Los Angeles defector

Five soldiers

Jason got off the car, tightened his collar, adjusted his hat, and felt a strange emptiness around his waist and shoulders. During his time as a platoon leader, he had used a floral-patterned machine g*n, which he had returned when he left the unit. According to regulations, he could now go to the supply department to get a new g*n, but Jason dismissed the idea. Not to mention whether the supply department still had any guns available, even if he could get one, there were uncertainties about its condition and whether it would fire properly. It would be more of a burden than a help. He decided to rely on his trusty burning stick as he set off on foot, pushing through the crowd, searching along the platform for his new unit to report to.

In a corner of the platform, the platoon leader sat with his legs crossed on an ammunition box. His rough, dark hands caressed the shiny tin case of a pocket watch. With a gentle press of a button, the watch cover popped open, revealing the crystal-clear dial, ticking away with precise rhythm under the dim lights of the platform. After carefully examining it for a while, he couldn't help but mutter to himself, "What the hell time is it? Hmm..."

"Report! Soldier Jason reporting to the platoon," a deep and powerful voice interrupted the platoon leader's murmuring.

In the dim light, a slightly thin man in his twenties stood before him. For some reason, his gray, worn-out uniform, with its wrinkles, appeared particularly upright and stern on him. Amidst the disheveled soldiers on the platform on this rainy night, he seemed out of place, like a serene moonlight reflecting on a tranquil lake after passing through a dark thorny forest.

The platoon leader closed the watch and held it in his palm, looking up at Jason. This poor guy had been demoted to a private, yet he still had such a presentable appearance. Old Blackskin, that old fox, had chosen a good son-in-law. Thinking this, the platoon leader chuckled and said to Jason, "Hmm, Jason. I heard you let go of over a dozen deserters without shooting them in the back. Well done. It seems you're a man of character, and I like that. Once you're in the platoon, we'll be like one entity, sharing the same pants, drinking from the same bowl, and working hard in my platoon. Hmm, let's see, I'll assign you to the third squad. Now you can go over there by the wall and find your father-in-law, the squad leader." Amidst the laughter from the surroundings, Jason saluted crisply, officially joining the platoon.

This is a typical platoon leader, Jason thought to himself, describing him as reckless, selfish, and inflexible. Although he had these thoughts, it didn't mean that Jason disliked him. At least dealing with a platoon leader like him was easy, uncomplicated. However, the battlefield is often full of complexities. Hopefully, the platoon wouldn't pay too high a price in lives because of this platoon leader. As he pondered this, Jason suddenly realized that perhaps he was the one who was too complex. It was his own complexity that had cost the lives of the entire platoon on that machine g*n position. The painful, terrified, helpless faces, the endless flames of fire, and the continuous wailing suddenly flashed through Jason's mind, causing him to black out. He was the least deserving person to judge others!

Old Blackskin held onto Jason's hand and refused to let go, making even someone as experienced as Jason feel a bit embarrassed and unable to find an opportunity to let go.

"Jason, you finally made it. Are your wounds healing well?"

"I'm fine, as long as there's no problem. You shouldn't force yourself if there's something wrong."

"I'm definitely older than you, so I'll just call you Jason."

"Jason, from now on, we're family. You can't be distant."

"Platoon leader is just a fart. From now on, you can call me 'brother.' Otherwise, it means you look down on me."

On the side, Brown watched with a sour expression on his face. Why didn't they let me call him 'brother' when I enlisted? This is damn... The tall guy and the naive kid just smiled foolishly at Jason. The once cold and dilapidated wall had transformed into five figures...

Entering such a combat unit, Jason didn't know whether he should feel fortunate or saddened. He didn't think much about Old Blackskin's enthusiasm, but he finally had a basic understanding of this third platoon. Including himself, there were a total of five people. This scale couldn't even be considered a reserve unit, at best, it could be seen as a direct infantry squad within a company. This wasn't surprising; the reinforcement of personnel always lagged behind. Some units were even directly disbanded, leaving only a platoon. Jason had heard of it before. The grassroots command in the military was still quite outdated, focusing on concentrated attacks, defenses, and retreats. Under such simple command, there was really no need for further division. That's how the third platoon was now, with one platoon on the main offensive or defensive, the second platoon as support or reserve, and the third platoon being optional.

