2. Left foot Right
Early tried in vain to rub the grit from his face. The sun had been swallowed by the horizon moments before, and an ominous red glow remained on the right of the awakening column. Friedrich was already up; he'd been part of the night watch, and weariness had hollowed out his eyes. Early clapped him on the shoulder and set to waking the others. Marder and Jochim had already been stirred to wakefulness by the fall of darkness, and each now arose from their pioneer graves and trudged to meet their sergeant. Their division had been inching along towards the Aerugan border each night, travelling a mere ten miles per hour in their trucks, headlights dimmed. Night brought the camel-spiders and scorpions crawling from their lairs, banishing any desire to stay in the relative comfort of the hastily-dug sleeping pits.
"Get some coffee going, we aren't moving out for another hour or so." They nodded and Early continued his walk along the roadside, past scattered pioneer graves and piles of equipment. Some wag had erected a sign reading Crater City, 120 miles! Ahead was Lieutenant Dietrich, hunched over a map with Jens. His gaze rose to meet Early's as he heard the platoon sergeant's approach.
"I don't know who we pissed off, but we just got spearhead detail."
---
Dawn was less than an hour away, and Dietrich felt as if he was perched on a precipice staring down into darkness. His platoon formed a link in the chain encircling the slumbering Aerugan base visible a shade under two miles away. This battle would formally mark the Amestrine invasion, and would be executed with overwhelming force. Estimates placed the base's garrison at battalion level, roughly five hundred fighting men. They were expected to be well-armed and trained to a high standard, and once alerted would quickly move to prepared positions. Once the attack was underway, they'd call for help, only to find that their phone lines had been cut in the night, courtesy of Special Operations.
In the forefront of the attack were the second and fourth battalions of the twenty-third infantry brigade, the 2/23rd and 4/23rd. The 3/23rd would remain in reserve, much to third battalion's chagrin. This attack force represented only a third of the 6th Division's manpower, but it would be supported by the full strength of the divisional artillery, some fifty howitzers in total. Six tanks had also been committed to the attack, and waited in defilade to Dietrich's left, their engines ticking over. The twenty-third was arrayed in classic "two up, one back" formation, with the 3/23rd forming the rear point of a triangle and the 2/23rd and 4/23rd forming the flat base. This pattern repeated fractally down to the company level, with White and Red deploying ahead of Blue, and the 4/23rd's heavy weapons company, Green, at their flank. Dietrich's platoon, as part of Red Company, would therefore be in the first (and hopefully only) wave of attack. He'd already exchanged some final words with sergeants Starr, Kessler and Jens, and now crouched in the cover of a dune with Early, standing by with the platoon's radio for the order to attack. The rest of Early's section lay nearby, all eyes on the distant Aerugan outpost. The shemaghs the troops habitually wore to keep out the dust left only their eyes bare, making it hard to discern their thoughts. Dietrich thought they were, by and large, doing a good job of hiding their pre-battle shakes. Friedrich's glasses kept sliding down his thin nose, and Jochim's hands unceasingly clenched on a small bronze pendant in the shape of a serpent. A good luck charm, most likely. Abrams and Marder exchanged some low words, their gaze flicking to the tanks concealed nearby. Dietrich's thoughts were interrupted by a whisper from Sieg.
"Sir! The Boss wants you at the head-shed; some last minute pep talk or something." Sieg was one of the section's more dependable soldiers; a policeman for two years in Aquroya. Despite being part of Dietrich's platoon, he was more often posted at Red Company's headquarters, serving as one of the messengers that each platoon kept at Captain Haumaier's command post if the need for radio-silent communication came up. Now he trailed Dietrich back to the forward CP. It wasn't much to look at, an olive-drab tent splayed over a table laden with maps and radios, a lonely field telephone resting on a chair, and a worn-out captain presiding over an equally grey command team. A storm lamp cast a red glow over the proceedings. Red Company's other lieutenants arrived alongside Dietrich, filling the already cramped command post.
