Realistic or Modern 1937: The Second American Civil War

[SAIGO-NO-HEATS]

Chapter 1: The Washington Campaign
Once upon a time, America was a land of vast opportunity, but that was a long time ago..

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"In the Days immediately following General MacArthur's coup America had entered a standoff. The Longists had retreated into the deep south and the Syndicalists had gathered in mass in their Steel Belt capitols. MacArthur issued a general six week deadline for both sides to stand down, but it was clear even from the start that neither side was willing to let the other go without a fight. Calls went out across the nation as states declared themselves as loyal to one government or the other and along side recruitment for loyal militias swelled and began to organize, especially as whole units within the us military began to defect and pick sides.

In the Early days of March, 1937, as spring came into bloom and MacArthur's deadline loomed overhead, both the Syndicate's newly christened Continental Red Army and Long's personal army The Minutemen announced that they would be marching on the capitol to depose the "tyrannical madman" and "capitalist guard dog" who had undone the democratic process and restore the lawful government of the united states. While not immensely important strategically, onlookers believed that capturing the capitol would add a level of legitimacy to their new regime that would lessen the eagerness of the opposition. Both sides had naturally anticipated a fight, but neither had expected the extent of the hell they were marching into. Long's Army had believed that the Syndicates were little more than a disorganized angry mob that would scatter once any real fighting started, the Red Army had believed their sheer numbers would be enough to make the southerners take pause, and neither had expected much from the Fragmented and undersupplied US Army trapped in the capitol.

But the Federal Remnant had not sat idle in the weeks leading up to the conflict, and as the Rival Armies crossed into Virginia, they found that MacArthur and those still loyal had turned the surrounding countryside into a veritable hell of hidden machine gun nests and fighting positions, leading all the way back to Capitol hill. By the time the would be conquerors finally met in battle around the outskirts of Arlington, they had already been harassed and harried by the dogged efforts of the Federals. Now both sides look for a way to both scatter the other, while finding a way to pierce the defenses around the capitol."

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Hill 15, West of Arlington, Virginia. March 14th, 1937.
Lt. Augusto Greco, 2nd Guards Rifle Division, PRC Red Guards.

"Keep digging unless you want your fuckin' head blown off!" August shouted to a scattering of militiamen as they desperately tried to shovel out a trench big enough to offer some level of protection.

The fighting had started easy enough for his company, they'd made contact with nothing but scattered groups of Longist Militia and had driven them off easily, at points even chasing them down with gunfire from the back of trucks or the inside of moving cars, but run ins with Federal mines had made that approach untenable and it wasn't long after that they started encountering much hardier Longest forces who had been moved up the line to counter their breakthrough. After two days of what felt like near constant fighting they had found themselves trapped on this bastard hill, dodging Federal Artillery from somewhere in the city and Longist skirmishers taking potshots at them. They needed reinforcement bad, but there weren't a lot of places on the front where things were going much better.

"Ah, hell, they're back!" One of the Guards up the line gave a shout, followed by the crack of a rifle. The other soldiers in the half built trench gave out a variety of their own curses and made for their own rifles, answering with a scattered volley of fire throughout the tree line. Far down the hill, August could make out a thin line of movement, just enough for him to identify as an enemy combatant.

"Left Side, Let'em have it!" He shouted over the ring of gun fire and motioned to the men closest to him before leveling is Thompson and opening fire. Even in a short burst the Thompson kicked against him, taking all his might to keep it steady, but the burst of fire hit its mark. After about 3 minutes the fighting had once again died down, and one man in the trench was injured and another dead.

"Alright. Let's get back to digging."

 

[darth]

Jorge Ernesto "Ernie" Molina
Near Belle Haven, Virginia
March 15, 1937
111th Cavalry Regiment, Troop B

It had been nearly two weeks since Long's thugs and ragged Syndicalist militia bands began their assault on the capitol. The Federal troops, under MacArthur, had spent the better part of two months preparing defensive works in and around Arlington. They turned the once picturesque city sprawl and countryside into a maze of trenches, earthworks, barbed wiring, and minefields. While some believed that MacArthur's defense was a hopeless endeavor, the constant burst from Federal machine gun nests quickly shattered any notion that the Federals wouldn't put up a fight. Once the reality settled in, it became clear that this would be no easy task. With three sides vying for control, Arlington looked as though it would soon descend into a massive killing ground.

