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Memoirs of Titan
Chapter 1.
Pain is not always a bad thing. Sometimes it is good. There are sometimes in life that pain is the only indication that you are still alive. There are times when your body has been stripped of all senses, sight, touch, smell, taste, and hearing have all vanished. The only thing that keeps you alive is pain. If you believe your dead, then you are. The body can't live if the mind has given up. So pain keeps you alive.
For a soldier on Titan, pain is a constant companion. It sits in the pit of your stomach as you squat in the trench. It burns in your feet as you march. It sears your skin as the sun glares unabated down on you. It aches in your hand as you hold your weapon. It cramps your neck and back as you sleep on your feet, leaning against your rifle. Pain is always present.
Viscous sat in the trench, leaning against his rifle. He squinted into the setting sun. The attack would come soon, he knew it in his very bones. He didn't need the officer walking the trench, barking that anyone who abandoned their post would be shot on sight, or the fact that artillery fire had peppered their position all day. The tactical knowledge that now that the sun was in their eyes, they would not be able to hit targets effectively, was wasted. He knew right from the start that there would be an attack today.
It came without warning. First the killing ground was silent, no one even breathed it seemed like. Then suddenly shrill whistle blasts could be heard from far off, and the sound of hundreds of men climbing out of trenches, followed by the battle cries, and eventually the crack of rifles going off.
"No one fire!" Screamed the officer. "Wait till they get closer! Make every shot count! And anyone who even takes a step back from the wall will be shot!"
The men on the line felt the familiar bristling on the backs of their necks as they realized that the officers had now all left to crouch in fox holes behind the trench, aiming machine-guns back into the trench, ready to gun down any deserter. Everyone knew once one person ran, two more followed, and so on and so forth. So if you kill the first one to desert, then no one else follows.
The shots got close enough that you could hear the actual shot, not just the crack as the bullet broke the sound barrier above your head. Individual shapes and forms were becoming visible in the glare of sunlight that blinded all the soldier's eyes.
The first casualty of the day, a soldier caught a bullet right in the eye. He collapsed soundlessly. Another and another, and even yet another man fell, but still they were not allowed to fire. Ever soldier knew not to fire until told to do so. Unfortunately today someone cracked.
Some coward fool, a stain on his pants, and a puddle at his feet screamed, tears streaming down his boyish face. His shot rang out seconds later. Those next to him, startled by the sudden noise, fired as well. Within seconds the whole line was firing.
The advancing men began to fall as they too were struck with bullets. Their battle cries were loud enough to be heard above the din of shots and the screams of the wounded.
A shrill whistle blast cut through the battle sounds, and suddenly every advancing soldier grabbed a bomb from their belt. Using their running momentum, they hurled them. Some went to far, landing behind the trench, some of these even hitting the machine-gun toting officers. Other bombs landed too short, landing in the soft sand in front of the trench. The majority of the bombs landed right smack dab in the middle of the trench.
Vicious dove away as one of the bombs landed just a few feet away from him. The deafening chain of explosions ripped through the trench. A man who stood right next to Viscous was thrown to the side, the bottom half of his right leg blown to pieces. He was lucky however, all that remained of the man next to him was his chest and face, everything lower being blow to pieces by the explosion.
Shaken, but unhurt Viscous rolled onto his back, and got into a crouching position, his rifle cradled across his lap. The nightmare was just beginning however, for bayonet tips suddenly exploded over the top of the trench, followed by rifles, and eventually men.
A whole wave of attackers had reached the trench and were now cascading down into it, their bayonets first. Viscous brought his rifle up and fired. The first attacker lunging for him fell in a lifeless heap. He fired again and again and again, men were falling down like flies trying to get at him.
His rifle had to empty some time however, so he was forced to withdraw. Leaping backwards up the ladder, he climbed out of the back of the trench, rolling down the small slope, his rifle still clutched in his hands.
A machine-gunner saw him leave the trench, and swiveled the gun around to kill the deserter before he poisoned the entire line. Viscous rolled away from the stream of bullets, quickly getting out of it's line of fire. The tripod, and sandbag bunker it was in was designed to shoot into the trench, not behind it. Viscous regained his feet, and rushed at the stunned officer. He was struggling to get a pistol out of a holster, but he was fumbling with the flap, forgetting to unfasten the clip in his haste.
