Men will tell you war is glorious; that it's about honour and bravery. That it's fought for noble ideals of country, patriotism, maybe even ideals of ethics or beauty. Some are honest and say it's about money, about power.
What they won't tell you, even if they really know, is that war is gruelling. Bloody. Hell. Churned fields, watered with blood. The weeping of dying men, whimpering for wives, mothers, lost loves.
And before that, the interminable waiting. The silences. The point beyond which the adrenaline fuelled anticipation has ended and instead the hollow impatience of inevitability looms over everything.
They were ready, the troops having pushed south and then west out of holdouts in London and the various counties. Riders, messenger birds, even the odd still-functional telegraph had managed to drag the troops together. They'd rendezvoused with the Royal Marines north of Portsmouth and now a contingent of Officers gathered in a small makeshift HQ ten miles southeast of Horsell. Artillery could be heard thumping, a preliminary barrage from several split batteries. In the command tent the cluster of officers loomed over a splayed map. At the fore, the 2nd Duke of Cambridge, Prince George. Field Marshal of the British Army. To his right stood Colonel Tasseter and his left General Arthur James-Herbert, the Quartermaster General of the British Army. A few more Brigadiers and other luminaries dotted the room.
The Prince was frowning at the map. Stacked nearby were various noted orders and written up plans, drafted by General Marter back in London. Notable were the additional suggestions and directions handed out by Colonel Anderson.
"This is bally silly," grunted the Prince. Next to him Tasseter nodded, "An entrenched position, fine I'll grant them that, perhaps even superior artillery to a point. But frankly, brute determination and the steely discipline of the men will see them through."
A cough from across the table drew his glare. A Lieutenant Colonel of the Royal Marines stood there, and returned the gaze coolly, "With all due respect, Your Highness, their weapon ranges are frankly a hard stop for any advance. A traditional infantry move will result in more casualties than can carry the day."
Tasseter snorted, "So we sweep with cavalry while you ditch diggers plod along then."
The Royal Marine allowed his gaze to slide to Tasseter and he gave him a very visible once over. Clearly he found it wanting and snorted, "Never actually met the foe, have you, Colonel?"
Tasseter bridled, "I very well know what we are up against and they are to be found wanting."
The Royal spread his glance around the room. Interestingly, on his side of the table, the officers all seemed more careworn - their uniforms dustier, their eyes harder, "Well, when your horse shies away and your shiny boots get caked in mud while a fifty foot tall monster sets fire to your men, then I'm sure your little toothpick will be very imposing. Or perhaps when the ground explodes and a thing made of claws rips your horses belly open and turns your men into walking corpses fresh to spew more hellspawn out? Or maybe when your own men start shooting each other?"
He delivered this in a calm manner, keeping his eyes focused on Tasseter. The Cavalryman was not one to baulk at a challenge but when he fixed on the Marine's eyes he couldn't help but shudder. Those eyes had seen hell. Recently.
The Prince looked between the two, "Are you done, Charles? Yes, I've read the notes, heard the reports. I will grant, seeing what I have seen in London that things are… fanciful if true. But the scale seems impossible. An entire army within England without the means to get here, beyond some tiny meteors? Really!"
The Royal Marine, Charles, looked back at the Prince, "And yet our army is in disarray, scattered and only now regrouping. Several cities burning. How can you explain it sir?"
"I will not have morale impugned like this Charles. Restrain yourself, please. We are here to discuss the solution, not the source of the issue."
Charles nodded. An Artillery Major piped up then, "Sirs, the barrage should be softening the outer perimeter, as was detailed by reconnaissance. We haven't got much more in depth detail of their interior layouts, dispositions and the like. We are raising observation balloons shortly, so will have a better vantage. The current barrage will allow further artillery to be emplaced and, as per advice from the Naval liaison and the Orders from Colonel Anderson, we're spreading the batteries out as best we can."
Tasseter sneered, "Spacing them out? Inefficient, means the ammunition chain will be stretched. I say consolidated, allow for easier barrage power, ease of command and control, more shells on target faster."
The Artilleryman now frowned, "Distance is not a problem, sir. We have signallers attached. And each battery has its own independent chain. Consolidation means one solid target that is vulnerable."