That's fine, Jason thought to himself. He couldn't find any solace anymore. Raised by bandits since childhood, he naturally became a small-time bandit himself. He once dreamed of mastering martial arts and roaming the world, and in his youth, he joined the military with aspirations of making a name for himself. But now, it was all shattered illusions. The lost homeland, the broken mountains and rivers, countless lives lost, and that nauseating but invincible bandit flag that served as a fig leaf. Failure after failure, retreat after retreat, endless wandering, and now he had wandered all the way to Los Angeles. What was all this for? For the homeland? The distant homeland was no more. For the country? What had the country given him? For loved ones? Unfortunately, he had never loved nor been loved. What is love anyway? Jason wished he could be a bit more foolish, a bit more ignorant, and not be tangled up in these vexing matters. Like the platoon leader, he could focus on the little trinkets in his palm. Because he was tired, he didn't want to be tired anymore. Fortunately, fate had given him the third platoon, this haven, even though he couldn't escape the smoke of war. But Jason was content.

It was only when Old Blackskin's bony hand rested on Jason's shoulder that he was awakened from his numb thoughts.

"Hey, Jason, why didn't you go get your rifle? That, uh, foolish kid, you're just eating without doing any work. Now go to the supply depot..."

Jason raised his hand to interrupt Old Blackskin. "Sergeant, don't bother. It's easier to move around empty-handed."

"You see, I told you to call me 'brother,' but you're still calling me 'sergeant.'" Then Old Blackskin slapped his forehead. "Hey, look at my confused mind. You're right, that rifle at the supply depot is just for fooling the new recruits. You can use mine." With that, he reached behind him and handed Jason the M1903 rifle.

All the raised metal parts were polished to a gleaming shine, emitting a faint glow. The handguard and stock had become smooth and comfortable from countless grips. Firearms, these objects, varied in quality. It wasn't something you could just grab any random one and be proficient with it. Often, it required the owner to fire multiple rounds and use it for a long time to gradually understand its patterns and become adept at handling it.

Jason handed the rifle back to Old Blackskin and said, "Sergeant, uh, brother, this rifle is something you've grown accustomed to. You should keep it for yourself. It won't feel right in my hands as a newcomer, and even if you switch rifles, it won't feel right for either of us. Why should we suffer through this?"

Old Blackskin, being a seasoned veteran, understood very well that Jason's words were not mere politeness, so he no longer insisted.

Brown, on the other hand, interjected at this moment, saying, "Hey, Sergeant, look at you being all sentimental. You were even willing to part with your pocket watch, so what's a rifle compared to that?" He gestured towards some fleeing soldiers in the distance and added, "See, there are plenty of rifles around. Just buy one for him, problem solved."

Hearing Brown's sarcastic remarks, Jason knew that he was the target of his jabs, but he smiled wryly and didn't mind. Old Blackskin also understood that Brown was teasing Jason and became a little annoyed. He retorted, "If I ever have money, I'll buy myself a coffin first and leave it for someone as short-sighted as you. How about that?"

Brown fell silent, and Old Blackskin didn't say anything more. The conversation came to a temporary end, and the five figures from the third platoon continued to crouch against the base of the wall, silently watching the "wandering souls heading west."

The naive lad didn't have a rifle either. The platoon leader thought he was too young and short, so he didn't let him have one and didn't teach him either. Of course, the lad himself had no interest in guns. He was just trying to make a living. What use was a g*n to him? But now, seeing the kind-hearted platoon leader almost getting upset over the rifle, the naive lad felt like he had to do something. He stood up, patted his bottom, and said he needed to relieve himself. In the blink of an eye, he disappeared into the darkness of the night.