Viscous crossed the distance between the two of them. The officer managed to get the flap open, and drew the pistol, leveling it at Viscous. Flipping the gun around, Viscous grabbed his rifle by the barrel, and swung it, connecting it with the officer's gun hand, snapping the wrist like it was made of twigs. The pistol fell to the sand, and the officer fell backwards, stunned and shocked.
Viscous leapt upon him, tossing the rifle aside in his haste. He drew his own bayonet with one hand, and grabbed a fist full of the officer's hair with his other. He forced the man's neck up, exposing his jugular vein as it pulsed the vital fluid of life throughout the man's body.
Without hesitation, or emotion Viscous drew the knife across the man's throat. There was no personal satisfaction, or guilt in the action. The man tried to kill Viscous, so he had to be killed first. It didn't matter that he was a superior officer on the same side as him.
The machine-guns were positioned perfectly so that they could shoot anyone who left the line in the trench. This meant that they could be used to mow down the attackers who were now flooding the trenches. The other officers who were operating the machine-guns were waiting until the attackers tried to scale the side of the trench, then they would open up. In the mean time the brave soldiers in the trenches would get slaughtered.
Kicking the lifeless body of the officer aside, Viscous manned the machine-gun. He worked the bolt, centered a group of attackers in the sights, and pulled the trigger. He did not let go. He moved the gun up and down the section of trench it could reach, spewing a deadly rain of lead down upon the men inside.
The trench was soon filled with blood. Initially the dirt floor of the trench will soak up the blood. But there were now so many dead men. The air reeked of gunpowder, and death. The smell of blood, the kind that left that bitter taste on your tongue. The smell of excrement, exiting the body as all the muscles relaxed sending their putrid mess onto the ground.
Men were climbing up the bodies of the dead to scale the trench when the machine-gun emptied. Viscous snatched up the officer's fallen pistol, tucking it into his belt. He then grabbed his own rifle, and calmly dropped the empty magazine, took out a fresh one, rammed it home, and then worked the bolt. The satisfying click as the bolt locked in place, and a bullet was chambered was like music to his ears.
Kneeling, Viscous set his rifle upon a mountain of bone. Making sure that every part of the weapon was supported by solid, unwavering bone. Not flimsy muscle, unable to hold one position, always wavering and throwing off an aim. He began to fire round after round at the advancing soldiers, cutting them down as they climbed up the corpses and up the side of the trench.
As always seems to happen, Viscous' gun emptied, just as the number of men swarming over the top of the trench got to the point where even he couldn't shoot all of them before they could climb up the side and begin rushing at him. Abandoning the machine-gun nest he leapt backwards, slid down the man made slope reloading his weapon the whole way. He disappeared just as the men got their rifles in line. Their shots bit into the sand bags, causing a fine stream of sand to fall out from each bullet impact.
Backing up as he fired, Viscous continued to fire upon the men who were swarming around each side of the raised sandbag bunker. Occasionally they got a shot off. Most of them just hissed through the air near Viscous' head, but some snapped loudly as they hit the ground near him.
His gun empty once again, and not having enough time to reload before the advancing attackers could swarm, and fire upon him, he tossed the rifle aside and drew the officer's pistol. Pulling it into a double handed grip, he began to send out round after round until the pistol breach stayed open, signifying that the gun was empty.
Facing his death like he faced everything, unemotional, Viscous drew his bayonet and began to charge towards the men who would end his life.
A sudden gigantic explosion threw him and his attackers off their feet. The entire trench was now nothing but smoldering ruins. The source of the bomb was made clear seconds later as the roar of jet engines cut through the air. The pair of fighters circled around for a second pass. This time they would do a strafing run with their machine-guns. Their targets would be the men who had made it to the other side of the trench. That means that Viscous was in danger of being killed by his own planes.
Getting to his feet he began to try and get as much distance between him and the swarms of attackers. They would leave him alone now, seeing as they had more pressing problems. Three RPG rounds streaked up from the ground one after the other, all from different places though. All three rounds missed, and the fighters began their deadly barrage. The heavy machine-guns ripped through the masses of men, shredding flesh and bone alike.
The battle was over however. Those few who survived the strafing run began to high tail it into the desert from where they came. Those fewer who survived defending the trenches walked off into the desert as well.
Pulling his cape more tightly around him, and readjusting the hood, Viscous began the long trek away from the trench. Joining the column of a measly ten survivors. One hundred and ninety men dead in a meaning less battle. This area would be abandoned by both sides. It wasn't important to either side, but yet they both sacrificed many lives needlessly to stop the other side from taking it. One strip of desert in an endless waste of unbroken desert.