The Prince rallied, "But one battery is easier to defend from the front and flanks. We risk diluting our thrust…"
The debate went back and forth. Slowly, the majority of Anderson's suggestions and Marter's orders were chiseled away. Eventually a plan was formed, changed from the original - a thrust, as originally foreseen - a push north, into the heart of Horsell common. But where this differed from Anderson's plan and Marter's was that instead of several concurrent thrusts to split the enemy line, this was a solid push of infantry, cavalry to flank from the south, intent on sweeping the enemy infantry who would be bogged down with the infantry force and a devastating artillery barrage.
The Prince looked satisfied, condeeding only a few points - the artillery split he allowed for the most part, but insisted the "bigger guns" be consolidated and defended. However, he flat out refused to make use of the "confounded barbaric weaponry" that a certain "Master Shen" had provided, beyond the armour and some ammunition improvements.
That sentiment was not shared by Charles Fortisque however. He'd been with Anderson in Portsmouth, been fighting these monsters for weeks. So, he decided to make a "strategic decision" along with his fellow veterans, once they left the command tent.
Their group set off for the quartermasters tent and set up a little meeting of their own. There were three infantry colonels, the artillery major and a pair of quartermaster officers. Charles sat on a pile of grain sacks and harrumphed.
"Bloody fools. Disaster and ruin, that's the course. A field of dead men and platitudes."
The mood was sombre and the artilleryman piped up, "We also have a few thousand rockets, but I didn't mention that, as honourable lord Tasseter wouldn't know what to do with one…"
An infantry Colonel chuckled, "He might get the wrong idea…."
That cheered them up, the chuckles alleviating the atmosphere. Then they turned to Charles. Another infanteer spoke, "What are we to do, then old boy?"
He stroked his moustache and sighed, "It appears we have been pushed to the fringes - the London regiments are leading the infantry charge, whilst we have been relegated to flank duty and battery defence. I feel we may have the better offering. However, I do believe the overall plan is sound. Gentlemen, we have our orders… in the round at least. How we go to it on the ground, I believe we have some more flexibility The original plan called for a divide and conquer, to prevent the enemy from using its advantages en masse. I think perhaps, with some creative deployment of our reserves, we may be able to at least create the illusion. And without, necessarily, breaking our orders. If we are challenged I will accept full responsibility and hand myself to the bloody Provost myself, damn their hides."
The men chuckled, but nodded. The Artilleryman spoke, "we can easily switch targets on the larger guns, spoof some walking advances to the other flanks. And the further guns can hit further. Should cause some more consternation. Rockets might be good for them flying bastards as well, according to my Sergeant major - we just need to trim the fuses after a few volleys."
They all shared glances and then one man pulled a map from a satchel bag. They unrolled it on the QM's fold out table. Charles shared a look with all of them, "Let's hope it is enough."
The Catastrophe of Horsell Common
British Army routed
Massacre of Mankind?
Yesterday afternoon the British Army attempted an all out assault on the entrenched forces of the foreign invaders, who have set their eyes on the jewel of London and the Heart of the Empire.
Seven Divisions of Infantry and four Cavalry Divisions were deployed in the initial fray, under the watchful gunnery of fifty batteries of Artillery.
However, the Invader counter-assault proved swift and decisive. Only foresight by experienced Army commanders to reinforce the flanks and disperse the guns allowed for an orderly withdrawal. The Ministry for War is refusing to release current casualty figures, but witness testimony from on the ground and reports from apparent "withdrawing troops" indicates a near route, with the potential loss of three full divisions of Infantry, upwards of 30,000 men, as well as one full Cavalry division.
This report is currently deemed conjecture by the Ministry. A spokesman stated that the assault was currently underway and reports to the contrary could be construed as damaging to public morale. It is the opinion of this News Paper that it is in the interest of the public to be aware of risk to life and limb of the common subjects of Her Majesty. This may be our final edition, as we fully expect retribution from the Office of the Provost Marshal as the Country is, apparently, under martial law.
Anderson was vibrating with rage. He stared down at the paper, splayed on a desk in front of him. Around the room officers, engineers and an unusually quiet Bradford watched him, awaiting a reaction any reaction.
