Back again. My internet connection was dead the entire weekend, so I couldn't finish this despite it being almost done. -_-
"Always in a moment of extreme danger things can be done which had previously been thought impossible." -Erwin Rommel
Beta: ThiccBuddha
Chapter 11
Everything was going to hell.
Scratch that, everything had already gone to hell.
Jaune fired another shot with his pistol without even aiming, not bothering to check if he had hit anything. Checking would've meant peeking out from the trench, which was not something he was willing to do at the moment. Curiosity killed the cat, after all. Or in this case, a German bullet killed the French officer.
"Why didn't I issue myself a helmet as well? It's not like anyone would care if one went missing." He covered his unprotected head as something exploded near the trench, showering him and the few other nearby French soldiers with dirt and splinters.
"Keep firing, don't let them close in on us!" His voice could barely be heard from underneath the sounds of combat, but the soldiers took firing positions regardless. Whether they were following his orders or acting under their own initiative didn't matter so long as they fought. Removing the empty magazine from his pistol and inserting a new one, he glanced at his signaller. "Any news from the HQ?"
"Can't make it through to them," she replied, surprisingly calm despite the bullets flying over their heads. "I'm pretty sure the boches are jamming our signals. Wouldn't be this difficult otherwise."
Jaune bit his tongue in frustration, trying to think of something that would get them out of the mess. No orders and presumably no reinforcements either. They were outmanned, outgunned and about to be overrun. Retreating was possible, but it had to be a coordinated maneuver with both platoons involved instead of all of them simply turning their backs on the Germans and running. He had to get a message out to the other leaders, and sending a message with communications down would require a runner. Which could quite literally be a suicide run for the poor bastard.
"Why does this keep happening?" he shook his head, suddenly feeling powerless. Pictures of Eguisheim started to creep into his vision, despite his attempts to keep them locked away. "No, no no no no, no! I can't deal with this right now." He could almost hear the bombs falling, feel the shockwave as they hit their targets, smell the charred metal as his H35 burned.
And the bodies. Oh God, the bodies. He felt like throwing up.
"Am I really cut out for this? Captain Lacoste even admitted he's only keeping me because he's short on officers." His hands balled into fists. He'd even told the captain the same thing was bound to happen again with him in command. And it had.
Ninety-three soldiers under his command had perished in Eguisheim. He was responsible for every single life lost that day. It was something that would likely haunt him forever, something that he couldn't, wouldn't, forgive himself for.
But was it really his fault this time? They'd followed their orders and made their decisions based on the intel available to them. Intel that had severely downplayed the German presence near their positions. From a purely practical perspective, he hadn't done anything wrong. Even if both of his platoons were wiped out, the higher-ups would still have to admit the fault wasn't his.
"What the hell is wrong with me?" he stared at the wall of the trench, the feeling of weakness replaced with disgust. This wasn't about him, or what he wanted. He had a responsibility as an officer and as much as he hated it, the lives of his soldiers were tied to his decisions. He closed his eyes.
Eguisheim had been a disaster, largely because of his own overconfidence and poor decision making. It was a shame he'd have to live with for the rest of his life, and there was nothing he could do to change that. It was too late for an officer to realize their mistakes when most of their subordinates were already dead. But that was not the case in the Ardennes, yet. His orders could still potentially influence the outcome of the battle. Or in the very least, limit the damages.
"Too late for regrets." He opened his eyes, turning to look at the soldiers desperately trying to hold off the German assault. If they were to retreat, some of them would have to stay back to cover the ones withdrawing. Leaving their positions empty would allow the Germans to simply pursue unopposed and gun them down.
"Sartre," he called out, one of the soldiers turning to look at him. Keeping his head down, Jaune made his way to him. "We can't hold here forever. We have to pull back, and get a word out so that everyone else does, as well."
"Agreed, sir," the sergeant nodded, kneeling down to reload his rifle. "But we can't just turn our backs on them and leave."
"No, we can't," Jaune agreed. "Which is why we need to organize a retreat. With the radio down, someone has to inform the rest of the guys." His face turned grim. "The old-fashioned way."
"A runner?" Sartre grimaced. "I don't disagree, but who's going to be the lucky winner? The odds aren't really in their favor."
"I've managed to get in touch with platoon seven!" the signaller interrupted their exchange, waving at them from her spot at the back of the trench.