"Coffee, anyone?" The captain looked up from a map plotting the battle plan. "No? Fine, gather round." A series of revisions had been inked on the map in red, and Haumaier's flashlight followed their trails. "Ok, this is pretty elementary stuff, but Battalion decided to give us some prior warning instead of springing it on us as we move. Red's going to flank around the base's western side, so we'll be doing some eleventh-hour repositioning, heading to Green's right flank." Muted groans. "On the plus side, we'll have the tanks screening our movement, so we should be ok. Ok, get the fuck out of here, back to your men. You've got half an hour to unass and redeploy."
Dietrich jogged back to his platoon's position in the lee of a shallow dune. Hand signals drew the platoon's sergeants together, and the platoon's movement was planned out. Soon the men were jogging through the grit and passing Green Company's dug-in mortars and heavy machine guns, their bodies low to the ground and their voices low. Occasionally, glances were thrown at the enemy positions, but there was no sign of alertness. It was a moonless night, lit only by flashes of lightning from storms piled on the Aerugan mountains, promising an arriving storm.
Within twenty minutes the men were settled again, and Dietrich lay prone, peering at the Aerugan fortifications through his field glasses. Magnified, the enemy base wasn't particularly impressive. A set of concrete barracks, garages and equipment sheds surrounded a central parade ground and were enclosed in turn by a chain-link fence. Guard towers sat at each corner, and armoured pillboxes guarded the front and rear entrances. A concrete-lined trench sat forward of the fence, zig-zagging to provide fighting positions for the garrison in case of an attack. Still, their location presupposed advance warning of attack, unless there were tunnels connecting them to the barracks. Dietrich shrugged the thought away. We're expecting a fight anyway. He turned to Early.
"Sarge, what're your thoughts on this one?" He passed the man his binoculars. The staff sergeant accepted them and took a look himself.
"Those trenches out front? The tanks aren't going to get past them. That's probably the reason for our redeployment." He lowered the glasses. "They'll have tunnels linking those to their barracks, stops them being caught out in the open. Noticed the zig-zags? Even once we've flanked them, our enfilading fire won't hit the whole trench, so we're probably better off tossing a few grenades, then bypassing them and hitting the barracks; they'll have a command post in there somewhere." He caught Dietrich's eye. "Looks like this could be a career-making action, if you want my opinion." The second lieutenant grimaced and looked again at the entrenchments.
"Heading through the wire didn't even occur to me." Early grinned tightly in the gloom.
"Don't worry LT, that's what I'm here for." The radio crackled. Both men turned to look, and Dietrich grabbed the handset. Over the channel came a terse message: Red Company, Haumaier. Execute. Repeat, execute.
"That's it," breathed Dietrich. He drew his flashlight and blinked twice at each section's position. A constellation of blinks answered him.
"Everybody up," hissed Early "we need to move before those bastards wake up!" The rest of the section rose. Ahead, the squads under Jens, Kessler and Starr had moved out, padding forward as ten-man skirmish lines, rifles held in readiness. The platoon's progress was mirrored to their left as the rest of Red Company moved out, ochre uniforms near-invisible against the sand. The eastern horizon beyond held a red dimness that seemed to presage the day's coming bloodshed. Dietrich flinched as a snarl sounded behind him, and he turned to see the battalion's tank detachment crawling forward, churning the sand under their treads as they kept pace with the advancing infantry.
The lightning had stopped some time before, but now the horizon lit up again as the State's artillery spoke, sending fountains of earth skywards and blasting the Aerugan base. The artillery would fire a handful of massed salvoes before leaving the infantry to do their work. As the first detonations sounded, the skirmish line broke into a jog, weapons braced and eyes straining at the objective. Beside Dietrich, Jochim stuck close with the platoon's radio, and visible alongside him was Doc Maxwell, from the brigade's medical detachment. He'd first met the man after they'd disembarked, and the medic had insisted on each man in the platoon wearing a set of ready field dressings around their necks. No-one had been able to argue with the flint-eyed corpsman, and Dietrich was sure his pre-preparation would pay off in future.
Now he could hear the sharp crack of mortar fire, the support platoons of each company opening up with their own artillery. Next came the machineguns, sending streams of tracer fire arcing lazily into the enemy encampment. The Aerugans were only four hundred metres away, now. The southerners replied with their own automatic weapons, muzzle flashes lighting up each guard tower. However, the heavy weapons platoons soon found their targets, and the towers came apart in a shower of splinters and pulverised flesh.
