Mareth Line
Disclaimer: Same as before.
~ ~ ~ ~
January 2143: A new year, shorn entirely of hope as Morocco and Tunisia have yet to be pacified before the relief column comes to our aid. Spearhead by the 2nd and 4th Ranger Battalions, the relief column is fighting some serious opposition.
We have fortified a section of the old Mareth Line, an ancient twentieth century fortification the French built to withstand an Italian invasion of Tunisia. This is what our fierce fighting through Libya brought us. Army Corps Africa's engineering detachments, working night and day, constructed trenches, interlocking tunnels to caves, pill boxes, and bunkers to form a twenty-two mile long barrier perpendicular to the enemy axis of advance.
The 15th Light Infantry Division is ordered to man the forward observation posts of the Mareth Line. As the Light Infantry, that is our role, to act as skirmishers in large battles, scouts for offensives, and as a delaying force on the defensive.
I man a two person machinegun post with a zigzagging trench connecting to an artillery observer pit. The trench also connects several supporting rifle pits for my twelve man squad.
Kat and I man the machinegun post on the first watch, scanning the dunes, ever wary of attacks that may hurl themselves like waves against rocky shoals against the Mareth Line. We are flanked by the 13e DBLE, the vaunted Demi-Brigade of the Colonial Legion.
They are tough, tanned, and often bearded soldiers, hardened by nearly four years of harsh fighting. When I was a new recruit, we used to mock the legionnaires who shared camp with us at El Agheila because they suffered decimating defeats, retreating all the way from our outermost colony in space at Lacerta all the way to Earth.
As the desert campaign wore on, we grew to respect these experienced, battle toughened warriors. Scars and tattoos crisscross their arms, reminders of previous campaigns marked by tragedy and death. Their eyes, imbedded in their lean, narrow faces are not those of frightened boys pulled roughly from their mother's skirts. Their eyes are jaded, almost feral; they carry the looks of men who have stared death in the eye many a time.
The legionnaires man a machinegun nest about three hundred yards to our front and to the right. Our positions are reinforced by these jaded veterans of war. They are men that make Kat and I look like mere boys.
An attack comes violently out of the dunes towards their position. Because of bad placement, we can't fire without risking hitting our own troops. We can only watch helplessly and take what cover we can.
I urge my men to ready themselves as the legionnaires manning the rifle pits fire round after round with violent intensity, eventually fighting the tide of charging ogres hand to hand. First one of the two man rifle pits falls to offensive action, then another, and then a third and the fourth rifle pit falls back to its machinegun nest.
From that nest, four legionnaires attempt to resist a charge of at the minimum a reinforced platoon of ogres. The savage beasts come charging the machinegun nest, keeping pressure on the gunner until his barrel glows white hot.
The machine gunner grabs his pistol and keeps fighting. But with their machinegun gone and a large force of ogres launching a massive assault the outcome can only be slaughter. Even in death, the legionnaires are stoic and defiant. I watch one of the surviving men using his broken rifle as a club. Without even an afterthought, five ogres break ranks and gang up on this solitary legionnaire. He falls against five of their swords stabbing through his body repeatedly. An ogre strikes the side of his head with a stave and a stream of blood gushes out into the sand.
"Fire! Fire! Everybody! Now!" I shout as we pour a torrent of gunfire into the ranks of the ogres.
I throw two grenades into their ranks and see several bloodied corpses fall out. Gradually I see the first rifle pit fall. An ogre clubs one of the new recruits in the back of his head, spilling blood and brains upon the sand. I fire two rounds into the ogre's head. The second rifleman is impaled through the back by a sword. Kat sweeps the machinegun barrel from side to side. I hear a cry of pain and see Kat trying to fight off an ogre that has gored him with its sword.
"Take that you son of a bitch!!!" I shout and empty six rounds from my pistol at point blank into it's green, orcish face.
"Fall back!" I shout loudly.