"The damn fools. Those damnable fools," he finally hissed, his hands clenching hard. A door to the main command room creaked open and Doctor Vahlen entered. Her eyes locked on the hunched Commander and her lips pursed. She looked around the room, huffed and strode over. Gently she reached out and gripped his forearm.
It was like a grounding rod in a storm. The tension in the man flowed out and he slumped slightly, head shaking. The room seemed to relax ever so slightly.
Anderson looked up and met Vahlen's cool gaze, "Doctor."
"Commander," she glanced at the newspaper and sighed.
"Quite. I suspect the reality to be worse. Our men on the ground managed to dispatch transmission via the wireless system. Old Charlie… well he salvaged what he could it seems. Actually got the bastards bogged down, literally. Saved over half the artillery emplacements and is pulling back the remaining troops to secondary emplacements. An assault and we lose ground."
Vahlen's grip tightened and she gave Anderson a once over, "A bath. Breakfast. Now."
"I am needed here, to control.
"William," Her voice brooked no argument. He deflated. Bradford managed a wry grin from across the room. There were some chuckles, but they were good natured.
Vahlen released her grip and stepped back, smoothing the blazer that covered her blouse and gave a slight cough. Anderson gave a morose chuckle and looked down at himself, "Smell that bad, eh? Well, why didn't you lot say anything?" he chided the room, trying to go for brevity.
"Wouldn't dare, sir!" came a voice safely from the shadows of a set of cork-board easels. Anderson shook his head, then shrugged.
"Bradford, I will retire to the mess for an hour. You have control. Anything further?"
"Seems the Prince was… one of the casualties sir."
The mood in the room seemed to be going for sombre, but no one could quite manage it. There was a muttering of "Good news at last then," but it faded with a glare from Anderson.
"Every casualty is a tragedy, no matter how much of a buffoon they might be. Bradford, ensure Marter is informed and send a runner to the Palace. Let's see if we can't get ahead of the wave. I want a write up of what happened for review as soon as we know more."
"Sir, yes sir!" chimed Bradford, sincerely. Anderson strode for the door and found Vahlen alongside him.
"Doctor?"
"I am going to make sure you do as you are told," she kept her gaze ahead of her. Anderson stepped out into the cool morning air and chuckled.
"What, offering to scrub my back?"
"If that's what it takes to make sure you aren't a suicidal idiot, then yes."
Anderson stumbled slightly, his bluff seemingly having been called and he coughed, "Madame!"
She paused and frowned at him, "You can hardly prosecute die krieg without correct rest and recuperation, Herr Anderson. I see that I must force it upon you."
"Ah, professional interest," he tried to not sound disappointed. Why was he disappointed? That she'd outmanoeuvred him in their daily dialogues and parry-riposte banter? He glanced at her, but she kept her eyes forward, her face set in that near perpetual frown of hers.
Once more he was reminded about how striking she was; her brown hair almost grey in the light. She nodded, her nose and chin in profile, pointed but dainty to his eyes. Her bearing strong and upright, "Of course. Without you, I fear we crumble."
He looked ahead, missing the flexing of her throat. But he heard the muttered "blodhammel".
"I think I know that one. Stupid idiot?"
She coloured suddenly and shot him a look, "Since when do you versteht deutsch?"
"Since I thought it useful to understand the people I ca…. Command, Doctor," They continued in silence, entering the mess. The Doctor watched as he made his way to the bathrooms. He gave her a lopsided smile, "As you can see, I am obeying Doctor's orders,"
Her gaze unnerved him slightly. She usually only used that when studying the subjects in her labs in the converted hospital complex. It was as if she had seen something new. He felt the gaze bore into him. She nodded curtly.
"I will ensure you have breakfast ready. Steig in die Badewanne."
He was beginning to notice she slipped into German when focused, flustered or just irritated. Which meant she really should just be speaking it more often. He gave an uncertain nod and, feeling like a chastened school boy, slipped into one of the vacant bathrooms.
The tub filled rapidly with lukewarm water and he added some meagre soap-flakes. He stripped the uniform off, folding the trousers and white shirt carefully, hanging the jacket on a provided hanger. The bathrooms were very austere - white plaster walls, tiled floor, wooden benches and a rudimentary coat hook. The bath was set against a wall, the door to the left. He eased himself into the water and felt a wave of weariness suddenly crash onto him.