While MacArthur deployed the majority of his forces in a defensive pattern around the capitol, he still utilized his home field advantage. Knowing well enough that the so-called "Continental Red Army" and Longist militias were still inexperienced, MacArthur expects to meet an undisciplined resistance. He deploys his lighter infantry and cavalry along the extreme flanks. He hopes to harass enemy movement and disrupt any major attempts at a breakthrough. The 111th Cavalry Regiment is among the units utilized. Molina's unit is deployed in a screening position facing the offensive. Molina himself is tasked with forward reconnaissance, recording enemy strength and keeping an eye out for any opportunity to play havoc with the assault.

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"You see that Ernie?" Norman whispered. Ernie glanced left towards the direction Norman was pointing and redirected his binoculars. As the lens became clear, the forms of shadowy figures could be seen shuffling through the underbrush. Ernie lowered his binoculars and scratched his nose.

"Yeah, I see 'em," Ernie said, "A dozen of 'em maybe more..."

"They comin' this way?"

"I don't think so." Ernie rolled over on his side to reached into his chest pocket. He pulled out a hand-rolled cigarette and placed it between his lips. "They must be movin' off north, Long's got an attack cookin' west of the city."

"You think they're some of Long's boys?"

"I can't really tell," Ernie said. He starts feeling around his other pockets for his lighter.

"Honestly, hermano, they all look the same to me..."

"Mierda..."

"What is it?"

"Left my lighter back at camp I think, you got one?"

"You know I don't smoke."

"That's right I forgot." Ernie puts the cigarette back in his pocket. "You are not a very fun person."

Ernie chuckles before rolling back over to scan the treeline again.

"Whatever you say, hombre." Norman scoffs and takes a moment to take a sip from his canteen. "At least I ain't gonna get killed by one of them things, you know I heard that shit can make you real sick..."

Ernie laughed out loud this time, completely dismissing his friend's thought.

"You must be stupid too," he said, "You don't actually believe that right?"

"Some scientist said it, so, it's gotta be true then, right?"

"That the same scientist who said we all came from monkeys?"

"That's not the same thing..."

"Whatever you say..." Ernie said, still laughing.

"Hombre..."

 

[Jackson123]

15th March, 1937
Alexandria, Virginia
PFC Karl-Heinz von Behrendt
LAFSS “Stonewall” Division, 9th Infantry Regiment



The steam locomotive pulling the train come to a grinding stop at Alexandria, a city in Virginia south of Arlington, and the AUS troops that the train carrying got out. Full of awe and incredulity, the young men listened to the slow grinding pulse of the front, a rhythm they were to become familiar with over the years. The white ball of a shrapnel shell melted far off, sending the pungent smoke towards the blue sky of March. Washington DC, what was once the capital of a united country is just standing across the Potomac River not far up streams.

Karl had rarely been so excited in his life. The last time he was this thrilled was when he was finally accepted to service in the Kaiserliche Armee. He enjoyed the service life, he wouldn't have missed it. It was the General Staff that appointed him to serve as a volunteer in this upcoming American civil war, as such, he was really just voluntold. Not that he is complaining, he actually liked the appointment, this was like a boy going to the play the first time. There is a job to be done, so you just go and did it. In a weird sense it was akin to the Wandervogel movement he experienced back in Germany ---- anything to participate, just not to have to stay at home.

His father was a pilot in the Luftstreitkräfte during the Weltkrieg, he rarely talked about his experience, he only knew his old man "don't regret having experienced it".

Thus here he is, about to experience a world in conflict himself. The troops had set out in a rain of flowers, in a drunken atmosphere of blood and roses. Surely the war had to supply with what the boys wanted; the great, the overwhelming, the manly action experience.

"Form up by platoon!’ The officer gave the command, before the soldiers would march through the soil of Virginia with canvas backpack, equipment belts and rifles hung round their shoulders. Finally the regiment reached the designated base of the 9th, a typical middle class neighbourhood of the region, bungalows or two stories brick house line up on either side of the street with trees grew on their yards.

There were only a few shy civilians left, most of the population had been evacuated. Everywhere are soldiers in worn and tattered tunics, with faces weathered, strolling along at a slow pace, or standing in little clusters in doorways, watching their arrival with bawdy remarks.

Karl and his company were quartered in the campus of St. Agnes School, next to the historic site of Fort Ward.

 

[Trotzki]

Grzegorz-Izajasz Świętopulkow Cyrylowicz
'W imieniu Ameryki.'

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March 15, 1937
Potomac Overlook, north-north west of Arlington ; Virginia.
Captain Gregory-Isaiah Svatopulkov Cyrilovich.
First Company, Polish-American Legions of the Continental Red Army.

