They say war is hell but at least in hell you know who the devil is, and more importantly, whether or not you're him. There's a stench that hangs over the front like the grim rooster itself. The smells of gunpowder, war machines, and rotting flesh all mingle together with the especially pungent musk of unwashed Coq. Occasionally a stray bullet finds its mark, followed by a piercing "BUCAW!!" and a puff of feathers. Lucky son of a bitch...
They say war is followed by peace, but there can't be peace for me after today's fowl play. We got some intel and recruited a small band of the most savage, war hardened coqs to infiltrate a weak enemy position on the east fork of the Rhine — and that we did. They barely had time to crow an alarm before we were upon them. In the mayhem, I myself rang 3 rookie necks easily enough, but the last enemy Sargent was no greenbeak. We eyed each other's Coqs — he was much longer and thicker than I — and we both knew it. I drew down my weapon but he had lunged at me — spurs sharp and deadly. I jumped and flapped back to catch his feet with my own but caught a few deep cuts instead. This Coq was just as hard as I.
Just when I thought he was getting the best of me, I got a flash of my gals back home waiting patiently and faithfully for their bird, and I just couldn't give up the ghost — not today! As he was grinning over me, gloating in his kill, I spit a mouthful blood and maize in his face, then rolled on top and started pecking out his eyes. I just pecked and pecked with all my might until his body went limp, and even then I just kept pecking a bloody pile of chicken brains and crying until an ally pulled me off. To be honest my pecker is still sore...
After today they call me Le Coq du Harde. I'm a yankie so I don't know what it means, but I know it means I'm one of the flock.