The sun was visible now, and revealed clouds of smoke hanging above the camp, the light from burning buildings illuminating everything else. The Aerugans were fighting back in earnest now, rifle fire erupting from the trenches and the windows of each barracks building, their firepower pitifully inadequate against the 23rd brigade's. Dietrich's platoon dived to the ground as they too were noticed, Aerugan bullets singing over their heads. The range was still long for accurate rifle fire, but the Aerugans needed to work their bolt-action rifles after every shot, whereas Dietrich's men could empty their magazines at the distant enemy before needing to reload. To his left, the lieutenant saw Abrams drop prone, resting his light machinegun on its bipod and firing a series of bursts at the enemy. Spent casings littered the ground next to him, and a fixed grin was plastered to his face.
Dietrich raised his head and shouted over the cacophany of battle, "Friedrich! Berhold! Get to Jens and Starr and tell them to leap-frog their squads forward, bounding overwatch-" A roll of staccato cannon blasts behind him, the light throwing every man into shocking relief against the ground. "-No, forget that! Tell them to get behind the tanks and keep advancing! Axel, get the same message to Kessler!" Nods all around. The squadron of light tanks had passed the prone infantry by, rolling forward at walking pace heedless of enemy gunfire. Their short-barrelled 37mm cannon spoke again, and explosions blossomed on the barracks buildings and along the Aerugan trenches. Each tank also boasted a pair of hull-mounted machine guns, and these fired ceaselessly, showering the southerners with lead. Dietrich motioned the rest of the squad up and sprinted to take cover behind the nearest of the steel monsters. He shouldered his submachinegun and mantled onto the tank's rear hull, making his way to the turret, banging his fist on the closed hatch. It popped open and the lieutenant found himself eye-to-eye with the vehicle's commander.
"Get the fuck off my vehicle!"
"Fuck your vehicle! Can you make a hole in their perimeter fence?" The man turned to look at the approaching wall as bullets swarmed past them.
"Our orders are to hit the trenches and forward bunkers!" They were screaming in each other's faces as the cannons fired again.
"I don't have time to go through the proper channels! Drive your tank through the wire and then go back to the attack, I don't give a shit! Just give my men an opening!" The other man paused and then nodded. He crouched further down in the turret and relayed orders to his driver. Abruptly the tank veered to the right, almost throwing Dietrich clear. He crouched lower and looked up. Ahead of them, Aerugan soldiers were visible on the roofs of the barracks buildings, taking potshots at Red company as it advanced. Higher up, they were perfect targets for every heavy machinegun in the brigade, and the fire took a terrible toll.
Dietrich took stock from his perch on top of the tank. His platoon seemed intact, with each section huddling behind or on top of a tank, firing when they could. Jens had gotten his squad's machinegunner to brace his weapon on the rails of their tank's cupola, adding what seemed a meagre amount to the armoured units' firepower. This close to the base, the lieutenant could make out the mangled forms of Aerugan personnel caught in the open during the artillery strike, and he could see the destruction wrought by the constant stream of machinegun fire, blasting showers of concrete from the buildings the garrison sheltered within. The frontal component of the attack had made steady progress, the 2/23rd advancing to almost point-blank range to engage the defensive trenches under supporting fire. The rest of the 4/23rd was likewise on the advance, and Dietrich saw grenades detonate among the defenders. He cast around for Jochim and saw him leaning around the tank, firing his rifle. Rolling from the tank, he grabbed the handset from the man's backpack radio. "Red HQ, One Platoon. Ready to breach western perimeter with support of tank group. Notify support and Green that we are danger close!" In other words, the mortar fire on this section of the base needed to stop.
"Roger, One Platoon. Red HQ out." The enemy were within spitting distance now, and Dietrich rose slightly from behind the turret to loose a burst of submachinegun fire through a window as a hint of movement caught his eye. Beneath him the tank dove forward once more, smashing through the seemingly insubstantial perimeter fence. It idled for a moment, and then began to reverse; if experience had taught the tank corps anything, it was that urban engagements were bad news, fit only for the infantry. Dietrich slapped the turret hatch once more in thanks, and slid from the vehicle, landing in a crouch next to Early.
