Marcus Allen stands at the edge of the trench, peering through binoculars at the enemy lines. Dex Dexter is beside him, fiddling with a grenade, while Ollie lounges against a sandbag, chewing on a piece of gum. Ryan Thompson is scribbling notes in a worn-out notebook. "Looks like the Jerries are as lazy as we are today," Marcus mutters, lowering his binoculars.

Ollie is attempting to fix an old radio, his tools scattered around him. Dex watches with interest, occasionally offering unsolicited advice. "You know, if you just hit it harder, it might start working," Dex suggests, grinning. "If I hit it any harder, it'll be in pieces," Ollie retorts, rolling his eyes.

Luke Mitch, the weary leader, paces back and forth, casting annoyed glances at his team. Ron Conathan is napping nearby, his gas mask askew. Christopher Johnson is instigating a heated debate over the best way to cook spam. "If you all spent half as much energy fighting as you do arguing, we'd be home by now," Mitch grumbles.

Marcus and Mitch meet at the edge of their respective trenches, each curious about the phenomenon. "What do you think it is?" Marcus asks, squinting into the dim light. "I have no idea, but I'm not going in there first," Mitch replies, folding his arms.

Thompson nervously clings to Marcus, while Pip fumbles with his medical bag, oblivious to the tension. "This better be worth it," Johnson mutters, eyeing the others suspiciously.

Marcus stares at the screens in disbelief, realization dawning on him. "We've been fighting over nothing," Ollie whispers, his voice tinged with a mix of relief and anger. "So much for glory," Ron sighs, slumping against a wall.