"Two months," the soldier looked up as he spoke, his eyes meeting those of his comrade. "Two months in this place, no orders, no re-supply, no relief" his face covered in mud, and dirt, his uniform in a similar state. When they'd first arrived he took pride in keeping his clothing clean, a model soldier. But after two months of mud, bombs and shrapnel he didn't care. The rain banged heavily on the roof of the dugout, three feet of earth above them and they could still hear it, as muddy water seeped through the hastily constructed wood ceiling, filling the small room with the smell of wet earth and rotten timbers. A small fire burned in a barrel in the corner, producing just enough heat to make life tolerable.
"Somethin'll come up soon," his corporal responded, "they ain't gonna keep a whole gorram army group here forever, there is a war on".
A whistle sounded in the distance signalling the changing of the watch. For over a year now the two armies had been entrenched on this planet, each trying to get the incentive, each trying to turn the tide. The result was a bloody stalemate, and thousands of decaying corpses littering the no mans land between the trenches. Outside the two could hear the grunts exchanging the protocol remarks associated with the changing of the night watch. The cloth hanging over the door was pulled aside and a young private shuffled into the dug out and quickly moved over to the fire, crouching down and removing his soaked rain coat he defrosted his hands over the barrel. Finally he turned to the officers and saluted.
"Sorry Serge, I don't think I could have moved my hand that far before". The sergeant nodded, to his soldier, everyone knew he enjoyed an informal trench, but the protocol of military life can't be totally ignored. The silence was broken by a sudden flurry of activity in the trench.
"MASKS ON!" came the loud voice form outside "MASKS ON, MUSTARD GAS!"
The tin bell clanged as the private announced the possibility of a gas attack. Mustard gas wasn't a new technology, its effects were well known, dating back to the wars of earth that was, but it was effective, gas created terror, and a terrified army breaks easily, that was the idea anyway. The alliance had tried everything to break the deadlock. When they first stormed Shadow they expected a quick victory, overrun the small, poorly trained defenders. But the independent army dug in, building a network of defensive trenches. They had intended it as a temporary measure, hold off the attack, then ready for the counterattack, but as their trench evolved so did the alliance defences, just 3 weeks after the initial attack both sides had dug in. Blockades and beurocracy were making it harder and harder to re-supply both armies, so they had to get used to the days of boredom, and the terrifying weapons, like the gas, used to attempt to break an entrenched defender. At this point, after the artillery exchanges and toxic weapons, whoever the victor was, their spoils would be few, yet the brass on both sides continued the bloodshed.
The dugout was a flurry of activity as the three soldiers hurried into their gas masks, during the first gas attack noone had been prepared, Reynolds had seen it, looked into the faces of men as they breathed their first breath of poison gas, he'd been lucky, managed to clear himself out of the trench before it caused too much damage, but he'd spent 2 weeks in a field hospital waiting to feel normal again, he could never forget the pale glazed eyes of the men as they went down in the thick, swirling cloud of death. Eventually, both sides had evolved ways of dealing with the gas attacks, and so now, the group sat in silence, the fire extinguished as the unmistakable yellow fog began to descend into the dugout, settling just above the table at which they sat.
By dawn a northern wind had dispersed the gas, and life could return to whatever normalcy existed in a trench at war. Malcolm Reynolds was woken early, pulling the tight gas mask from his face he stood up, his eyes gradually adjusting to the early morning light in the dugout. He ran his hands through his hair and stood up, stretching he walked out of the doorframe and into the trench. Yesterdays rain storm had finished, now, as the mud and earth began to sag the trenches had to be braced. Fresh timbers had been brought down to re-enforce the rotting wooden supports.
"Message sir!" a young boy ran down the muddy slat path on the bottom of the trench, handing a torn piece of paper to the sergeant. Reynolds shook as he read the page. "Gather the men," he finally said croakily, "we're going over the top". Zoe, his corporal nodded and turned.
"Call the men to arms"
Mal had hardly finished his order before Zoe pulled her whistle and blew the stand too. From all parts of the trench they came, crawling out of the muddy dugouts, and temporary shelters, their uniforms tattered and torn, their faces scratched and muddy. They stood in a line in the thin trench, staring forwards at the wall of their trench.
