The ground underneath Henry was sopping wet, the air was humid, but at least his feet were dry. If there were something Henry hated, it was wet feet. He had a few training exercises without boots, barefoot, in the Panamanian jungles, and they were miserable. But he had his nice black boots now, as he lay on the ground, watching, waiting.
He was hungry. He'd hadn't eaten since the morning, and he had to forage for himself in these jungles. It was one of the skills he had to learn: survival. A small grub wriggled on a log to his left. He snatched it, plopped it in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. He found that if he ate the thing quickly, he wouldn't think about it long enough to trigger his gag reflexes.
Suddenly he heard footsteps. He almost stopped breathing, and listened intently as the persons, speaking Portuguese, began to approach his position by the road. He gripped his wooden rifle hard. This was it. The final test. The steps became louder, the voices rising, his heart pounding in his ears and his sweat mixing with the moisture around him. He looked to his left and saw the feet just about to pass him.
He leaped from the bushes and onto the road. Not having any ammunition (as this exercise assumed there was no ammunition, only a bayonet), he ran as fast as he could to the men. They drew their wooden rifles immediately, but Henry managed to deflect both of them with his bayonet in he swift swipe. He kicked the "Brazilian" officer down to the ground, "stabbed" his companion, then placed his "bayonet" at the throat of the officer. "Você vem comigo," he said, which translated as, "You're coming with me."
The "Brazilian" officer smiled. "Very good, Private. Before you know it you'll have a commission. Return to your barracks."
"Yes, sir," Henry said, smiling. Finally. His training was nearly complete, and he'd graduate with his battalion. They had been training at a rapid pace. There was no doubt in his or any of his buddies' or his officers' mind that the United States would be at war soon enough, since the United States had thrown its weight behind Spain.
Henry didn't mind spilling some Brazilian blood. His father was killed in the conflict that lost the United States New Spain, and it could be blamed solely on the Brazilians. Henry wanted revenge ever since. He started as an infantryman, but was soon promoted to the Rangers and would soon be a part of the first Ranger Brigade.
Those bloody Brazilians would see the US at their best.
He reached the barracks. It was humming with activity and chatter, more than usual. And nearly everyone was holding a copy of the Eagle and Stripes, the US military's newspaper, and mumbling to someone else.
Henry's buddy Marty was passing out the papers. Henry ran to meet him. "Marty, what's going on?" he asked.
Marty, with a dazed look on his face, said, "We're at war."
"Oh!" Henry said, almost excited. "It finally came, did it? Well why do you look so yellow? I'm ready to kick some Brazilian ass!"
"It's not the Brazilians," Marty said.
"Oh," Henry said. "One of their allies?"
"No," Marty said. "Have a look." Marty handed Henry a paper. He took it nonchalantly, glanced at it for a second, then dropped his jaw.
The headline read, in bold letters, "UNITED STATES DECLARES WAR ON THE SPANISH EMPIRE!"