Percy Jackson and The Sands Of Time

| Chapter 3 || Lucky or Unlucky? |

Hello, Readers! I would like to inform you guys that my busy season is slowly approaching with standardized tests. That means that soon, I will be getting busier and it may be a sporadic schedule of updates that are made with my help. So remember I would like some questions from you all no spoilers to stories though.

*Dylan_Walts*

| Chapter 3 |

| Lucky or Unlucky? |

Commence week three of my stay at the camp from hell. One star, for sure. The food was terrible, the accommodations were horrid, and the workload per day was back-breaking.

I mean, I knew that joining the army would be no cake-walk, and I knew that the United States had a pretty brutal training regimen, but none of the rumours could prepare me for what it really was. By the end of the second week, I got used to it, but it didn't mean that I had to like it. Maybe it was the demigod resilience in me, or maybe just something from deep inside me, myself.

All the running, the situps, and the push-ups - drill after drill after drill, I was ready to collapse every night into my designated spot on the ground.

It was just another day. We reached the firing range at oh-six-hundred hours, as per usual to begin our accuracy training. As I leveled my hands, I thought of how I was when I first got to Camp Half-Blood. I hadn't been able to shoot an arrow to save my life. I still couldn't, but I'd mastered disassembling and reassembling my weapon of choice - an M3 submachine gun. I knew almost everything about this gun, but occasionally, I'd use a colt revolver. It was one of the only other guns that felt right in my hands - though I still didn't know the reason why.

Along with the mastery of those two guns, I was taught close-combat with a knife. I'd picked it up after about the first week, and by now, I'd become the best knife wielder at the base, topping even our instructor.

That day, thirteen-hundred hours was when it really got interesting. I was marching with the other recruits, my eyes sharp as the sound of evenly stampeding boots echoed in my ears. The drill sergeant was ahead in an open-backed jeep, yelling into a megaphone.

"We're approached the halfway point!" he yelled. "That means that we're as close as we're going to get to the front lines before we ship you out!"

I almost paused. I'd heard this before. The halfway point of our everyday marches was only a couple hundred yards from the front lines. I knew that if I listened hard enough, I'd be able to hear the cracks of sound from the guns in the distance. If only there weren't any other sounds around me, that is.

"Our army begins just over that hill! Those boys out there are in the real world! Pretty soon, you'll be joining them so don't get comfortable! Pick up the pace!"

We had just about turned the corner to head back to camp when the first Nazi came up over the hill. Without thinking, I broke rank and dashed to the jeep.

Before the drill sergeant could even yell at me, I grabbed a submachine gun out of the back and turned it on the Nazi, the poor soul that followed under the evil dictatorship of Hitler.

Spraying down the first line of German soldiers, I dove to the ground, behind a mound of sandbags to avoid their own spray of bullets. Not too soon, my fellow comrades started firing as well, each with a gun in their hands and rushing forward.

Some ran, only to be shot down either in the chest or the back, depending on whether they were cowards or brave idiots. I stayed where I was, peeking over the mound of sandbags to fire at the invading men, gunning them down easily.