---

Gregory was contemplating his choices. He could never return to Poland, even with it's thinly veiled independence, the Germans would have his head just as eagerly as the Russians would have.
He had thrown in with a group in a civil war, in the high house upon that grand hill of democracy. Although, it seems the foundations for that house aren't as solid as it's many inhabitants would often proclaim. How ironic.
Now here he was, ordered to hold a scrap of hills and woods with his company, a small travel behind where the fighting was generally occurring with the express purpose of providing somewhere to fall back to should CRA offensive operations fail, watching the far side of the Potomac to relay information and securing the supply lines from other CRA positions in northern Virginia, like McLean.
Such a position was also wonderful for indirect combat, so he had sent a request up the chain of command to see if the CRA had any mortars, or possibly even defected Federal artillery. It would make any assault through Arlington much easier with the correct placement and usage. But he didn't get his hopes up, he knew that the CRA wasn't exactly going to be the best equipped so early in a relatively impromptu campaign sparked by MacArthur's little coup d'état.

He had half a mind to think that these conservative positions were partially due to the difficulty expunging command through the Polish-American Legions. It relied heavily on bilingual officers like him who could relay English orders to the primarily first generation Polish speaking troops. He couldn't exactly feel any venom if this was the case. Obviously, they didn't want any co-ordinational issues during any skirmishes or battles to come, so keeping them focused elsewhere was perhaps a good idea.
But for now, he'll keep his head held high. Maybe he'll send out a request amongst the company for men with firing skills, former hunters and the like, to see if he can pick off some targets on the far side of the Potomac. It would keep some of the men busy and their nerves somewhat sated,

"Jan, zbierz wszystkich mężczyzn razem. Mam kilka rzeczy do powiedzenia."

 

[SAIGO-NO-HEATS]

The next hour or so had followed what was becoming a familiar schedule of probing attacks from the Longist scouts. It was clear that they knew exactly where the 2nd Guards were set up now, and they knew how well they'd managed to dig in. The trenches had been dug in well enough that the men could at least sit in them without being exposed, and thanks to the timely arrival of some engineers bearing supplies, they were getting reinforced with the addition of sandbags. It was also obvious from how rare the assaults were becoming that the longists either didn't currently have, or otherwise wouldn't commit, the necessary forces or equipment to actually push them off of Hill 15 for at least a little while. The federal artillery had also shifted its sights down the front onto the Longist for now, so for the time being Greco and his men had a little bit of breathing room.

That left time to start thinking of a plan. By August's reckoning, the 2nd's thrust had left them stuck between the edges of Long's offensive and MacArthur's wall, so sitting still was likely to be suicide if either of those gears started moving again, so they needed to start a probe of their own before they got the chance. This left them with a few options, the dumbest one was to keep pushing in the direction that the Minutemen had been attacking them from. They'd busted their scouts so far and they'd been soaking in artillery, so they could be scattered, on the other hand if they were able to send out this kind of scouting effort it was likely they already had a position set up they could fall back to. The other dumbest option was to try and hit the federals. It wasn't too far from Arlington and the bulk of the CRA should have been pressing the edges of it pretty hard by now. But that also meant walking into what would inevitably be another layer of traps he had no intel on. That left the least dumb option...

"Franco!" Greco shouted down the line to one of his sergeants who had just sat down with a cigarette. The NCO looked back at him, only barely trying to mask his annoyance. "Put some runners together and send them to see if that fallback has been dug in at the Potomac Overlook. Tell them Hill 15 is secure for now, but we need someone to run interference with the Feds while we pull a company back and start pressing Arlington from the west flank. We can move in as soon as we get a green light."

Now all they had to do was hope there was someone there to get the message.

Trotzki

 

[Jackson123]

15th March, 1937
Alexandria, Virginia
PFC Karl-Heinz von Behrendt
LAFSS “Stonewall” Division, 9th Infantry Regiment

The first day of the war would leave decisive impression on the young men. They were sitting in the school campus while having their meal. Suddenly, they felt a weird tremor from the ground, and all the soldiers rushed out of the house towards cover. Karl rushed out with them, but don't know why.

There was a strange whistling sound flew above his heads, and then followed by a sudden violent explosion.

The whole thing makes him feel a bit ridiculous, like seeing people doing things they don't understand. Immediately afterwards, several groups of figures in uniform with red cross white armband appeared on the empty streets, carrying people on stretchers.

