Los Angeles defector

"Battleground"

The Vampire Legion's 6th Division, 18th Division, 114th Division, and 9th Brigade, totaling over 100,000 troops, have landed in Long Beach with the cover of 155 ships. Their objective is clear: seize Playa del Rey and then cut off the California railway to completely encircle the Los Angeles defenders. This is the deadly final blow of the Vampire Legion on the precarious battlefield of Los Angeles. Los Angeles is in grave danger!

The latest telegram from General Mark Wayne Clark, the overall commander of the right-wing forces on the Los Angeles battlefield, to the 67th Army reads as follows: "Enemy forces have landed in Long Beach today and are advancing towards Playa del Rey. The 67th Army is to swiftly advance towards Playa del Rey with light equipment and deliver a decisive blow to the enemy, prioritizing the security of our right wing in Los Angeles." This is the last original telegram order ever received by the 67th Army in its history.

Considering the urgent situation at hand, the headquarters of the 67th Army convened an emergency military meeting in Pasadena during the night. The 107th Division is currently en route to Playa del Rey, while the 108th Division has not yet arrived in Pasadena. The Vampire Legion's landing operation has been completed, and they are undoubtedly advancing rapidly from south to north towards Playa del Rey. Playa del Rey is a small place with no basic fortifications or natural defenses. The surrounding area is flat and open, leaving only the hope of resistance in the water network area to the south of Playa del Rey. It was ultimately decided to establish the headquarters in Pasadena, with the deputy commander remaining stationed there. The army commander, along with the staff, will proceed to Playa del Rey to establish a forward command post. The 107th Division is ordered to directly advance to Playa del Rey and deploy defensive positions along the route to hinder and resist the incoming enemy. The 108th Division will follow and garrison the interior of Playa del Rey. The orders were immediately issued.

In the late night, amidst intermittent drizzles, a grey-colored unit struggled to advance through the intersecting water channels, the obscure and impenetrable water fields with reeds, and the muddy and cold rain. The flashes of explosions to the east began to stand out, one after another, like the magnesium lights at a news scene. The pale and crimson lights occasionally struck the underside of the clouds above, casting a monstrous and sinister shadow on the low-hanging dark clouds, making them appear eerie and desolate. There was no need for torches; the reflective glow from the ever-changing dark clouds overhead was enough to illuminate the path. Pasadena had long been left behind, yet the unit did not stop but instead accelerated its pace, swiftly moving forward. A messenger brought the new destination, "Playa del Rey," to the vanguard unit.

Raindrops slowly slid down the curved brim of the hat, crawling over the dense black eyebrows and merging with the sweat on the resolute, chiseled cheeks. The soaked military uniform had turned a deep gray, clinging to the skin and forming rounded creases. The M1 rifle slanted against the back, occasionally bumping into the leather belt, while the puttees were wrapped in mud, almost becoming an extension of the boots, forcing Jason to take a detour whenever he spotted a water channel nearby to shake off the burden of the mud.

As they marched, the sound of gurgling water reached Jason's ears. He followed the sound and ran off the road. Before they set off, Old Blackskin handed Jason the M1 rifle and exchanged it for a leather belt and a worn-out canteen. The canteen was now empty, and in the darkness, he could only discern that it was a small stream. Regardless of whether the water was clear or murky, he took off the canteen and immersed it in the stream, filling it up. Then he splashed the icy stream water onto his face, instantly feeling refreshed.

Taking a deep breath, Jason stood by the stream, his chest held high as he looked back. The winding line of troops flowed like the stream, disappearing into the dark distance, seamlessly blending into the rainy night. In another fleeting moment of illumination, Jason suddenly noticed a distinctive figure in the rear of the formation. Thin and small, this figure seemed out of place among the others, capturing Jason's attention. He quickly walked back to the marching route and stood in place, waiting until the small figure moved closer to him.

"Halt!"

Startled by the low shout, stumbled for a moment. He carefully identified the figure blocking his path and saw a foolish-looking lad grinning, teeth bared.