Ever since the men had headed north he'd been working. Dispatched, what, three, four days prior? The week had been hectic, all preparation, final dispatch of troops by carriage and functional trains. Mad-houses, meetings back and forth. Marter and Smythson, who had been at least brought into the loop on the perimeter defences of London. His troops, their distinctive long-coats and face-scarves, had been a boon, freeing up more men for the front. They were a silent lot, but clearly professional. Smytheson had said they were mostly mercenaries, luckily on a stop-over before a further deployment to South America, now likely to never happen. Clearly they had been retained for nefarious dealings in the dark interior of the Americas. But now they had been requisitioned to more noble tasks.
The door clanked open and Anderson heard the rattle of China. Part of him said he should be awake, pistol in hand - nowhere was safe, nowhere secure. But he was tired. Tired of the months prosecuting this debacle of a war; tired of reading casualty reports, of overseeing more deep dives into the abandoned underground of London to fish more kidnapped and maddened souls from engines of macabre violence and unknown torture. These past few days he had maybe slept once, for three hours. Which, piled onto fitful nights over the past few weeks had led him to a bad bad place.
His dreams were tainted with gurgling lumps of flesh that writhed with tentacles, cyclopian eyes staring at him whilst their utterances bled into a chuckle-like warble. A bulbous grey head with pitch-black eyes had regarded him coolly, but with a strange sense of hate.
And...jealousy?
And behind them a dim figure, robed in red and gold.
Every night he had awoken, drenched in sweat. He'd nearly taken to the cocaine to keep himself going; he knew several of the other officers were resorting to it; better that than the dimmed senses of opium pipes.
The sound of feet reminded him of the presence in the room - Mess staff delivering tea or breakfast. Nothing if not efficient. He tried to open tired eyes but he was already feeling half asleep, even in the tepid water. He managed a vague wave.
"Leave it… on the bench. Thank you. Just, resting."
A splash jerked him awake and he saw an arm dipping something in the water. A very female arm, sleeves of a white blouse rolled up.
"Lean forward, bitte."
He did, his brain on autopilot. He felt a surge of water down his back, along with the glorious scrape of a sponge. Fingers kneaded at his shoulders, taut and pained. He hadn't noticed it. Now the tension seemed to be being wrestled out of him by determined fingers.
"Dummkopf."
"Should I take off-"
"Hush," He did as bade and leaned back slightly with a groan. Part of his brain reminded him he was currently naked whilst a member of his staff was clearly able to see other staff-like-members. He jerked slightly and the grip on his shoulder tightened, "Do not be a baby. I have brothers. I have seen worse."
He blushed. He, a veteran of Afghanistan, India, South Africa, blushed. Never had a woman had him at a disadvantage. The fingers flexed again and he groaned, "Ah, well, so."
"Hush."
"Why?"
He felt her hand flex and realised she had shrugged. He frowned, but she spoke, "I meant it. Without you, this fails. I do not like failing, William. I do not want you to fail. So, if we fail, we do so together."
Her voice carried a note, a determination. He risked a glance up, his vision still slightly fatigued. His eyes met hers and he blinked. Her gaze was intense. He didn't recognise the emotion. He knew how to flirt, how to charm.
But under that gaze. Well, he knew a lost cause when he saw one. Resisting it was one such endeavour.
"I….. believe I understand…?"
She frowned, her forehead creasing, "I do not think you do, Herr Anderson."
"I think we're a tad past formalities, mad- Moira."
He waved a hand at the water and managed a partial smirk. He was rewarded with a faint colouring as her eyes treacherously flashed down and then back to his. Her lips pursed.
"Indeed… but it is still true that we fail if you fail. I cannot allow myself to fail, so I will not allow you to do so."
He sighed and slumped. Was that gaze just that the? "Keeping tabs on EXALT investments, Doctor?"
Her breath hissed from between clenched teeth and her grip tightened briefly. Anderson winced slightly then he heard her move, straighten. Heard the brief cough, more a hitch of breath. His hindbrain kicked itself into gear as he felt her move away and his hand sloshed out of the bath and gripped at hers as she moved towards the door. She froze.
"Dummkopf," she hissed, His grip tightened.
