Hold off, General. What you're talking about is a suicide mission. Now, our boys are tough, but I'm not going to send them down into razor-sharp teeth of the fortified Ho-Chung valley with naught but a preacher and a prayer. Since we can't get heavy armor in there, we got no choice. That's right:

Camp like a pile of cheapass bitches.

With all respect to your rank, what we need is a strategy of what I like to call "Proactive Defense," that is to say, "camping." We sit tight on that forward supply dump until we get all the weapons and ammo. It all respawns, you see, it's just a matter of time. And I've got just the man for the job: You heard me sir, Earls. Earls is what the enlisted men refer to as the biz-bomb, chuppycakes -- I mean, sir. He's an animal. No, not the quickest guy, but he was born to camp.

You heard correct, General, he camps like a pack of Girl Scouts. Camper to the bone. Sniper, too. But mostly he camps. Doesn't move. Times respawns. Finds little corners you and I would never think to jump to. What I'm trying to say, sir, is that there are times that call for real men, and times that call for Earls. He's a porcupiner. We plant him in the ammo dump and come back in 24 hours, he'll have a stack of weapons high as your head and enough tripmine kills to put the enemy out of the war. "Camp until Kicked," that's his motto.

What do you mean we can't win this war by camping? What's the time limit set to?