Los Angeles defector

Calculated thoughts

Jason leaned against the corner of the lightly wounded compartment, his legs stretched out on a thick bed of hay. He covered himself with a dirty and greasy tattered blanket, closing his eyes to rest. When he first entered the country, he had taken a train. At the beginning, there was a sense of novelty, but once the train started moving, he realized that riding a train could be quite miserable. The trains used by the military were nothing like passenger trains with seats, windows, and toilets. They were all freight cars. The enclosed cars were considered better, at least they were not exposed to the sun and rain. Those who were assigned to open freight cars or flatbed cars carrying supplies had it the worst. Just the wind blowing throughout the journey could turn a person into a raisin. Before boarding the train, Jason received a notice to report to a new platoon. When passing through a compartment specifically arranged for lightly wounded personnel, he immediately claimed that his old injury had relapsed and refused the military doctor's examination upon boarding. He stayed in the compartment and didn't get off. Later, he learned that the platoon he was supposed to go to was also in an enclosed car. He didn't regret it though. At least the wounded compartment had a thick layer of hay, was quiet, had fewer people, and was spacious. Each person even received a military blanket, although it was small and worn-out.

The troops departed from New Burbank on October 30th and arrived in Pasadena on November 2nd. After a brief rest, they proceeded east and boarded the California railway. Today is November 5th. Although the rhythmic impact of the moving wheels on the tracks, the creaking and twisting of the carriages, and the whistling wind echoed throughout the compartment, Jason keenly sensed the faint rumble hidden behind these sounds. This sound was too familiar, like a curse. Even when he was sound asleep, he could distinguish it and immediately become alert, accompanied by an inexplicable numbness and headache. As the rumble gradually became clearer, Jason knew that they were nearing the battlefield and would soon disembark. Although they were in the south, that sound was the same no matter where they heard it.

Clang! As the heavy carriage slid open on the tracks, a cold and damp air rushed into the compartment, awakening everyone inside. Under the gloomy night sky, intermittent white steam released by the locomotive drifted across the dim platform. Thick clusters of steam dispersed throughout the platform. In the distance, a shouting order from a messenger could be heard, "All members of the 107th Division, disembark! Stand by in place! No loud noises! Stand by in place... No loud noises..."

Old Blackskin flicked away his cigarette butt, stretched lazily, and glanced at the damp platform beneath his feet. He looked around and slung his M1903 rifle over his shoulder. Stepping out of the crowd from the third platoon, he walked towards a nearby wind-sheltered low wall. He tore down an old poster from the wall and casually folded it, placing it on the ground to lean against the wall. Three other soldiers followed suit and leaned against the wall for shelter. The cold and mottled wall formed a backdrop for the four soldiers, representing the third squad. Among the three soldiers, the tallest and strongest was called Big Guy, an honest and hardworking individual. The average-height and ordinary-looking soldier was named Brown, who liked to complain. Standing at the same height as his rifle was a foolish fourteen-year-old kid who used to beg at the train station. He joined the troops just to have a meal.

"Platoon Leader, did you really give your pocket watch to the Company Commander?" Big Guy blinked his eyes and asked Old Blackskin.

"Yeah, I gave it to him. It's just a useless thing that we can't take with us when we die," replied Old Blackskin.

Upon hearing the Platoon Leader's words, Brown burst into laughter and interjected, "Am I hearing this right? You, Old Blackskin, who never misses an opportunity for personal gain! How come it sounds so out of character coming from you?"

"I've gotten older, become more open-minded, and changed my ways. You wouldn't understand," Old Blackskin retorted.

Brown looked at Old Blackskin with a nonchalant expression, smacked his lips, and pondered for a moment before saying, "Platoon Leader, I just don't get it. He's just a puppet company commander who got his position through connections. And you're willing to trade your pocket watch for him? Besides, I've seen enough of those so-called company commanders. Apart from ordering 'Attention' and 'At Ease' or catching deserters, what good are they? He used to be a low-ranking officer, so are you trying to worship your ancestors? I think you've really lost your marbles. Uh, not my words, even the guys in the company say the same."

Old Blackskin ignored Brown's remarks and simply stared at the passing figures outside the platform, each time the eastern light flashed, the distant crowd would momentarily become clear before plunging back into darkness, becoming vague and indistinct, as if large swaths of gray souls were wandering in hell.

Was Old Blackskin really confused? Of course not. He clenched his teeth and gave away the pocket watch because he knew who that person was. Jason Charles Bourne: A werewolf since childhood, he joined the military at the age of seventeen, attended Marion Military Institute, and later served as the captain of a direct subordination machine g*n platoon, holding the rank of major. During the Baltimore-Ohio Road Ambush against the vampire legion, the entire heavy machine g*n platoon was wiped out, and he was the only one who survived. The superiors believed that his command and deployment were to blame for the annihilation of the heavy machine g*n platoon, so he was demoted to captain and transferred to the Company Commander's position. However, he secretly let go of more than a dozen deserters on the battlefield, resulting in the removal of all his duties and military ranks, reducing him to a mere soldier. Old Blackskin knew all this because one of his friends was in the machine g*n platoon. They used to drink together, and his friend mentioned their captain, Jason, during those times. Of course, that friend also perished with the machine g*n platoon. Knowing about this person, Old Blackskin naturally paid attention to subsequent news from various sources.