"FIX BAYONNETS, AND STAND READY"
Mal shouted the order, his breath condensing before him in the cold morning air. The squad burst into activity, the clatter of metal on metal as the troops affixed the blades to their guns. Once the well rehearsed drill was complete the men stood in silence, their weapons at the ready. From behind the lines the dull thuds of artillery echoed through the early morning air. Seconds later the whistle of shells pasted over the men stood on the front line, followed by the crash of impact a few yards ahead. Mal looked at his watch, despite the crash of the shells he could still hear the time ticking by.
"COMPANY ONE PACE FORWARDS," he bellowed, the men attentively stepped forwards towards the ladders, placing their hands on the rough wooden rungs ready to climb out. Watches with second hands were too expensive for a sergeant's pay roll, but Mal could see the minute hand moving slowly between the marked increments.
"ON THE SIGNAL, ADVANCE!," he shouted as the long, slender hand moved closer and closer to the allotted time. "Good luck" he smiled to his corporal. Reaching down he put his own whistle to his lips, still looking down at his timepiece. He heard it even before he realised he was blowing it, the shrill whistle echoed down the trench. Pulling his service pistol and cocking it he pulled himself up the ladder, at either side of him, the men were hauling themselves up too. He reached the top of his ladder, only 3 feet off the ground but under the circumstances he felt he'd climbed a mountain, looking out across the barren, desolate wasteland between the trenches, pockmarked by shell craters and littered with the decaying bodies of the fallen, purplebelly and browncoat laying side by side. The men ran in line, a human wall advancing across the unforgiving wasteland. Half way across it started, a hail of hot metal flew from the alliance lines. On either side of him Mal could see men going down, at such close range the shots from the heavy guns tore his men apart, ripping through flesh and shattering bone. Almost instinctively those who survived the first few seconds dropped to the ground, attempting to produce as low a profile as possible. The lucky found shell craters or ditches to hide in, the rest had to lay in the mud as low as possible surrounded by the dead.
"PRIVATE GET OVER HERE," Mal yelled over the sound of the heavy fire, the young private Buckland dragged her body along the muddy ground, crawling into the crater with her superior. Taking a sheet of paper and a pen from his pocket he wrote a brief message requesting retreat, he knew he couldn't pull back without permission, and his radio operator was dead or dying somewhere in the chaos.
"Ruttin redtape," he muttered as he handed the folded paper to the young girl.
"See that lieutenant Black gets this, and wait for a reply," he shouted to her making sure she heard him over the gunfire. Taking the note she saluted her superior before dragging herself back up and out of the crater.
Mal lay in the crater looking up into the sky, the midday sun beaming down, drying the muddy ground. An eerie silence was descending over the lines, the alliance gunners had long since stopped firing. The only sounds were the moans of the wounded and dying, and, as time ticked by they became more and more quiet as men and women succumbed to blood loss and shock. A sudden sound of activity disturbed Mal from his thinking, looking forwards he saw Private Buckland clambering into his crater.
"About ruttin time," he laughed looking at the young woman.
"Lieutenant Black's compliments sir," she smiled, offering Mal the reply to his earlier request. Taking it from her he read the Lieutenant's hardly legible scrawl.
"Gather who's left private, we're pulling back" he smile at her. His request was easier said than done, snipers and gunner still watched no mans land, scouring the barren expanse for a survivor unfortunate enough to raise their heads at the wrong moment. By the time the message had reached all those who survived, the sun was setting over the mountains in the distance. Slowly and quietly the survivors began making their way back to their lines under the cover of darkness. 16 hours after it had begun their advance was over.
AFTERMATH:
"You requested the retreat?" the broad shouldered officer asked before inhaling deeply through the thick cigar, the end glowing red. "I did sir, we couldn't move any further, it was…"
"I don't need explanations Mal" he cut the sergeant off mid sentence , the offensive was doomed from the start, I was just following orders, all totals put 300 men dead and a further 840 missing."
"One hell of a butchers bill captain," Mal retorted
"I've got to thinking you've seen enough of this hell Mal, your unit is being transferred, you'll get ten days to refit, then you're being posted to New Kashmir" the captain reached out to shake Mal's hand as he stood to attention, the sergeant responded, reaching out and firmly shaking his superior's outstretched hand.