'No excuses! By god you WILL get up that fucking hill, or else i'll shoot you mysel-' -Last words of a Commissar attached to the Twentieth Penal Infantry Company, before he was turned to a red mist due to a direct hit from a stray tank shell.
All the Infantryman wanted to do was close his eyes and sleep.
As he sat in the trench, he found he could not rest, as the overbearing desert heat, combined with the sickening, damp, sweat infused clothes he wore; He groaned in frustration, and with effort, forced himself to his feet. He thus decided to go into the town of Appleoosa proper, to see if he could find relief in the shade of a porch or alley. Huffing, he all but dragged his empty 'London' Sub-machine-gun and heavy backpack as he trudged toward Town.
He wanted someplace relatively quiet, but now that the Changelings were beaten back, for now at least, the townsponies were out and about in the town, doing their regular business, stubbornly refusing to let the uncertainty of the close battles, and the paranoia of Infiltrators to disrupt the lives they had made for themselves here.
The Infantryman saw several other IAF personnel wandering around the town, one was bartering with a shopkeeper, using his exotic trinkets as payment.
After a while, he found himself resting on one of the Train Platform's benches. With the Sun slowly but noticeably starting to sink, the Infantryman slowly fading into unconsciousness. It was when the moon started to peek over the horizon, but before the stars started to shine that he was laying out on the bench. With his pack serving as his pillow, and his coat keeping him warm, He kept his eyes toward the sky. And he closed his eyes.
In the distance, he could hear the soft sound of music, probably set up by another Infantryman, further helping him to relax.
It was not long before he was dreaming of happier times.