With an surreal feeling, Karl stared at a wounded soldier covered in blood, with a strange twisted leg hanging loosely over the edge of the canvas stretches, still wailing "Help! Help!" before being carried into the building with a red cross flag hanging on it. What happened here? The war has revealed its claws. All this is so strange, so impersonal.

Before the day ends, orders arrived to have the company move up north near Hill 15 to attack position. Soldiers was asked to hand over any personal belongings to the company officer, such as photographs and letters that they valued. The recruits quietly entered the frontline trenches. Before the battle begin, the atmosphere was fill with anxiety and fear. Some cope with it by eating, some constantly smoke, some keep having the call of nature, some having their muscle cramps as if suffering from Dyskinesia.

 

[SAIGO-NO-HEATS]

Hill 15, West of Arlington, Virginia. March 14th, 1937.
Lt. Augusto Greco, 2nd Guards Rifle Division, PRC Red Guards.

Of all the thoughts to have in a warzone, the Lieutenant was starting to wish he'd brought a watch. He had no idea how long it'd been since his runners had taken off down the line, but judging by the position of sun, he guessed it had to have been at least a few hours. He hadn't received any communication from any of the other units either, so that meant things were either going really well, or so bad that nothing was getting through, either way he was stuck just waiting and that was the worst part. Even carnage had slowed to a crawl. The Longists had apparently gotten the point and stopped sending raiders to badger them for the time being, and the federal Artillery had shifted far enough away now that he could convince himself to relax a bit.

He slumped down into the hole in the earth he and his men had dug and tried to keep himself busy, pulling out another cigarette and for the first time in his life taking a moment to actually read the paragraphs of text printed on the box. The rest of his men had fallen into a similar slump. Some of the partisans were chatting amongst each other, others were flipping through pictures from home, and they'd already had the dead and the injured pulled off the line. For a second things almost appeared like something approaching normal.

Maybe, he allowed himself the fantasy, after they finally drove the Federals out of the Capitol and put Haywood back in office, they could make the Longists see reason. Long was nothing more than a reactionary traitor, afraid of the inevitable and holding back the working class.

"...And Just like in France and Britain before them, once the workers in the southern country side see the strength of the revolution, they will force their oppressors to lay down their arms and join us again as brothers." He recalled a speaker in New York saying something to that effect not long before the march, and he still wanted to believe that.

A young partisan slid down into the trench next to him, shaking August from his thoughts.

"Picket line says they just saw some more of what they think are Long's boys moving in." The young man, if he was even old enough to be called that, spoke without any kind of deference for August's rank and barely even seemed to pay any attention to him as he spoke, opting to poke his head over the trench line and watch for enemies that were still likely a mile away. The Lieutenant almost spoke up to remind him that he was both an officer and a Commissar, but decided there were more important things to unpack.

"More militiamen?" He checked his ammo drum. A few bursts were usually enough to scatter the scout teams that had come before.

"No sir." Said the boy. "These look heavier."

Jackson123

 

[Rusty of Shackleford]

War always seemed so fun in the stories. In the ruins of the South during the Reconstruction, the little hope the broken Southerners could muster came from gallant tales of heroism. Of brave Confederate generals bravely standing against Northern aggression. They always made it out to be glorious, fun, even. Like a camping trip, instead the prize wasn't a rabbit or two, it was immortality. Not in the arms of God, but in the minds of the ones back home. Your sacrifice would not be forgotten, your comrades would carry on and beat back the enemy.

All it took was a few days to shatter what misconceptions Will had about war. War was brutal, unfair, nasty. It was hard to make a beave bayonet charge when a single emplacement could wipe out a platoon in minutes, or artillery could thin an army out, starving them, exhausting them. Will didn't know cold, didn't know hungry and pure exhaustion until they reached Arlington.

The 1st Appalachian had a lot to prove. After all, they were "Injuns." While officially the AUS Army was unsegregated, and the Kingfish himself was quite progressive, those under him were not, so it wasn't uncommon for divisions comprised almost entirely of ethnic groups. Blacks, Asians, and in the case of the Bushwhackers, Native American. Of the four thousand, two hundred and twenty men of the 1st Appalachian, only about twenty percent were not Cherokee. The other eight percent were mostly Native American of various levels. This made their status...shaky. Prejudice changed with the times. People tended to hate whoever could be hated without much repercussion. Sometimes Natives were treated as white, sometimes they weren't. Will was used to it.