Over the radio I shout, "Fire support, fire for effect!"
Artillery shells crash down upon our position as we retreat. "The aid station is not too far." I reassure Kat as I duck behind a rocky outcropping and bandage his wound.
Counter battery fire from the enemy follows close on our heels and shards of rock and metal are just as dangerous if not more so than the actually explosions. I wait in the rocks until I no longer hear the shelling and lift Kat over my back.
He is heavy, and hard to lift, but I know I must get him to the stretcher bearers and from there he will be carried to the hospital. "It's not much farther Kat."
Kat groans in reply, his eyes are half closed, as if he stands at the threshold between death and life. I have seen many a dying man in such a state. It is a clear sign that the dying man has surrendered to the abyss.
A blast knocks me off my feet, I am uninjured and force myself to keep on running out of sheer and utter desperation.
"Kat, wake up!" I shout, "You'll make it."
I am almost desperate to believe my own lies. Kat has suffered massive loss of blood. "C'mon, it's only half a kilometer to the aid station. They'll be able to help you!"
My face is wet with exhaustion and tears, for I know that the half choked lies are not true and that the end lies near. At last I see the aid tent and run towards it yelling, "Medic!" like a madman.
A harried, bloodied medical sergeant runs up to me. "Are you related?" he asks.
"What? No!" I shout, "This man needs help, urgently!"
"You might have spared yourself the trouble." The orderly replies, "He is stone dead."
"Fainted." I reply swiftly, "I was talking to him not more than a few minutes ago."
"He is dead." The orderly replies.
I feel Kat's hands. They are warm. I go to run his temples and feel wetness on my hand. I withdraw my fingers to find them bloody. On my way to the aid station, a splinter must have struck him in the head. A small hole in the side of his head, but it sufficed.
Do I still walk? Do I have limbs still? I feel intact as I walk about. All is proceeding as normal, only Corporal Kaczynski Stanislaus of Geneva is dead. This I know and nothing else as I trudge back to my unit.
Disclaimer: Same as before.
~ ~ ~ ~
January 2143: A new year, shorn entirely of hope as Morocco and Tunisia have yet to be pacified before the relief column comes to our aid. Spearhead by the 2nd and 4th Ranger Battalions, the relief column is fighting some serious opposition.
We have fortified a section of the old Mareth Line, an ancient twentieth century fortification the French built to withstand an Italian invasion of Tunisia. This is what our fierce fighting through Libya brought us. Army Corps Africa's engineering detachments, working night and day, constructed trenches, interlocking tunnels to caves, pill boxes, and bunkers to form a twenty-two mile long barrier perpendicular to the enemy axis of advance.
The 15th Light Infantry Division is ordered to man the forward observation posts of the Mareth Line. As the Light Infantry, that is our role, to act as skirmishers in large battles, scouts for offensives, and as a delaying force on the defensive.
I man a two person machinegun post with a zigzagging trench connecting to an artillery observer pit. The trench also connects several supporting rifle pits for my twelve man squad.
Kat and I man the machinegun post on the first watch, scanning the dunes, ever wary of attacks that may hurl themselves like waves against rocky shoals against the Mareth Line. We are flanked by the 13e DBLE, the vaunted Demi-Brigade of the Colonial Legion.
They are tough, tanned, and often bearded soldiers, hardened by nearly four years of harsh fighting. When I was a new recruit, we used to mock the legionnaires who shared camp with us at El Agheila because they suffered decimating defeats, retreating all the way from our outermost colony in space at Lacerta all the way to Earth.
As the desert campaign wore on, we grew to respect these experienced, battle toughened warriors. Scars and tattoos crisscross their arms, reminders of previous campaigns marked by tragedy and death. Their eyes, imbedded in their lean, narrow faces are not those of frightened boys pulled roughly from their mother's skirts. Their eyes are jaded, almost feral; they carry the looks of men who have stared death in the eye many a time.