"Liebschen," he replied. Her body shuddered suddenly. His grip slid down her forearm, to her wrist, then to her hand, "Stay, please." He managed those words at least.
She wavered for a moment, then moved back to the stool next to the bath. He released her hand, reluctantly, then felt her hands on his shoulders against, breaking the tension there. He reached up, shaking and took one of them and squeezed. She squeezed back and he felt lips press against the crown of his head, feather-like, barely touching.
He exhaled as his shoulders were soaped and cleaned, water running over his chest, across the scars and blemishes. He felt her apply a lather to his face and, for the first time in a decade, felt the scrape of a razor held by someone else as she shaved his faint stubble away. The silence wasn't awkward, just companionable.
As he felt her wipe the last vestiges of soap from his face with a warm towel, he felt his eyes slowly close, finally finding peace. Safe. Secure. Protected.
He awoke to find himself in bed, wearing a robe. His uniform hung on a rail in the open closet near the bed. He remembered faintly drinking the tea proffered to him and managing a slice of toast after being helped, groggily, out of a bath. His head felt woozy, fogged by sleep. But it wasn't the swaying-near-drunk feeling of prior days. This was the "I need a little more time"; but his faculties felt more functional. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and looked around the room, realising he was alone. He felt a pang of sadness. And that then led to the next thought: what had actually happened?
A colleague helping an ailing fellow? Comfort for a jaded man? A Doctor looking out for a friend?
Were they friends now?
Were they more?
That last one gave him mild palpitations. He'd always been a bachelor, never settled. Army man, no ties. Travelling the world. There'd been liaisons, actual dinner dates even. He'd escorted a young lady down the pier at Brighton once, even.
This was certainly a slight shift in protocol. And he was utterly stumped. Defence of the largest city in Europe? Fine. Fighting fifty foot tall metal monsters that could set you on fire from a mile away? Child's play. Spiffing even.
Work out the thinking of a terrifyingly focused German woman. No Swiss German woman….
Well I'm buggered six ways to Sunday.
He sagged back into the bed, feeling like a man in his twenties again. Heady. Terrified. Facing the first charge in some foreign field. Drunk in the mess, laughing.
Well, first things first - plan of attack. Come up with a strategy. He had one main objective here.
Don't Fail.
And with that, he swung his feet out of bed and began to get dressed. He had a war to win.
To call the whole thing a bally mess was the kindest way. And the worst thing, the absolute worst thing?
Anderson had been sodding right.
The counter-jumping toerag, common as muck interloping, brown nosing, treacherous buffoon had been right.
Tasseter wanted to scream, wanted to howl at the unfairness of it all. Instead he cowered in the crater, surrounded by dead men and the whimpers of the dying. He held his malacca cane in both hands and bit down on it, grinding and whimpering his rage into the effort. They should, he realised, have spread out, not allowed the enemy to shoot them in a barrel.
The plan should've worked - a fantastic barrage worthy of God himself. It should've broken their lines, mulched their forward positions. And indeed, it had.
But it just meant their advance got slowed by churned and wet soil. The infantry had slowed at the edge of the blasted column. A thrust ten thousand men wide and five times as deep.
It hadn't meant anything when five of the tripods had stood up far behind the line of the barrage, a mile back. And incinerated the front line easily. They hadn't even deployed a forward force of troops as far as the local commanders had seen. Tasseter had been sat with the Prince, taking tea, observing from an elevated platform, via binoculars. That had lasted until the tripods made their appearance and the Prince had panicked. He told Tasseter to head to the front immediately; to seize control and push the advance.
Which meant he was a good mile away when he'd seen the rockets smash into the headquarters and rear-most tents. Black smoke and flames billowing.
He'd been spared. But he'd pushed forward, his escort and aides with him, all driving their horses to the front at breakneck speed.
The air was thick with whistling artillery as behind them several batteries received counter-fire, disappearing in columns of green flame and harrowing squeals of metal and man. They'd pushed east and north to where the cavalry had begun their charge. He'd charged into the forward command tent to try to gain control but found that things had descended into a melee.
And then the chittering horrors had struck - rampaging out of the blasted forest, sending horses fleeing and spreading chaos among the troops who didn't know whether to charge behind the advance of the Cavalry, corral the horses or just fight the towering horrors. Spindly things that looked like chitinous centaurs, accompanied by creatures that looked like strange shambling lobster-men.