What he wasn't used to was the

Suicidal didn't cover it. The Bushwhackers were just that: bushwhackers. Guerillas, scouts. Not meant for direct, frontal assaults. Yet for the past two weeks, they'd been sent on suicide missions. Frontal assaults, capturing points, things more suited to traditionally infantry. But finally, the 1st were being used properly. What was left of the battalion, around 300 men strong, were tasked with finding a way to break through the Federal's line on the extreme flanks. The one's in charge thought they'd easily roll over the Fed's, but breaking through the absolute crapshoot that was the labyrinth of trenches, mines, and well placed machine guns only negated the Longist's numerical advantage, one they didn't have over the Red Army.

What was left of the Bushwhackers were divided into ten to twelve man squads, and each given an area to scout out. Will was among one of these squads, under the command of Sergeant O'Haffery. Unlike the rest of the squad, O'Haffery wasn't from the reservation. His family came from Scotch-Irish immigrants that fled to America during the Great Famine in their homeland in the '50s. From there they settled in the mountains of Appalachia, eventually making decent money as farmers officially, and moonshiners unofficially. Unlike most of their COs, O'Haffery actually cared for his men. The color of their skin didn't matter much. And for that, he had their unwavering loyalty. But even that kind of loyalty can be brought into question.

Will silently crept through the underbrush, his wide brimmed hat shielding his eyes from sun. His eyes scanned the distance, his 1903 rifle cradled tightly in his hands. The Feds could be anywhere. Will almost respected their ability to be a pain in the ass. Their trudging was halted by O'Haffery giving a signal to stop. He pointed off in the distance, gesturing for Will to take a look. The Corporal nodded, pulling out his binoculars, trying to see whatever the Sergeant may have seen.

"See anything, Holt?"

"Not really...what exactly am I loo-"

That's when he saw it. Horses. His heart almost sank. "Cavalry, Sir. Looks like...Feds, over there." O'Haffery let out a sigh, as if he was praying he was just paranoid. he took the binoculars, taking a better look at the distant enemies. "Yep...those're Feds, alright." That was just great. At this point, the squad was actually happy if they'd fight those Red Army bastards for once. Morale was low. They'd fought enough Feds for one lifetime, and now they were isolated and completely vulnerable. If they'd seen the squad, they were an easy target. making a break for it would just mean they'd get run down. If they stayed they'd get cut off and unable to link back up with the batallion. An older soldier by the name of David turned to his CO, asking a bit nervously, "Orders, Sir?" O'Haffery frowned as the surveyed the opposing side. He pulled the binoculars down with a frustrated sigh, looking around the area. "Shit...looks like we best keep movin'. If they caught us, let's just hope we don;t look like easy pickins'. If need be, we can use the brush as cover and pick a few off 'fore we try 'n make a break back for the others. Frank, you and Will go on ahead, make sure we got enough cover in case things go down the shitter." The two nodded, Will patting his comrade on the shoulder as they went ahead, their eyes fixated on the figures in the distance, already checking their rifles just in case. "Don't see us...don't see us you stupid bastard..." Will thought, his eyes squinting, his heart thumping in his ears. He could already hear the crack of gunfire, smell the powder and blood. He was already all to familiar with it all. Frankly, he was already sick of this whole damn thing. they marched them all the way up to the Capital jus to throw them into the crossfire so "more important" soldiers didn't have to die. If he had a choice...Will would already be gone.

 

[Jackson123]

“Fix bayonet! Fix bayonet!”

"Up the ladders! Over the top lads!"

There was no shouting, nor cheering. Everybody was deadly quiet. Just as Karl and the company of soldiers stepped into no-man's-land, somebody was shot through the head and his skull was splintered.

The mortar barrage proceeded into the enemy lines, The line of troops, fixed bayonets, walking quite steadily behind the barrage. Then all hell broke loose, machine gun bullets swept in like hailstones.

Karl hits the ground the moment he heard the machine gun fires, and he felt the ground shivers as each mortar shell found it’s mark. When the platoon he’s in drawn the enemy fire from Hill 15 to their direction, the second and third platoon are working their ways to flank the enemy position from their side.

Karl swings a smoke grenade to the enemy, before he pulls out a wrench and attempts to dismantle a set of barbed wires that was blocking their path, when the enemy’s line of sight are still obscured by smoke.

 

[SAIGO-NO-HEATS]

Any plan the Red Guards may have had to push on Arlington became more than secondary as the first mortar barrage crashed along their trench line. The shots were coming fast and accurate, enough that Greco could recognize them as being too good for a simple militia. Worse, they were coming from Longist lines, not Federal, which must have meant that the Minutemen were finally done toying with them and were ready to take the hill. Or at least die trying.

