The floor of the dug-out trembles as another shell crashes to earth. The first flight of our air force went by overhead fifteen minutes ago. The initial shock of the bombardment has faded now, into a kind of accepting lack of feeling. The roaring behind me eyes has faded. I hate now bluntly, with no edge. The lack of palpable success so far by our air force angers me, but dully, like the pulse of my blood behind my temples.

"What the fuck are those bastards doing to those guns out there? Piddling on them?" I say out loud, just for the hell of it.

Blue, squatted next to me and watching the stars leading up to the smoking hole that had been the doors licks her lips. She doesn't both to reply. We wait in tense silence for the next few minutes. Blue shuffles closer to me.

"Listen," she says quietly "The pattern of their fire is changing. The shells are falling beyond the trenches. At our bunkers."

"They're coming then. Using the barrage as cover until they're within charging distance. Very smart," Caster says from behind me conversationally.

"Shit," I mutter, checking the sensor monitor nervously and gripping Heartbreaker reflexively, "The screen's clear-"

CHACKA-CHACKA-CHACKA-CHACKA

Whump. Whump. Whump.

Outside the 155mm piece and our chain gun have opened fire. The roar of noise overhead almost drowns out the piercing wail tearing out of the sensor monitor. The screen is overloaded with blue dots swarming towards the graphical representation of the trench line. Red dots, much closer, are scattered along the line. For a moment I stand frozen, aghast at their proximity and numbers alone. Then the screen flickers and goes blank. The motion sensors feeding it have been hit perhaps. Whatever it is, it fills me with a desperate energy that washes away my lethargy. I have no time…. I whirl round and clutch Heartbreaker to me, lungs filling with air. The cry balloons out of me.

"Theeeey're inside the perimeterrrrr!!!!"

All over the dug-out helmets are being snatched and jammed on. Tables are overturned, clothing in neatly ordered piles falls scattered as people sweep them aside in search of buried items. Chairs lie where they fall.

Caster's Lurps are already at the assembling point at the foot of the stairs. The shock of the bombardment has numbed the ordinary grunts into immobility however. Now, we are losing crucial seconds.

Outside the fire from the 155mm's bunker has fallen ominously silent. But the sounds of battle have risen exponentially. The walls tremor to the hammering of 155mm pieces and chain guns all along our line. The whooshing sound of rocket fire, the screamed words of casting and roar of nameless explosions filter down me and mingle with the clatter of boots and armour as the Lurps storm up the steps of the dug out, Caster at their head.

I pass Blue struggling to organise her section and beat Heartbreaker frantically on the backs of my own section, now cramming into the narrow stairwell and wedging themselves into an immobile pack. Idiots. Push. Like a dam wall bursting they give way and I shoulder my way through to the leading squad.

"Get out and spread out!" I yell over my shoulder.

We spill out of the dug-out into darkness and fling ourselves up against the edge of the trench.

My vision returns, switching from black to an eerie white set against a green background, as my visor switches to low-light vision. Cautiously, stomach churning, I step up onto the firing step, gesturing the others to stay down. Spread out in front of me an army is marching, like a swarm of ants. Hundreds of armoured and robed figures, bristling with spears and tulwars, are sprinting forward group by group, each covering the other. In front of my eyes an eruption of Fira, Blizzara, Water and Sleep spells plaster a section of the trench lip to my left. Galbadian heads duck, forced to keep low as the razor wire in front of them turns molten and drips onto the frozen mud.

Driving through the charging mobs are also dozens of vehicles; cars, vans, jeeps- anything with a motor and four wheels is represented. And mounted on each is a spitting tongued multi-barrelled rocket launcher, with a loader and gunner hanging precariously onto their buckling, shrieking mount as it screams parallel along our lines, plastering them with fire.

The sheer size of the attack stuns me. It steals my breath away. The entire arc of the camp is lit up with white muzzle flashes as our guns engage targets I can't even see. There must be thousands of them. A whole charging file of skinnies collapses as a line of Firas streak back at them from a distant stretch of the line, but it seems to my eyes that their corpses are simply swallowed up by the ocean of armoured guerrillas which simply rolls over them and sweeps onwards. All this dawning awareness has taken perhaps three seconds.