They'd fought them off, only to see some of their fallen rise and explode into more monsters. Tasseter had rallied what men he could to escape the reserve lines and push into the advance - they couldn't fall back now; committing was the only option, a strike now they'd weathered the advance.
Oh how wrong he'd been. How very wrong.
Things came from the sky, trailing grey smoke and laughing as they swooped in, spraying death and green fire. Grey things had leapt from tree to blasted tree, firing down. He saw his men slash at one another in fear and in some cases intent. And then hulking green forms had shoulder barged horses off their feet and crushed neighing necks with a single stomp.
He'd forced them on, carbines dragging targets from their air and trees, charging slashes of sabre managing to fell some of the brutes.
And then they were on the common. He'd dragged two hundred men from the reserve, following two thousand cavalry. He arrived with thirty five still able to fight. They found a charnel house of flame, smoke and violence.
Men fought with things from nightmares - spinning discs of metal that unfolded into scorpions in mid air; hulking creatures that dragged men from horseback and punched them into the soil and then kept punching. Spider-like walkers that grabbed and flung men about like rag-dolls. Spindly men that wove through combat like dancers, slashing and stabbing with long blades, or firing precise shots like duellists, their inhuman grace unnerving to watch.
But Tasseter was from a bloodline that had glory bred into it. You did not back down, did not show the foe your back.
He gave a cry and spurred his horse on, the beast foaming at the mouth, ears back and eyes wide with terror. But it had been trained well and ploughed on. He slashed from left to right, cutting down, bringing spurts of green-yellow blood as they waded into the melee. Men piling onto Mutons with bayonets, firing their last rounds at point blank as the weapons jammed into flesh; snake-men pinned by mud-encrusted infantry whilst another soldier battered their heads in with the butt of a rifle; a grenade blasting a thing from middair; a skittering insect monsters felled by a lance wielding Household Cav man, his plume fluttering from a dented helmet, uniform soaked in all manner of blood.
And then one of the walkers had entered the fray, blasting furnace heat across the battlefield. Men and alien died in shrieking fire as the thing bathed the ground with shimmering heat. Then there was the whistle of artillery and the machine had sagged suddenly, stumbling. Its massive four pronged feet had sunk into churned mud and it found itself staggering, unable to adjust as more shells exploded around it. The Artillery had given up on "safe support" and were just targeting the walkers it seemed. Someone had given them new orders, it appeared.
Fortisque?
Tasseter would deal with that later. Deviation was dangerous, sowed confusion among the men. But, he had to admit, it was doing a jolly good number on the toppling machine. Until another salvo erupted further into the battlefield - dark streaks that flew fast and true. The friendly artillery barrage ceased and the wounded machine righted itself. Tasseter reigned his horse in and stared up at the grey-green metal hulk, dented and sparking, but still standing. A funnel to the fore levelled at him, the dragon-fly green canopy of the hood like a pair of insectile eyes.
And then it lurched backwards, the hood shattering as something slammed into it. The air stank of electrical energy and Tasseter wheeled around to see a crew of men manoeuvring one of that infernal Chinaman's devices. It looked like a cannon, except sporting more strange protuberances and wiring. It whined and fired again, sending an actinic bolt of electricity over Tasseters head. He turned and saw the fighting machine judder as the bolt connected with the shattered canopy. Inside the machine something flashed and it exploded from the inside. His horse reared and he felt himself fall. As he struggled up from the mud he saw his horse cantering back, away into the trees. The squad of men and their strange weapon were gone, lost in the fight. Dead or having moved on to new targets he didn't know.
A figure lurched out of the smoke - a bloodied snake-eyed maniac. One of the figure's arms hung, useless. The other wielded a broken knife, which had probably been a sword. The thing hissed and lunged.
It felt like an age. He'd fenced in his club in London, partaken in some training at the barracks - which meant supervising the men mainly. But Tasseter was not an unfit man. And yet his muscles were screaming at the end, his breath haggard.
The creature was dead, likely from blood loss than from a mortal wound. He'd gotten a couple of lucky shots in due to wide strikes from a clearly crazed monster. It, likewise, had wounded him: his leg was streaming blood from a thin cut and he had a shallow wound on his upper left arm. If he'd gone up against an unwounded foe? He felt bile rise in his chest.
