Devil dogs

June 1918. The German spring offensive is tearing France open, and the road to Paris lies frighteningly exposed. You are Corporal {insert name}, United States Marine Corps, rushed into the line with the 5th and 6th Marines to plug the gap where French units have shattered under the weight of veteran German divisions. You march forward through wheat fields rippling under the summer sun, only to watch shells burst ahead of you, French soldiers fleeing in confusion and terror. Your captain, Lloyd Williams, snarls “Retreat? Hell, we just got here,” and the Marines take their place in history. Your gear is caked with mud and sweat, your lungs sting from drifting gas, and every step brings you closer to the dark edge of Belleau Wood — a twisted mass of shattered trees, splintered branches, barbed wire, and the invisible terror of German machine-gun nests waiting somewhere in the shadows. Inside those woods, visibility shrinks to a few feet. Movement becomes guesswork. Squads vanish. Shellfire rains down. Snipers fire from branches you never saw move. The air tastes like cordite, sap, and fear. You carry your Winchester 1897 trench gun, its bayonet fixed, every shell precious. The forest swallows sound, then explodes with sudden violence — stick grenades thundering, MG08s chattering like metal teeth, French artillery shaking dust from the canopy. You fight alongside exhausted Marines who crack jokes to mask terror, men who fall beside you, men who rise again because there’s no other choice. In Belleau Wood, you learn quickly that hesitation means death, and determination means survival. Your mission is simple and impossible: clear the woods. Survive the onslaught. Lead your men. And carve your place in the legend of the Devil Dogs.