Crater Lake, Oregon Territory (Occupied by the United States)
January 9th, 1833

"The view is nice," Sergeant Julian Correa said as he looked at the clear, blue surface of Crater Lake, "Too bad we're here under shit circumstances."

Private Felix Mariano, a soldier in the Mexican Republican Army that hailed from Monterrey, had to agree with his sentiments. Crater Lake was beautiful, and the forests around it were serene. Unfortunately, the view was ruined by hundreds of soldiers milling around and building fortifications. Most of the soldiers were Americans, but there were a few Mexican and Central American soldiers as well (though, Private Mariano knew that the Central Americans identified by their regions, such as Guatemala or Honduras). The "front lines" were just a few kilometers north, but everyone at camp knew that the so-called "front lines" were just for formalities. The front was wherever the enemy was, and they appeared anywhere and everywhere. Even a few settlements in northern California had been raided, despite the fact that the American coalition forces were entrenched in southern Oregon.

"Could be worse, sergeant. At least we're not being shot at," Private Mariano replied.

"You're not wrong."

The two trudged towards the edges of the base's perimeter and silently kneeled onto the ground, waiting for the remainders of their platoon to arrive with their platoon leader. The platoon was patrolling around the base camp, though Private Mariano and Sergeant Correa remained behind for a few hours to help with translating as they were some of the few bilingual speakers in the area.

While many of his fellow soldiers were digging or setting up the tents, the two of them, along with many others, were placed on watch duty. It was the worst part about this job, as the British (and the Hawaiians, and the Australians, and the hostile Native Americans) were damn good at ambushes and "probing attacks" (as the American soldiers called it). They never remained in one area long enough for an extended battle. Instead, they focused on harassment and attrition, which was effective against the numerically superior invading force. America's push into British North America had crawled to a near halt, as its military attempted to quell the Indian revolts near Lakota and pacify the areas around California.

Sergeant Correa and Private Mariano shared a comfortable silence before the Mexican Independence War veteran spoke up, "I sure as hell didn't expect to be dragged into another war right after we got our independence."

"I don't think anyone did."

"The Yankees certainly didn't," Sergeant Correa snorted, saying the word "Yankee" without any hostility in his voice, "I mean, when I first heard about that "League" thing, I thought it would help us a lot. Economic aid from the United States, military protection. Though, if I knew that it would lead to Mexico being involved in another war, right after she started making her recovery, then I wouldn't have supported it as easily."

Private Mariano understood where his NCO was coming from. The man had throughout the entire length of the Independence War, from the very beginning to the very end. He was with Guerrero when he created his "Republican Army" and was with the future president when he triumphantly entered Mexico City as the head of a unified Mexican independence movement. There was no doubt that the man was tired of war, and wanted to live in peaceful times after what he had been through. After all, the man had gone through hell and back, slogging through dozens of battles against the Spanish during the prime years of his life. The only thing the sergeant hadn't seen yet was the Devil himself. The young Mexican man gently touched the cross he had on his necklace as his thoughts drifted back into reality, "But if they fall, then we may be next. The damn Spanish invaded Venezuela and took Caracas. The Brazilians and the Liga Federal have seized Buenos Aires."

"Which is why I'm here, instead of slaving away on my farm and being yelled at by my wife," The sergeant answered with a smirk, "Don't discount our brother in arms down in South America. The Spanish may have taken Caracas, but they'll now have to march to Bogota to make the Colombians surrender. And the Argentinians are with the Chileans, raising hell against the invaders in Cordoba. They're winning now, hermano, but they will not win forever. America will strike them back, I just know it."

A small group of men walked towards them, wearing the uniform of the Mexican Army (which was dark green, complete with steel helmets provided by the Americans). Private Mariano recognized all their faces, they were the members of his platoon. Strangely, there were more than a few missing from the group, including the platoon leader. However, while they seemed armed and unharmed, the other members of his platoon looked positively afraid as they moved closer, making the two Mexican soldiers snap into alert. The sergeant checked his Lee rifle and held it up towards his chest, while the private followed suit. He leaned down and whispered into his subordinate's ears, "Emboscada."

The young man from Monterrey nearly cursed. An ambush, involving his friends and comrades. He recognized the signs immediately. The British and their allies often used this trick to create an opening in the defensive lines of every fort and outpost. They would ambush a patrol unit or a platoon just outside of a camp's perimeter, then use the survivors to create a false sense of security for the guards that protected the outer defenses. Once the guards attempted to help the survivors or allow them to pass, the attackers would descend like a bee storm and cause as much destruction and death as possible. They had been drilled on what to do in this scenario, and most of it involved fleeing and warning the other soldiers within the vicinity.

"Go. Warn the others. If it's anything like the previous raids, the guns they're holding have no ammunition and they're of no help to us. I'll cover you."

"But sergeant..."

"No buts!" Sergeant Correa growled as he shoved the man towards the lake, "Warn them that they're coming! They're gonna catch us with our pants down!"

Private Mariano stumbled from the push, but quickly picked himself and ran. A shot rang out from the woods, but it narrowly missed the young Mexican as he fled the site.

The sergeant immediately moved after the shot was fired, tackling three of the men in front of him and making them hug the ground. Numerous shots rang out in response to this and the veteran grimaced as he saw his subordinates cut down like wheat in front of a scythe. He quickly handed a few rounds of ammunition and cartridges to the men he tackled and roared at them, "Load your rifles and fire god damn it!"

Despite the fact that most of his men were Catholics, Sergeant Correa was not. There were no atheists on a battlefield, but there was no time to pray while getting shot at.

Thankfully, the three of them weren't stupid and managed to load their rifles and return fire. The few survivors that lacked ammunition ran back towards camp, with the intention of returning with ammunition. The sergeant shot at any humanoid outlines he saw, hoping that it would be enough to cover his fleeing men.

Unfortunately, even after his best efforts, he only managed to last a few minutes. There were at least a few dozen enemies in the woods and they managed to cut down the Mexican soldiers with ease. Sergeant Correa was the last one to be shot, but the shot that struck him hit home and knocked him into the ground. He was alive but barely conscious. As his vision faded into nothingness, he heard a cry erupt from the attackers as they ran out of the woods and towards the base camp. The last thought that crossed his mind was him hoping that he gave the others enough time to prepare themselves, because there were a lot of Indians, along with many white and tanned soldiers.