Blue's section is spilling out of the dug-out behind us. Caster's Lurps are already stepping onto the firing step, Berserk spells launching into the enemy. All along the camp, grunts are spilling out into their trenches. Guns are being dragged swiftly into new positions. The camp shudders to the tread of GIM S2As, Iron Giants and SAM0 8Gs as the slumbering 'bots are powered up and loosed into action. The whole scene reminds of a nest of hornets stirred with a stick.

"Sarge," Val cries from behind me "Orders Sarge!"

"Daytripper, get their asses up on that firing step and start casting now!" I scream back down at her, struggling to get myself heard over the din of battle.

Whatever the section sees through my visor though, it galvanises them into action. They swarm onto the firing step and begin casting away furiously. I risk another glance over the lip of the trench. The first line of skinnies is just fifty yards away, and closing fast. Just our spells won't be enough to stop them. Where is our fire support? The other three bunkers are firing away along withthe rest of the company. I remember how the bunker above fell silent when the sensor monitor cut out…

With a sickening feeling I remember the red dots along the trench line- a trench that is now occupied solely by Galbadian soldiers.

The Satlink crackles to life inside my helmet.

"Sections 4, 5 and 6. This is your Lieutenant speaking. Why is bunker four not firing? I can't raise them on the Satlink. Coming over to investigate. Cover me. Merton out."

With what? The skinnies are thirty yards away now, and crawling forwards on their bellies, prodding the ground with tulwars for the mines we laid out in front of the trench. I blast one leader with a Fira and finish him with a head shot from Heartbreaker. Instantly a ball of icy cold is launched towards me and I have to hurl myself back down again.

[Tulwar: object, light, curved blade about the length of a short sword. Not unlike a scimitar, but shorter. It could both slash and stab, and was especially useful in cramped conditions such as trenches, where it required little space to wield properly.]

Behind me I hear the crunching steps of the Lieutenant's three GIM 47Ns pounding along behind us. There are shouts in Melisian as the machines are spotted. Very close. A rocket streaks over the trench, followed by others. Many others. Their detonations are followed by the much louder explosion of at least one of the 'bots. From the bunker comes more rocket fire, and then sound of metallic fists smacking through armour and bone. A current of shock runs through the grunts. Rikka lets out a small cry.

"They're behind us," she cries, looking left then right as though unsure where to run.

A picture forms in my mind. I am cool. Aware of my fear, but above it. A dozen guerrillas standing upright less then thirty yards away. All the skinnies staring at the 'bots. Surrounded by mines.

"Section up! Section, grenades now, over the top!" I rap out.

The tone of command has their limbs moving before their conscious minds have time to think. I unpin my own grenade and time the count. Next to us Caster's section has seen what we are doing as are fumbling out their own grenades.

"One, Two, Three!"

A good thrower can pitch thirty yards easily. All our grunts are good throwers.

Twenty grenades rain over the lip of the trench and there is the slam of detonations. The dozen or so skinnies standing are hit by half a dozen mid-air explosions that send their scarecrow bodies flying to land in brief grotesque huddled heaps- they are falling out of the pathways their comrades have cleared onto the minefield. But their cremations are lost in the roar of the remaining grenade's blasts as they each gently bounce into the explosives laid field. There is a massive simultaneous detonation as dozens of mines, set of the grenade explosions or by their weight, or by the falling bodies of the dying skinny rocketmen blow skyward. The lip of the trench is lifted up and dumped over us as the explosions ripple out in a chain reaction, spraying red hot splinters of metal in all directions.

I peer over the new edge of the trench as the blasts die away, my head ringing, my eyes dripping with irritation at the dirt in them. Everyone else has hurled themselves flat. Dozens of skinnies lie unmoving, in all directions. Most are in pieces. I see a leg lying here, a head there. Hands no longer connected to any body clasp burnt blades. The leading line of our attackers has been wiped out. There must be close to a company here.

But the minefield that was slowing the enemy is gone. The wire lies in bedraggled heaps hither and thither. The others are hauling themselves upright, gapping in shocked disbelief at the carnage spread out in front of them. But my eyes are fixed on the wall of guerrillas picking themselves up off the ground. Their officers are racing around, dragging up soldiers and pointing wildly in the direction of our ruined section of the line. The path to the trench is open and Johnny knows it.