The legionnaires man a machinegun nest about three hundred yards to our front and to the right. Our positions are reinforced by these jaded veterans of war. They are men that make Kat and I look like mere boys.
An attack comes violently out of the dunes towards their position. Because of bad placement, we can't fire without risking hitting our own troops. We can only watch helplessly and take what cover we can.
I urge my men to ready themselves as the legionnaires manning the rifle pits fire round after round with violent intensity, eventually fighting the tide of charging ogres hand to hand. First one of the two man rifle pits falls to offensive action, then another, and then a third and the fourth rifle pit falls back to its machinegun nest.
From that nest, four legionnaires attempt to resist a charge of at the minimum a reinforced platoon of ogres. The savage beasts come charging the machinegun nest, keeping pressure on the gunner until his barrel glows white hot.
The machine gunner grabs his pistol and keeps fighting. But with their machinegun gone and a large force of ogres launching a massive assault the outcome can only be slaughter. Even in death, the legionnaires are stoic and defiant. I watch one of the surviving men using his broken rifle as a club. Without even an afterthought, five ogres break ranks and gang up on this solitary legionnaire. He falls against five of their swords stabbing through his body repeatedly. An ogre strikes the side of his head with a stave and a stream of blood gushes out into the sand.
"Fire! Fire! Everybody! Now!" I shout as we pour a torrent of gunfire into the ranks of the ogres.
I throw two grenades into their ranks and see several bloodied corpses fall out. Gradually I see the first rifle pit fall. An ogre clubs one of the new recruits in the back of his head, spilling blood and brains upon the sand. I fire two rounds into the ogre's head. The second rifleman is impaled through the back by a sword. Kat sweeps the machinegun barrel from side to side. I hear a cry of pain and see Kat trying to fight off an ogre that has gored him with its sword.
"Take that you son of a bitch!!!" I shout and empty six rounds from my pistol at point blank into it's green, orcish face.
"Fall back!" I shout loudly.
Over the radio I shout, "Fire support, fire for effect!"
Artillery shells crash down upon our position as we retreat. "The aid station is not too far." I reassure Kat as I duck behind a rocky outcropping and bandage his wound.
Counter battery fire from the enemy follows close on our heels and shards of rock and metal are just as dangerous if not more so than the actually explosions. I wait in the rocks until I no longer hear the shelling and lift Kat over my back.
He is heavy, and hard to lift, but I know I must get him to the stretcher bearers and from there he will be carried to the hospital. "It's not much farther Kat."
Kat groans in reply, his eyes are half closed, as if he stands at the threshold between death and life. I have seen many a dying man in such a state. It is a clear sign that the dying man has surrendered to the abyss.
A blast knocks me off my feet, I am uninjured and force myself to keep on running out of sheer and utter desperation.
"Kat, wake up!" I shout, "You'll make it."
I am almost desperate to believe my own lies. Kat has suffered massive loss of blood. "C'mon, it's only half a kilometer to the aid station. They'll be able to help you!"
My face is wet with exhaustion and tears, for I know that the half choked lies are not true and that the end lies near. At last I see the aid tent and run towards it yelling, "Medic!" like a madman.
A harried, bloodied medical sergeant runs up to me. "Are you related?" he asks.
"What? No!" I shout, "This man needs help, urgently!"
"You might have spared yourself the trouble." The orderly replies, "He is stone dead."
"Fainted." I reply swiftly, "I was talking to him not more than a few minutes ago."
"He is dead." The orderly replies.
I feel Kat's hands. They are warm. I go to run his temples and feel wetness on my hand. I withdraw my fingers to find them bloody. On my way to the aid station, a splinter must have struck him in the head. A small hole in the side of his head, but it sufficed.
Do I still walk? Do I have limbs still? I feel intact as I walk about. All is proceeding as normal, only Corporal Kaczynski Stanislaus of Geneva is dead. This I know and nothing else as I trudge back to my unit.