The fight was more spread out now; white smoke obscured much of the battlefield and the sound of artillery was more distant. Above, abominations soared and dove into the fray, chortling and shrieking as they swooped in and out.
He staggered towards what looked like a line of men, but which turned out to be a row of corpses slumped over a fallen log. Chitinous corpses and dead Insectoid bodies surrounded them, along with a pair of sprawled mutons. He moved further along, feeling the ground thump as another fighting machine thundered off in the distance. Through the gloom he could make out more men firing, fighting. But right now he was in some sort of eye of the storm.
The arrival of a white orb, engaged in a running battle with a squad of infantry sent him charging. He joined the fray, mind reeling with bloodlust and mania. He yanked a discarded rifle from a corpse, his own sidearm having been lost in mud. Aim, fire, eject, reload, aim, fire, eject, reload. He advanced on the sphere, firing regularly whilst the infantry ducked into cover behind burnt out stumps or craters. The thing seemed to turn away much of the rifle fire. It vibrated and a bolt of energy blasted apart a stump and the man behind it. A lucky round glanced off the eye-socket of the thing and it floated up with a hiss. Then it unfolded, revealing a lumpen, misshapen thing within. Tasseter staggered as purple light coruscated out.
And then the corpses around them all stood up.
That was the moment he broke. His rifle trembled and his adrenaline failed, his body becoming a quivering sack. He felt it flood away as if pushed out by another force. He whimpered and threw the rifle aside, staggering away.
He fled. How long he ran he wasn't sure, but he tripped along the way and tumbled into a deep crater.
And there he sat, surrounded by the dead and dying. Darkness had fallen and faded once. Through the night he'd heard mechanical sounds of evisceration, shrieks of pain, guttural cries of victory and the mechanical stomp of walkers.
But that had faded as the enemy had cleared the field, maybe pushed on. Sleep had been fleeting, fitful.
Until a Muton had collapsed into the crater, missing most of its head. Tasseter had stared at it, confused, then looked up at the lip of the crater. There was a mechanical clank and the hiss of steam, followed by a chink-choonk! Of something being loaded. Then a sound that felt more like a low base tone. In the distance there was an explosion.
Well if he was going to die, he was going to do it on his own bally terms! Like a man possessed he began to scramble up the slimy, muddy walls. His leg was stiff and sore, the bleeding stopped but infection likely setting in. His left arm nearly useless. With a whimper he yanked himself over the lip, a retrieved pistol clutched in his right hand.
The sight in front of him was strange. A squat machine, but not obviously martian. It looked like some sort of plough, like the cattle-prow at the fore of a steam train, only scaled up. As he watched, a gun barrel rose over the top of the plough and fired. It didn't sound like a conventional gun, instead emitting a booming thrum like he'd felt in the crater.
With the hiss of steam, the strange prow-vehicle rumbled forwards. A man stepped out from behind the prow and spotted him, then called out to the men behind. More troops emerged from what Tasseter realised was clearly a shield of some sort. These men all wore the armour designed by that Chinese fellow.. Hands grabbed him and hauled him backwards whilst more checked the crater.
Beyond the prow, he realised the thing was some sort of steam tractor, except with strange linked treads over the wheels. It towed a trailer on which was mounted the strange gun. The prow itself was mounted on what looked like a strange crane which looked for all the world like one of the tripod leg joints.
A man peered at him, frowning, taking in his uniform, "An officer, eh laddie?"
Tasseter peered at him, "I am a Colonel of The Royal Dragoon Guard and you will address me as such. I am taking command of this unit, to execute the orders of his royal high-"
"Shut it?" came the rebuke, delivered matter of factly, "I'm Colour Sergeant Macclesfield. And you are wounded and in no condition to be swinging that wee pencil you call a dick a bout, y'hear me?"
"How… how dare you! Who do you think you are?" Tasseter was only vaguely aware of someone applying something to his wounds. A quick glance made him do a double take - a woman was there, in uniform? With a rifle?!
The Colour Sergeant leaned in, enjoying the wince of pain on the Colonel's face as the medical gelatin was applied, "Who are we? We're fookin; EXALT, ya wee baby."