VelvetSweater pulled a fresh magazine from his load-bearing equipment and smacked it into the empty magazine well of his M4 carbine. The weapon’s muzzle was steaming slightly from the combination of light Autumn rainful and heavy usage.
Five minutes earlier, VelvetSweater’s squad had received blunderbuss fire from a small colonial-style cottage. Krismee military doctrine called for a concentrated small arms fire in such a case; the elves simply flattened themselves out along a nearby ridgeline and poured 5.56mm ball ammo from rifles and M249 squad automatics into the cottage until the Sergeant called a halt. The cottage was riddled with holes, and no sound came from within.
Sector 11 was the last area with signficant Thanxee activity. VelvetSweater, like so many of his comrades, considered a great honor to be stationed to this sector, since it was the only place a young rifleelf could win any real glory. Fear of defeat had long since disappeared from the minds of the Krismees; they knew full well that under the leadership of Claus they could and would never be stopped.
The Sergeant gave the order to move out. His command net had fed him information that all available units were to proceed to Hill 11/22 and proceed to eliminate enemy resistance there. The Krismees marched onto the sodden roadway past a column of Thanxee POWs being herded by hard-faced Krismee military police in visored Kevlar helmets and pointy shoes… Their dull, defeated eyes did not meet the hard stares of the rifleelves. Further up the road was a small bonfire made from captured weaponry - blunderbusses, carving knives, and even a muzzle-loading cannon - tended by more MPs.
From above and behind him, VelvetSweater’s pointed ears picked up the sound of rotors and music. The Sergeant heard it too, turning around with a look of pride. “It’s the Air Cav,” he said to his elves, pointing. “That must be Prancer’s unit. He likes to use Crosby. Says it scares the Turks!” VelvetSweater grinned with the knowledge that his Holimonth would soon become a Holiseason, and eventually - Claus willing - a Holiyear.
Far away, Myles Bradford sat out his lonely sentry duty on Hill 11/22. He hadn’t eaten in 48 hours - a meal of cold mash potatoes with no stuffing - and his sodden clothing provided little warmth. The buckle on his hat hadn’t been shined in days, in flagrant violation of the Compact. He didn’t care. It didn’t matter.
What mattered was the dirty but serviceable blunderbuss he clutched in his thin hands, and another one, also loaded, that he kept nearby. That was all the enemy understood, the damned North Pole midgets and the caribou that flew their confounded helicopter gunships. They had no regard for poultry, or for enjoying rich feasts in the company of new friends.
Bradford hadn’t spoken to a Turk or an Indian in weeks. The humble Thanxee entente had been torn asunder by the incessant Krismee propaganda machine. The Indians had been driven inland by Comet and Cupid, with the simple woodland camoflage of the natives proving useless to stop the prying eyes of Krismee thermal sites.
The Turks faired even worse. Rumor had it that the elves could not stand the taste, and simply rendered the birds down, without fattening them up, as a protein supplement for the reindeer. Bradford winced at the thought of all the waste. He was more disturbed by the presumed fate of his captured companions, who by now had undoubtedly been impressed into service as toymakers. Whisperings had it that one Pilgrim captive died for every hundred pieces of Harry Potter paraphernalia produced at the infamous Kringle Fruitkake Faktory. Bradford tightened his lips, determined he would not share their fate.
Suddenly he became aware of a sound from the sky near the little hill - a sound that threatened to drown his courage like a Hershey’s Kiss in a carton of egg nog. He shivered. Over the rotors, the singing became louder and more distinct:
“Mele Kalikimaka is the thing to say
On a bright Hawaiian Christmas Day”