"I would have suggested wire cutters, sir." The lieutenant barked a laugh as Early motioned the squad through the breach. The other squads had gotten the idea, and to their right Starr's tank broke through, continuing on into the base. Still further beyond, Red's third platoon hit the wall with a satchel charge, tearing a gap in the wire. As Early's section ran for the cover of a blasted barracks wall, a private Dietrich didn't recognise sprinted up, out of breath.
"S-sir! The LT -our Lieutenant- I mean, Lieutenant Irons in second platoon say he'll stay at the end of the trench system and secure your flank!" Dietrich nodded in reply and sent the messenger back on his way.
"Ok, first platoon hold here! Who's the least out-of-breath?" Every hand in the section rose. "Hah! Marder, get to Starr and tell him to get that tank back to the rest of the armour and rejoin us." The building they sheltered beside had collapsed under the weight of the Division's opening barrage, and Kessler and Jens had found cover for their squads in the ruins. As Dietrich gave his orders, Early pulled off his helmet and held it over the edge of the rubble. Satisfied, he peered over their shelter and across the parade ground. Pre-positioned barricades, oil drums filled with gravel, had been arranged to cover each exit from the barrack buildings, and each makeshift barrier sheltered a squad of Aerugan regulars, firing over the heads of their compatriots further forward in the trenches. Early glanced further to the right. Shit, they've got a-
The Aerugan anti-tank gun spat a round at the platoon, the shell colliding with a section of wall bare metres from Early. Choking in the dust, he fell behind the barrier. Dietrich's head whipped around in alarm.
"AT gun! They've got a bead on us!" The other two squads had opened up on the barricades, but the AT crew had their sights set on Early's section. "Sir, I've got this! Abrams, Friedrich, on me!" No fucker fires a fucking cannon at my fucking face! Fuck! The LT nodded and motioned for the rest of the section to relocate.
Early ran in low loping strides, the two privates barely keeping pace. The sergeant risked another glance over the rubble. Close enough. He pulled a stick grenade from his webbing and pulled the pin. Waited a few seconds. Friedrich blanched and started to say something, and Early hurled the bomb overarm, sending it along a shallow arc to land next to the AT crew's gun shield. For a moment Early swore he could see their pupils constrict. The detonation obscured the enemy in a flash of dust, a blood-soaked sleeve visible for a moment. As the dust fell away to reveal two mangled corpses, the three Amestrine soldiers braced their weapons and fired on the other barricades. Early's finger tightened on the trigger, and the enemy filled his sight.
Fire at any movement.
Fire at anything that's stopped moving.
Just to be sure.
Empty the whole fucking magazine.
---
He must in some kind of bunker system, because every door he finds is an armoured hatch, adjacent to a narrow slit demonstrating the metre thickness of each wall. There are rifle racks and ammunition bins at each one, and the chipped surfaces of the surrounding walls attest to some kind of action here. Every door has been thrown open.
He wanders up stairwells, his nakedness an unwelcome imposition in this grim environment. Most of the lights have failed, and for a few levels he feels his way upward, both hands clenched around the handrail. After what could only have been minutes of ascent, he looks out on a communal area, a mess hall in all likelihood. It's empty like the rest of the complex, but the furniture remains, benches in disarray as if the hall had been evancuated hastily. He starts as a siren echoes through the complex, distorted by its journey through miles of cold concrete hallways. The blast continues for a handful of seconds, and then accedes to the silence.
Beyond the mess hall are the personnel quarters. Spots of blood are visible here and there on the floor and walls. A set of clothes sits, neatly folded, at the edge of one bunk. Trousers, white shirt, jacket. A pair of boots rest on the floor. He smiles privately.
A wide concrete staircase grants access to an entrance chamber. A freight elevator looms in the corner, and there are patches of dampness on the concrete floor. He looks up to see veins of moisture reaching out from minute cracks in the ceiling, drops of water raining down with barely perceptible rings against the floor. The ceiling itself is cylindrical in form, and draws his attention to an armoured door in the distant, unlit side of the room. A flickering field light sits next to it, focused on a man-sized access door. This is as clear a sign as he will receive.
The door leads to a room that in turn is promised to lead to the outside world. This isn't immediately apparent, because there is a severed head resting on the room's only item of furniture, a chair. The head sits in a pool of red fluid. As he approaches, it blinks, and mouths a single word.
A smile distorts his face.
