I then remember the war, the bad conditions we all fought in.
Bullets strike a person next to me in the arm. They scream.
A cannonball rings through the air and collides with a tree stump.
I run across the terrain, feeling my feet squelch into soft, wet mud.
I puff and stay undercover.
I wipe the back of my hand across my face that's plastered in dirt.
I growl to myself.
These redcoats aren't going to win.
I repeat this over in my head.
Something grabs me by the neck.
I'm tossed to the ground and punched by my attacker.
I roll back up, ready to reveal the identity of the person trying to kill me.
I look up.
He's a redcoat obviously.
"American filth." He says, his accent blunt and icy.
I look at him.
He snickers coldly. "Angry, Hamilton? Surely you aren't offended that easily."
I grit my teeth.
He laughs. "CANNONBALL!"
Something descends on top of me.
It isn't a cannonball.
It's another one of the British.
Two of them pound at my stomach, face and chest.
I kick one in the