But not so depressed.

“Two lesbians, two gays, two bisexuals and five heteros meet in a pub. What will be the result of their conversation?"

"...?"

"World War III and this section in it.”

“I admit, not one of my best ones, but hey, you did smile, Dave...”

I returned to reality slowly. But in a much better mood. More optimistic, more hopeful and more caring about the little things, not worrying about the grand scheme of things to happen or not.

Leadership put together a decent plan to slow the Russians down again. As we knew the attack would happen over the whole line of defense, with tanks and pure manpower, we prepared as best as we could. It was a matter of building, training, receiving new professional men, learning to handle new equipment: heavy machine guns and grenade launchers, anti-personnel mines and mortars. Above all we studied the synchronized dance we would be in, which meant combining medic interventions, infantry, heavy artillery and air power to their perfection.

All that, and fleeing the scene properly before we would be overrun in the end. There was no doubt about that. The best we could do, was to make them bleed for crossing every river we reinforced, for every hill we bunkered up, or for every valley we made a bottleneck off.

Days became another week in the war. I adored my team and liked my platoon. They all did their utmost best to be a well-oiled machine. At night I was exhausted, but still made time to be attentive to the two most important women in my team, without neglecting the others at day. I finally admitted to myself and to others, I was a hopeless romantic, how sappy that may have sounded to them. I cuddled, caressed, playfully teased the two with my magic fingers at times, kissed them softly, and showed them both my talent in French kissing. Naughtily they would tease me back, showing skin at the most inconvenient times, or playing with themselves at night, letting me watch their body language and emotions when they came, their naked bodies glistening with a sheen of transpiration. Sometimes I would lend a finger, or even two, to arouse them faster or more intense upon their request, made verbal or non-verbal. Afterwards we would kiss again and eventually fall asleep content in each other’s arms or legs.

But the Russian threat loomed over every action we did. Building spikes at the canal/ river, deepening the foxholes, reinforced walls, steepening our hill, deforesting and flattening the hill in front of us, placing mines, setting up prefixed mortar and AT-launcher pits, cloaking them, setting up anti-thermal screens at multiple locations, preparing routes to escape, preparing call signs for the artillery or bombers to intervene, and a thousand other things.

They came closer every day, every hour, hindered by sabotage and run and hit operations, but they were coming. Soon the battle would be upon us, and all we could do was preparing, preparing, practicing and more of the same, until we couldn’t think anymore of new ideas to make their lives a hell to wade through.

We expected them, we knew when and where, but still it came as a shock when they were in our sights, just out of our range. Here we were, and there they were. Our dreaded enemy finally here to meet us once more.