Jaune could have kissed her right then and there, if it weren't highly inappropriate. Her or sergeant Sartre, he didn't really care. The relief he felt because of her words couldn't be described with words, and he wasn't sure if the most skilled poet in history could have accurately portrayed his feelings at that moment. Because of platoon seven's position at the sides of their formation, getting a message to them would've been very difficult, and most certainly fatal for the messenger. That left just platoon three, which was far easier.
"Yes! Tell them we're pulling back, but the three's have to be informed first," he instructed. "They'll have to hold until our runner delivers the message but once that's done, we're getting the hell out of here."
"Yes, sir," she acknowledged, beginning to relay Jaune's message to platoon seven's signaller.
Jaune closed his eyes once more, letting the relief flow through him. A hopeless situation had just turned into a far more manageable one. It still wasn't ideal, platoon three being scattered as it was, but it was doable. Difficult but doable.
"I don't think I've ever heard more beautiful words in my life," Sartre commented from his side. "But that still leaves the rest of the threes. Someone has to find and tell them." He sighed. "I'll send one of my guys. Beauregard's the fastest, he can do it."
"No, you need all of them covering this position," Jaune shook his head, and looked Sartre directly into his eyes. "You're the most senior member of these platoons after sergeant Vasilias and myself. Do you think you can take care of things for a while?"
Sartre nodded, confused. "Sure, but why would there be a need for that? And we still need someone to…"
"Great, hold the fort!"
Jaune was moving before he even finished the order. Forcibly pushing aside his screaming survival instinct, he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and rushed out of the trench.
Cardin swung his fist, forcing the surprised boche to use his rifle to bat his arm away. That left him wide open for a follow-up, however, and Cardin's bayonet-holding hand struck like lightning. The blade cut into the German's left arm, causing the man to cry out in pain and stumble a few steps back. Before he could bring his rifle to bear, Cardin was on him once again.
Another boche lunged at him with his own bayonet, holding his rifle like a spear. Cardin dodged right to avoid getting impaled, gritting his teeth as the wounded one managed to get some distance between them. Hand-to-hand combat against one opponent with a rifle was hard, against two at the same time it was even harder with them covering each other. The German kept up his assault, switching from thrusting to swinging his weapon sideways like a scythe. From the corner of his eye, Cardin could see the wounded one lining up a shot.
He would have to stay close to one of them. A rifle was too cumbersome to be used as a ranged weapon in close combat, and the other one couldn't shoot in fear of hitting his comrade. So long as he was on one of them, he could use his enemy as a shield. He brought his own bayonet up to block the sideways cut that almost took his ear off, and tackled the German before he could pull his weapon back for another thrust.
The two men fell to the ground, both of them desperately trying to get a grip on their opponent. The boche's fist connected with Cardin's jaw and his grasp in his bayonet loosened, the weapon falling from his hand. Stars filled his vision and the world began to spin around him, his head feeling like it would split apart.
Another punch struck his head, sending waves of agony all over his body. The boche sitting on top of him had apparently realized he wasn't fighting back anymore and lowered his fist, instead reaching for the bayonet lying next to them.
His bayonet.
"Not like this," he growled, not even caring the boche could hear him. It wasn't like they spoke the same language. "Dying in my first battle is one thing, but because of a little headache? And with my own weapon?" He spat on his opponent's face. "That's just insulting."
Cardin wasn't sure where he found the strength for the punch. The boche was thrown off of him completely, and with slow, clumsy movements, he managed to climb back on his feet.
Only to realize he no longer had a struggling human shield against the other German.
The boche he had stabbed before the short wrestling match was pointing his rifle directly at him. His aim was shaky with the wounded arm, but Cardin wasn't exactly in a condition to dodge the bullet and close in on the man.
"Not my own weapon, at least," he muttered, closing his eyes. "Sky would've never let me live that down."
A single gunshot rang out, and Cardin fell on his back.
"Cardin!"
Sky worked the bolt as the German aiming at Cardin fell, grimacing as he realized he was out of ammunition. Instead of looting one of the corpses, however, he rushed to the side of his fallen squad leader.
The boche hadn't fired, he was certain of it. He knelt down next to Cardin and scanned his body for wounds, finding none. Bringing his fingers to his neck, he released a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding when he felt a pulse.
Unconscious. Clearly injured in some way, but alive. Possibly something to do with his bruised face, or the fact that he had been close to the German grenade when it went off. He gave his leader a light shake, pulling his arm back when there was no reaction.
"Shit, this is bad, this is really bad," he muttered to himself. "Where the hell are the rest of the guys? I could really use a hand right fucking now."
