-" you begin.
"We'll get around that, but we need you," the sergeant said. "You're our only hope."
As you walk along Myrtle Beach, you see all the people lying on the white sand, happy and content. They haven't seen what you've seen. They haven't killed hundreds of people. They haven't had their best friends die before their eyes. Most of all, none of them ever lost the use of their right leg. You remember the time like it was yesterday.
It was in World War II. You and your comrades were providing cover fire on a bunker so that another team could proceed up the hill. At first, everything went smoothly... until the bunker stopped firing. You halted the machine gunner beside you. "There's no way we killed them all," he had argued.
You did not give him the command to stop, however. You first noticed something was wrong when an explosion erupted from the bunker, and you heard the screams of the advancing squad. "Mortars!" the sergeant screamed. "They have damn mortars!"
"Fire!" you scream to the gunner, but it is too late.
A single mortar shell catapults from the building, landing only a few feet away from your team. The last thing you saw before you blacked out was your old college roommate, Steve Cartleson, being knocked to the ground, and blood staining the grass.
You were the only survivor of that failed mission. It wasn't even recorded. Nobody knew what you and your team had struggled with. To them, it was nothing. The medics told you that your leg had suffered severe nerve damage, and would have to be cut off.
You remember the pain as the blades cut through your flesh. The leg you use now is fully mechanic, except for a single flap of skin. They put it there to help you, but all it does is hurt you. Suddenly, your cell phone interrupts your thoughts. It's Sergeant Rocksin. "Gerald Hilster?" the military officer asked.
"Yes, sir," you reply.
"Germany has just attacked the White House," he said. "The President, the Vice President, and all of Congress are dead."
"How did this happen?" you ask unbelievingly.
"We think that a small group of Nazi survivors banded together with terrorists throughout Europe and are now residing on a remote island in the Northern Pacific. They have enlisted troops to attack all surrounding countries to ensure their safety and increase territorial boundaries. We need you in San Francisco tomorrow at 3:00."
"But my leg-" you begin.
"We'll get around that, but we need you," the sergeant said. "You're our only hope."