PHEEEEWWWW- BOOM.

"Goddammit, she's back at it again." The portly man looked away from the fuzzy tube screen showing a blurry camera image of a figure crouched behind a hill, loading another shot into the breech of an almost comically long rifle. He sit in a simple hospital cot, head wrapped in bandages and thin lips occupied with chomping a smoldering cigar. His pencil returned to the paper on the lap desk resting over his itchy blanket;

===

AWS; 09/36/483

I am Lieutenant Maxwell Franklin, and I have had enough. For weeks now, the enemy has been launching constant heavy artillery barrages towards the base under my command; front line bunker complex Augustine-8. It begins every day at sun up without fail. The enemy knocking at the gates is one Corporal Marie Renault of the Giganaut Experimental Giantess Corps. What the giantesses cooked up this time has the capability to change warfare as we know it; a self charging railgun. The technology is not of much value for member states of the Turbo Imperial Nation-Emirate as the required equipment weighs enough to give any logistician a headache, and it is incredibly conspicuous. Any big girl on a traipse through no man's land would instantly notice and subsequently destroy the relatively fragile device. Yet it's an incredibly powerful piece of ordinance. I have commanded my inside operatives to begin exiting their respective GI tracts to retrieve the schematics immediately. But that's besides the point.

The GEGC issued shells can punch through concrete like a fist through a gingerbread house. Unfortunately for me, Ms Renault ran out of proper ammunition days ago. The weapon's incredible power manages to launch massive balls of pre-war civilian cars, armored vehicles, steel reinforced concrete, and whatever else she can get her mitts on that contains a scrap of iron into our fortifications, but it does little else aside from provide a shock to the bunker and maybe cause the lights to flicker for a moment. As I write this, a wadded up chocolate coated tiny wrapper has obliterated a north side watch tower. I am unsure of what she is trying to accomplish with this; it's not like she hasn't had the chance to commit to an all out attack yet.

On the very first barrage 2 weeks ago, she managed to hit our ammunition dump. It was buried under 15 feet of reinforced concrete. The bunker as expected soon fell into complete disarray, despite my best efforts to retain order over the intercom. I thought it was over when she her slung the infernal device over her shoulder, and come stomping towards us in the GEGC uniform footwear. That being none. Our guns returned fire only sporadically and with little accuracy; between the bedlam among the common soldiery, the fires, and the gunner's ammunition currently exploding in the belly of our bunker, they surely can be forgiven for their uncharacteristic lack of discipline. In a last ditch effort I rallied all of my most loyal and trusted soldiers available to meet her in the trenches, as is procedure.

The clergyman led a final prayer, for all the good it would do us. I blew the whistle and fired a shot into the air, and soon approximately 50 good men were over the top and running with bayonets affixed. As our gallant charge made it closer to the now stationary mountain of a woman, I noticed something. She was standing at the border of where our shells could reach on a surviving patch of road, looking down nervously at a muddy shell crater she could have easily made with her big toe.

I cried out; "Come on men, the bitch fears us!"

With a roar, we crossed the final threshold of a barbed wired trench and took a stab at her pale, unpainted toes. I honestly wasn't expecting any response; my previous experience had shown the final bayonet charge to be merely a morale boosting formality. An obligatory formality to retain my command, yet a formality nonetheless. But in this charge, her entire body jumped with a yelp as the splinter sized steel stakes pierced her porcelain skin. Her other foot slid forward, seemingly involuntarily, and pulped an entire squad in a single errant wriggle of her toes.

"Aaah! Ew, ew, ew, ew... it's all over my fucking feet!"

By "it," I assume she meant the viscera of a dozen good men and the mud of war. As she continued looking down, her freckled face went green. Nothing good was to come of this.

Gallons upon gallons of half digested vegetables, bread, and of course tinies rained down upon us. Our issued equipment protected us from the acidic effects of the vile mixture, but an errant skull struck my head and I was knocked unconscious. So much for the pomp and circumstance of an officer's uniform I suppose.

According to my second in command, the giantess proceeded to run as fast as she had ever seen a giantess back into her position behind a paved hill, crying all the while. The men wallowed in a pyrrhic, gastric tainted victory for a brief time before dragging myself and what remained of the deceased troopers to the bunker for processing. I awoke in a hospital bed in the infirmary, where I am currently writing this. I would try to get some shut eye, but every time I begin to drift off, another meteoric impact nearly rattles my brains out. God help us, before I go out and surrender myself for a few Z's.

===

Corporal Renault sat next to her fold out solar farm waiting for another shot to charge. She brushed a roasted coco bean colored lock of her bob out of her lightning blue eyes as she clumped together another pitiful mass of metal in her hands, rolling it like a meatball until it attained a perfectly spherical shape. She knew she had always had a weak stomach, but the feeling of those tinies between her toes was sensory hell. Between the omnipresent churned up mud that always seemed to accompany tiny holdings, and the innards of the soldiers themselves, she sure as hell wasn't going back out there again. She had taken this assignment with the assumption that the invention to be tested would prevent her from having to actually do any interaction with the little monsters at her well taken care of, yet plain feet. But orders were orders; this bunker needed to come down in order to show the experiment was a success. The indicator on the railgun changed from red to green. Renault huffed as she lay prone, and shoved her handmade bullet into the chamber. Scanning the complex for another easy pot shot, she muttered to herself;

"God help me before I surrender and go back home..."