"Due South! Incoming!" Shouts rang out along the line, followed quickly by the song of rifle fire, which quickly became a duet as the two sides began to trade fire in earnest. Greco poked his head over the trench and gave a burst of fire from his Thompson, but the Longists had been smarter than before, and a thick bank of smoke had quickly formed between them and the Rifles that were waiting for them on Hill 15. All anyone in the trench could do now was take shots at sounds and vague shapes they could make out in the cloud. After a moment the shooting died down again save for a few pops here and there. Even the recruits realized there was no real point in shooting at nothing.

"Keep your eyes up men! They're out there somewhere!" One of the Sergeants shouted to his men, trying to steady them as they waved their rifles around frantically trying to draw a bead.

"They probably hit the wire." Greco spoke barely louder than a whisper to the men closest to him. A few more scattered mortar shots dotted the line, putting the men even further on edge. "Probably trying to get through it now, that's why the shooting is slowing down." Some of the men mumbled in agreement. The Lieutenant thought for a second and weighed his options.

"Alright then." He decided. "Conti, Iglesias, gather four men each and get ready. We're going over, and we're gonna see if we can shake them off the barbs before too many get through."

Jackson123

 

[darth]

Jorge Ernesto "Ernie" Molina
Near Belle Haven, Virginia
March 15, 1937
111th Cavalry Regiment, Troop B

"Where the hell you from anyway?" Norman said, finishing the last of his canteen.

"I'm an American, same as you..." Ernie declined to look up from his binoculars. In the distance, Ernie could no longer make out any semblance of movement, the treeline had suddenly become quiet and still.

"You know that's not what I meant..."

"New Mexico, Las Cruces..."

"I'm from Colorado myself, out where the Rockies meet the Plains. You ever been?"

"Nope..."

"Some beautiful country, recommend goin' given we ever get out of this shit hole..."

Ernie dropped the binoculars to wipe the sweat from his brow. They'd been sitting idle atop their little perch for nearly six hours now. The lightly wooded area was almost peaceful save for the din of battle in the distance. Still, a far cry from the crater ridden moon-scape that now replaced the terrain closer to the city. Out here, at least, there were still trees and brambles to provide some cover.

Apparently, the Kingfish and his boys were looking to make a push on the Red Army's position, at least, that's what Ernie had heard. If that was true, the thick of the fighting may well be out of arms reach. Ernie didn't mind that, not at all. For all he was concerned, he'd rather be as far away from the front line as possible. He'd heard particularly vivid horror stories of the Weltkrieg from one his old farm hands, a one Mr. Powell. Ernie couldn't remember what the man's first name was, but he could still remember his face. The man was pushing fifty years old, and had been a sergeant in the American Expeditionary Force. The man was kind, humble even, but Ernie could tell that man was deeply disturbed. He'd lost an arm in the war and had found it difficult to find work after the all fighting was said and done. Ernie's family put him up on their ranch, he was very grateful for the Molina's hospitality. Come the turn of the year in 1925 however, they had to let Mr. Powell go along with a few other workers. Ernie wondered where the man ended up. He hoped, perhaps, the man found a bit of luck. Otherwise, Ernie reasoned, it may be best if the man had finally passed as to avoid these particularly troubling times.

Suddenly, Ernie felt a mild discomfort in his gut...

"Nature calls, hermano, think you manage to hold the fort down?" Ernie said.

"I reckon so," Norman said.

"Don't get lost now..."

Ernie stepped off the height to find a suitable bush to relieve himself. He made his way down the slope until he came to a small bramble. He thought this a good a place as any and went on to his business. As Ernie watered the ground with this morning's coffee, he noticed something at the corner of his eye. Movement amid the tall grass. Ernie cocked his head and leaned out to get a better view. At first, Ernie thought it was probably the wind or maybe an animal. But, that thought was dashed when he caught the glimpse of a wide-brimmed hat and the barrel of a rifle.

"Mierda..."

Ernie's eye's widened and wasted no time in drawing his weapon. He'd left his rifle atop the perch, so he drew his sidearm. He leveled his arm before firing off a couple of rounds in their general direction. Ernie tried to duck for cover after but his untied belt caused his trousers to fall below his knees and Ernie fell face first into the dirt.

"Hijo de puta..."

Ernie wiped the dirt from his face before rolling over to call out.

"Hey!" Ernie yelled.

"We got company!"

Rusty of Shackleford