Feel no Fear, Know my Pride	

>It’s all good anon.  Second Lieutenant Anon.  You’re finally here.  Got a platoon of your own and a mission to fight terror.  You got this.
>The plane’s door opens, blasting you with the Middle Eastern sun.
>You shield your eyes and step out onto the tarmac of Camp Sampson’s airfield.
>The camp is colossal: the hub of forward command.
>No time to enjoy the scenery though, your platoon awaits.
>3rd Infantry Division, 48th Brigade, 121st Regiment, 2nd Battalion, Bravo Company, 4th Platoon.
>The designation is committed to memory, but you still clutch the note card they gave you shortly after graduation.
>Bright eyed and ready to roll, you’re 22 and straight out of officer training.
>Chance, heavy casualties, or sheer bureaucracy, you can’t tell, but you have a pre-existing squad to command.
>This is terrifying.
>The war has been complete chaos ever since Desert Storm.
>That and the Anthros appearing.
>All around the globe they popped up seemingly at random.
>Chaos for a decade.
>Funny enough though, many of them just settled into human society without a hitch.
>Even the most intolerant places on earth just took it in stride for the most part and taught the anthros to join them in hating their enemies.
>”Sir?”
>Shaken from your memories of history books, you’re still on the exit ramp.
>”Sir, you’re in my way.”
>”Whops, heh.  Sorry”
>Time to get moving.
>It’s blazing hot here, but that’s probably not why you’re sweating.
>Heading to the designated camp zone, you see the thousands of troops all hard at wo….
>No, they’re mostly milling about, cleaning things, or chatting.
>Humans and anthros of all sorts.
>”Gotta get to my platoon and report to my superior,” you mumble, “Major Sandred, yeah.”
>You go back to repeating your designation under your breath; ”3rd Infantry Division, 48th Brigade, 121st Regiment…”
>”LIEUTENANT ANON!” a voice boomed just behind you.
>Wheeling about you sees a white wolf wearing nothing but shorts and a vest with a holstered sidearm at this belt.
>His face and paws are rocky browns, seemingly marked with semi-permanent dye to blend in the hilly terrain that the surrounded the camp.
>The wolf’s vest is marked with three gold chevrons and the name “FERGUSON”: He’s your staff sergeant.
>”Oh good,” the wolf continued, ”we’ve been waiting for you.”
>You raise an eyebrow at his appearance, a comment about discipline and dress code on the tip of your tongue.
>The comment is swallowed with the often repeated advice from every officer you’ve ever met: 
“Your staff sergeant was fighting before you became a man: trust him.” 
>”Sergeant Ferguson,” you finally reply.
>The wolf gives you a salute with his short fingers and long snout making it a bit awkward.
>”This way sir, the Major should be at our tents shortly.”
>The two of you keep walking past row after row of tents.
>There’s a human and a water buffalo having pushup contest, eight pairs of people in a row all playing speed chess, a dejected looking rat cleaning dishes with a toothbrush...
>”We sent four good men home last month, you’re just in time to see the new blood.”  Ferguson says.
>You stop.  “Home on leave of absence?” 
>Ferguson shrugs.  “One sent home on injury, three sent home to God, or Valhalla, or whatever.”
>”No atheists in a foxhole?” you say trying out a smile.
>”Never been with a religious vixen so I guess not.”  Ferguson grins back.
>Is it right to laugh?  You’re not sure.
>Ferguson guffaws at his own joke anyway.
>”Here we are,” the wolf stopped at a series of tents with your unit designation.  “OUTA BED FUCKERS!  OFFICER’S HERE.”
>Three-dozen men piled out of the tents to line up for inspection.
Another old adage: “No battle-ready unit can pass inspection.”
>That would make them very, very, battle ready.
>Scruffy sunburned humans, a ferret with burnt patches of fur on his neck, and two unsheared rams sweltering in the heat.
>”Alright boys, this is Second Lieutenant Anon, we are going to make a point NOT to treat him like dear old Lieutenant Smith.”
>The fuck does that mean.
>”That means don’t let him die.”
>Shit.
>”Also, Henson: no fake grenades.  We have three…” Ferguson glances over at you, “four FNGs and we don’t want to scare them worse than the enemy does.”
>The ferret looks down for a split second stifling a snicker.
>”Speaking of which, we have some changes in the weapons squad.  Private Crouse, you have a new friend and she’s packing a Squad Automatic Weapon.”
>She?
>”SAWs for life!” responded a big human, thumping his chest with a single fist.
>”Well, don’t let her outdo you.  Jenkins!  You no longer need to hump the launcher.”
>”Christ alive, I never thought I’d hear that.”  Another human let loose a giant sigh.  “We all know the enemy don’t have any fucking tanks so that piece of shit Javelin is just dead weight.”
>”Well just wait till you see your replacement she’s quite the… oh, wait here they come.”
>She again?
>That’s when you see the anthros; two big cat women wearing just as little as Ferguson.
>One is a tigress with light orange fur and wild green eyes.
>There’s a spark about her that is frankly frightening as she absentmindedly caresses the mechanisms of an unloaded M240 Bravo. 
>She supports it in one hand like the machinegun is no more than a plastic toy.
>Her tan vest has several boxes of ammo clipped on like smaller soldier holds 30-round mags.
>The tigress’s arms and legs ripple with muscle and her tail flicks at the tip like a stalking housecat. 
>The second anthro is an equally huge lioness with golden eyes and a tawny coat. 
>A FAL is slung over her back and several mags are jammed a tactical vest that is overlayed on her tan tank-top.
>A blissful look is plastered on her face as she rubs her head against a human rifleman that you just now notice is sandwiched between the two anthros.  
>The tigress doesn’t seem to notice him in her preoccupation with the Bravo, but the lioness is pressing into him with all her bulk.  
>He’s not short by any stretch of the imagination, but she must be approaching 7ft tall.
>The rifleman has his M4 in a death grip as the huge woman is standing shoulder to shoulder with him, attempting to rub her cheek all over his helmet.
>That  private’s first day is arguably going worse than yours, or maybe better, who knows?
>Either way, things are about to get a whole lot more interesting.