Based on the continuous stream of retreating soldiers on the California railway line, Jason knew that this battle was not going well. Before their departure, Jason and Old Blackskin discussed and decided not to bring the foolish lad along. They left him at the station, telling him to rejoin the team if they returned in a few days, but if they didn't, he should find another way to make a living. However, this lad secretly followed them all the way.

Facing the foolish lad's silly grin, Jason's serious face remained unchanged. He lifted his foot and tripped the lad, causing him to fall flat on his back in the mud. "Go back where you came from!" Jason exclaimed.

The foolish lad was a bit confused. He couldn't understand why Jason suddenly became so fierce. He sat in the mud, motionless and silent.

"Go back right now!" Jason spoke again.

"I won't be a deserter. I want to go back to the Third Platoon," the lad said.

This sentence almost made Jason burst into laughter, and his tone softened slightly. "You're not even a soldier to begin with. It was fine to have you around before, but now we're heading to the battlefield, risking our lives. Do you understand?"

"Why can you all go, but I can't? Even if I go back and become a beggar, I'll starve to death sooner or later. There are beggars everywhere, have you seen any of them getting enough to eat? We're all going to die anyway, so why can't I die in the Third Platoon?" the lad argued.

As Jason looked at the mud-stained and stubborn figure of the foolish lad, who appeared much smaller than his fourteen years, he felt a mix of emotions in his heart. It was hard to say whether it was sadness or helplessness. They stood and sat, one tall and one small, their figures resembling statues in the rainy night, locked in a prolonged gaze...

Running all the way had left Old Blackskin breathless. He noticed a dark, unknown tree standing alone by the side of the road and decided to sit down under it, leaning against the trunk to catch his breath. He looked back at the marching troops, wondering where that lad Jason had gone. He was just behind him a moment ago, but now he had disappeared. Even I could keep up, so how could he, with his strong physique, fall behind? Could he have deserted under the cover of darkness? Damn it, if he ran away, it would be for the best. Being alive is a blessing. Looking at the dark and damp surroundings of this unfamiliar place, Old Blackskin felt uncomfortable all over. This was not a good omen. I'd rather be buried on the sunny hill in my hometown than suffer and die in this damp and gloomy place. The thought made him involuntarily spit, "Pah! What am I thinking? Bad luck, bad luck."

As the pause grew longer, Old Blackskin's sweat dried up, and the chilling, damp air immediately penetrated his wet military uniform, causing him to shiver involuntarily. He quickly stood up, gathered himself, and rejoined the marching troops. The numb figures trudged along, their movements mechanical. Occasionally, someone stumbled and fell into the muddy ground, only to get back up again. Old Blackskin increased his pace, determined to catch up with the third platoon. Unintentionally, he ended up behind a small figure. The silhouette looked familiar—could it be that foolish lad who loved to eat? Without thinking, Old Blackskin quickened his steps and caught up, reaching out to pat the small figure's shoulder.

"Oh my goodness!" The foolish lad, who had been running behind Jason with his head down, suddenly felt a withered hand on his shoulder. Instantly, he was frightened out of his wits and his legs gave way, causing him to fall into the mud. He turned his head and took a closer look. "Platoon Leader!"

Jason heard the strange cry from behind and stopped, turning around to see none other than Platoon Leader Old Blackskin of the third platoon.

"Oh, Jason! I thought it was... cough... foolish lad, why did you follow us, you gluttonous brat? Are you truly lacking common sense, or have you not grown a brain yet?" Old Blackskin exclaimed.

Jason pulled the foolish lad up from the ground and adjusted the oversized sleeves of his military uniform. He said to Old Blackskin, "This lad doesn't want to be a deserter, and we can't chase him away."

Sighing, Old Blackskin replied, "Foolish lad, your life is your own. You'll have to figure it out for yourself."

Jason, Old Blackskin, and the foolish lad slowly caught up with the rear of the third platoon, returning to the third company. The five figures merged back into the background of hundreds and thousands of others, becoming a gray rushing river flowing through the mud, passing through fields and ravines, and flowing towards the unfamiliar waters of a distant land.