Los Angeles defector

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The United States of America. On November 5, 1937, in Inglewood, a little-known water town on the California railway, the atmosphere was gloomy with a light rain. Winter was approaching, and as twilight fell, the sky had already turned completely dark. The town, usually quiet, was now bustling with hurried footsteps, accompanied by the clamor of mules and horses, weary gasps, and the moans of the injured. It was not a lively scene; instead, it carried a sense of desolation, an inexplicable solemnity and sorrow. In the fading light, the mud flowed like a river on both sides of the California railway, stretching endlessly into the darkness. Behind the hurried figures, in the dark eastern horizon, occasional cold flashes burst forth, intermittently illuminating the gloomy clouds and accompanied by rumbling thunder. That was Los Angeles, enduring the onslaught of vampire legions' artillery fire, making its final struggle.

The raindrops on the railroad trembled, carrying a heavy train that was roaring eastward from the west. This was the 107th Division of the 67th Army, a revolutionary force dispatched from the northern battlefield in California to reinforce Los Angeles. Just over ten days ago, they had endured a grueling battle on the defense line of San Francisco, and before they could receive any supplies, they received a presidential order and hastily boarded the southbound train. The majority of them were unaware that the defensive line in Los Angeles had already collapsed. They were the only unit moving eastward along the California line, tasked with covering the retreat of hundreds of thousands of fleeing soldiers. Their mission was to engage the enemy, but what kind of darkness awaited them was yet unknown.

More than seventy soldiers from the 1st Battalion, 3rd Company of the 638th Regiment, 319th Brigade of the 107th Division were crammed into a stuffy boxcar. Despite the cold wind constantly blowing in through the gaps and ventilation openings, the carriage still felt stifling. The floor was covered with dry grass, and most of the soldiers were lying down or curled up, taking a rest accompanied by the crisp collision of the wheels and the rails. There were two kerosene lamps in the carriage. One lamp was hanging in the center of the ceiling, swaying rhythmically with the movement of the train, casting a few dim rays of light that danced in a pattern on the mottled walls of the carriage. The other lamp was placed on the floor at one end of the carriage, where seven or eight people were sitting cross-legged, while a dozen or so others stood in a circle, observing.

Several tens of dollars were scattered in the middle. The second platoon leader, with a set of yellow teeth, took a cigarette and reached out to pick up the kerosene lamp from the floor. He unscrewed the cover at the top, brought it close to his face, and lit the cigarette with a flickering flame. He took a deep drag, smiled, and urged the man sitting opposite him, "Hey, Lieutenant, why don't you make your move? I've got a pair of sixes, not three sixes. Are you really that scared?"

Lieutenant Smith, the platoon leader of the 3rd Company, was tall and sturdy, with thick eyebrows, big eyes, and a square face—a typical Northwestern man. At this moment, he was sweating profusely, reaching up to unbutton the two buttons on his chest. "I've lost my last fifty dollars on this floor. Couldn't you bid farewell in advance? What's the rush?" After speaking, he clasped his hands together and muttered something, shaking the three dice in his palms. Suddenly, he threw them forcefully into the clay bowl on the ground, making a clattering sound. One, two, five...

"I'm done playing! Damn it, you're a swindler! Once we get off this train, I'll have the second platoon take the lead, and I'll make sure you have a good laugh." The lieutenant shifted back, leaning against the carriage, and grabbed the crumpled hat from the ground, fanning himself with it.

Captain Jones, the platoon leader of the 3rd Platoon, was dark and thin with a face full of wrinkles. Despite being in his thirties, he looked like he was in his forties. He was the oldest in the platoon, with over a decade of military service. He had a friendly disposition but was a bit stingy, which earned him the nickname "Old Blackskin" among the platoon members. This time, he didn't join the gambling because he had lost all his money three days ago. Instead, he stood by and watched. Seeing the lieutenant losing everything, he approached and sat down next to him, offering a cigarette.

"Lieutenant, before boarding the train, I heard that the officer who made a mistake is going to be transferred to our platoon as a private. Is this true?"

"Oh? You, Old Blackskin, have sharp ears and keen eyes. It's true. It seems that he's still injured and boarded the carriage for light casualties," replied the lieutenant. He rummaged in his pocket, pulled out a dried matchbox, struck it hard, and lit the cigarette offered by Old Blackskin. Taking a puff, he squinted his eyes and asked, "Why are you asking about this?"

"Hehe, Lieutenant, every time they fill up the first platoon and the second platoon, it never reaches the third platoon. It's about time you assigned this soldier to our third platoon," Old Blackskin said with a smirk.

The lieutenant looked at Old Blackskin, who appeared to be complaining in a comical manner, and chuckled. "Didn't we just assign one person to your third platoon before boarding the carriage? Why do you want another one now?"

Old Blackskin squeezed out a face of injustice. "What? Are you talking about that fourteen-year-old kid? He's shorter than the rifle he's holding, eats just as much as everyone else, and neither the first nor the second platoon wanted him. It was you, Lieutenant, who forcefully assigned him to us. Can that be considered a reinforcement? I have to speak up about this. Right now, the first platoon has forty-two people, the second platoon has twenty-five people, and our third platoon? Four people! And that's including me as the platoon leader and that brat. I'm not even as good as a squad leader."

"I tell you, Old Blackskin, you old soldier, don't be ignorant of your blessings. Our platoon has been understrength since we entered the service, and the higher-ups haven't sent us any reinforcements. What can I do about it? We've been in the same platoon since we joined, and you know that. How many rotations of soldiers have we had in the first platoon? How many changes of platoon leaders? How did I become the platoon leader? If you want, I can switch you with the first platoon leader," the lieutenant said.

Upon hearing this, Old Blackskin glanced around and saw that no one was paying attention. He awkwardly said, "Look, look, every time I try to talk to you, you argue with me. I'm not a young lad anymore. I'm physically weak, dizzy, and useless in the front lines. I can handle the support roles on the sidelines, but I can't be a main force. They only sent one person this time, and even if I add him to the first or second platoon, it won't make much of a difference. So they gave him to me, and now I barely have enough to form a squad. Isn't that how it goes?"

The lieutenant pondered in his mind. He thought, "Old Blackskin, in Portland, you never complained about having fewer subordinates. But now that we've received an additional soldier, you're eager to have him. This is not normal, definitely not normal! The battalion commander mentioned before we boarded the vehicle that the lad was the captain of a disciplinary squad. He let more than ten deserters escape while in Seattle and was subsequently demoted and expelled from the disciplinary squad. The higher-ups decided to assign him to my platoon as a soldier for this deployment, and I didn't inquire further at the time. It doesn't seem strange, does it? Could it be just because he used to be in the disciplinary squad? Is Old Blackskin planning to use his connections for his own desertion in the future? That's impossible! If this old fellow really wanted to escape, wouldn't he have done so already? Why wait until now? It's intriguing, this old fox. Regardless of his intentions, since he took the initiative to come to me, I should at least pluck a few feathers from him."

Having made up his mind, the lieutenant brushed off the cigarette ash from his body and chuckled, "Old Blackskin, I remember a while back on the battlefield, you stumbled upon a pocket watch, didn't you? So, how did that turn out? Did you keep it?"