He couldn't move Cardin on his own, and even if he could he couldn't watch his back at the same time. All it would take was one opportunistic German spotting him and they would both go down.
"Fuck, why does this keep happening?" He grabbed Cardin from under his arms, dragging him farther away from the body of the German he had just shot. "Sevens must be stealing all of our luck or something. This just couldn't get any worse even if…"
His mouth snapped shut and he let go of his unconscious leader as his eyes focused on the sight in front of him. One body, brought down by him with his last bullet. Hadn't Cardin wrestled with one before falling?
"Ich mag dich überhaupt nicht!"
Sky instinctively threw himself to the side half a second before a stab from a German bayonet would have punctured his left lung. Climbing back on his feet and making sure he was still holding his rifle, he barely managed to dodge the second lunge from the boche he had thought was knocked out cold.
The boche yelled something at him, something very unflattering if the tone of his voice was anything to go by. The bayonet came for his blood again, but this time he managed to bring his own rifle in front of him in time to block the thrust. Batting the German's weapon to the side he followed the motion with a lunge of his own, aimed directly at his opponent's heart. The German took a few steps back and grabbed his chest as he was hit, but didn't go down. Sky was about to follow up with another stab but stopped himself when he realized why his opponent had shrugged off his attack like it had been nothing.
His bayonet was still hanging in his belt.
The German said something again, sounding equal parts offended and mocking. Sky had no time to fix his bayonet as the boche charged him once more, instead switching his grip so that he was holding his rifle like a bat.
"This wasn't what I meant when I said I didn't want to use a bayonet!" he yelled as he dodged the lunge, bringing the stock of his rifle to the side of the boche's head with a loud crack. Even with a helmet on, a hit like that was sure to cause some damage. The German stumbled, allowing him to deliver another strike to his shoulder.
Unfortunately for him, the blunt hits seemed to do little more than agitate his opponent. With a roar the boche continued his assault, forcing Sky back as he desperately blocked, parried, and dodged the whirlwind of jabs and swings. The frenzied German gave him no time to reach for his own bayonet, and he could feel his arms aching under the flurry of attacks. His opponent didn't show any signs of tiring, smiling viciously as Sky lost his footing and stumbled.
Sky wasn't sure what exactly went through his mind at that moment, only caring about the fact that his guard was open and the bloodthirsty boche was sure to exploit that. In a moment of desperate confusion, he brought his arm back and threw his rifle like a javelin.
The weapon hit the boche in his stomach, leaving no wound or mark as it harmlessly bounced off and fell to the ground. The German looked stupefied for a moment, until a mocking grin appeared on his face and laughter erupted from his mouth.
The mocking laughter was short lived as twenty kilos of Maxim gun struck the German squarely in his chest two seconds later.
Sky was breathing heavily, surprised he had even managed to lift, nevermind throw the weapon. There was a reason machine gunners operated in teams, and the antiquated weapon their platoon had been issued with was far heavier than the modern variants. A big hindrance most of the time, but useful in the odd day you decided to use the thing as a bludgeon.
Just as Sky kneeled down and reached for his rifle, the German came at him once again. The smile on his face had been replaced with a furious snarl.
There was nothing he could do. He was kneeling down, unarmed, and staring down an opponent whose enraged eyes promised bloody murder. Even if he somehow managed to get out of the way of the attack, he was exhausted. He had no strength left in him to take on an enemy who just wouldn't stay down.
Two shots rang out from behind him, and the boche stopped his charge. They were higher-pitched than the rifles he had grown so accustomed to hearing, making him think of a smaller firearm. A pistol?
The boche not four meters away from him lowered his gaze, staring at the two small holes in his chest. Just as he was about to take another step a third shot struck in between the two, the man collapsing in a heap.
"Lark. Lark! Speak to me, are you injured?" a voice called out to him.
"I'm not," he mumbled in response, rising to his feet. "But Cardin is."
"Shit, I need your help moving him," lieutenant Arc cursed as he put away his pistol, barrel still smoking. He dug up another one-handed firearm from one of the pouches in his belt, a small thing with almost comically short and wide barrel. A flare gun, Sky thought as Arc pointed it upwards. The man looked like he had ran through a blender, which probably wasn't all that far away from the truth, actually.
"Hold on just a little longer." Sky wasn't sure if the lieutenant was speaking to him or the unconscious body of Cardin. "We're getting out of here."
Jaune acting like a badass for once. Even if most of it was off-screen...
