"The dead and the unborn are as much members of society as the living. To dishonor the dead is to reject the relation on which society is built - the relation of obligation between generations." - Roger Scruton, Rousseau & The Origins of Liberalism
"A culture and a society are not things run for the convenience of the people who happen to be here right now, but it is a deep pact between the dead, the living, and those yet to be born." - Douglas Murray, The Strange Death of Europe
Boots clacked across the sidewalk. The friction of jackets against the fabric of the stretchers produced a rough scratching noise, and it stuck out amongst the rush of footsteps.
Max stopped at the edge of the wooden fence and signaled them to hold with a raised hand. The rest of First Squad fell in behind her along this fence, each girl taking a crouch to rest.
Caulfield's stahlhelm peeked around the corner, followed by the rest of her head.
She was not parallel to the street, but even from where she stood, she could get enough of a picture of what lay ahead. A straight shot it was, down the street a couple blocks until they would reach Cedar Avenue, and then across to the defense line. The skirmishes between the militia and the Reds were ongoing and had yet to die down.
Here goes nothing.
Max looked back, "Juliet, Kate!"
The two made their way forwards, the latter of whom held a stretcher in her hands.
"We'll go first. I'll lead the way, you two follow right behind me," Caulfield then turned to the rest of her squad, "You guys, keep watch, and wait for my signal. Count ten seconds, then move!"
Before doubts could manifest, Max charged forwards. She counted ten seconds in her head and then ducked behind an abandoned vehicle. Already she could hear her sisters following, stepping quickly.
Kate and Juliet reached her, and settled into cover as best they could. Behind them, more helmets poked from around the fence, waiting for the signal.
Max hesitated.
Between this car they crouched behind and the next possible piece of cover—a raised patio with a solid concrete foundation—there lied at least two dozen yards of open ground, not covered by anything except a telephone pole and a fire hydrant.
It's too open. It's too dangerous. The firefights ahead of them haven't died out, and Max felt her stomach roll at the uncertainty.
"…Max?"
"I'll go first," she replied, but nervousness crept into her voice, "We aim for that patio, sticking out a couple houses down. Move fast."
A great chorus of pops rolled in the distance as Max stepped out and crossed this open ground. Caulfield practically slammed into the foundation's stucco and had to orient herself, but she made it. With a relieved smile, she signaled for her sisters to follow.
From above, a whistling came.
Helmets glanced up curiously, and eyes widened at the realization.
Max cried out, too little too late, "Get back, GET BACK—!"
THWUM
The shell landed a ways up the street, and otherwise missed its mark. But it didn't matter that the shell had not physically touched them; the Angels felt their sense of security be hammered away by this single blast. The whole of the ground shook, and their resolution shattered to pieces. Kate and Juliet, who otherwise might've been sprinting to Max with their stretcher and kit, cowered behind the vehicle in fright. Max curled up against the concrete patio, her hands covering her ears.
And then the next shell sailed from the heavens and struck the asphalt. It was followed by another a second after, and then another.
The glass of the car's windows shattered as a jagged piece of lead, nearly red-hot and smoldering, went sailing through it, the glass shards falling like rain.
Max dropped to her knees. Her ears rung, loud and painful. All she could hear was her lungs, pulling air in and pushing it out. Her eyes stung at the acidity of the explosives, wafting tendrils of these pungent fumes tickling her nose and scratching the top of her mouth.
She sees Juliet, stretcher in-hand, go running back to where the rest of her troop is. Good for Watson—better to live another day than to die like her squad-lead, to be showered by death and destruction.
Max's vision blurs, and she can't make out shapes. She blinks, but nothing is clear. Vaguely she hears another shell strike, and the tremors bring her to the ground. She becomes acquainted to the sprawl of grass, and shudders.
She closes her eyes and imagines that dream she had, up until this point. The howls of the shells were the same as prophesized, the shriek of metal striking the earth and sending shockwaves in every direction. The whispers of death's message was heard in every shudder that assailed not merely her body, but her soul as well, that which laid bare to the fury of war.
She wondered if this was what it was like, to be truly afraid, to truly know death was coming for her. Time and time again her dreams warned her of it, and perhaps now her time had come.
Oh Lord, I beg of thee, please don't let it be now. I'm not done, I've not fulfilled my oath!
A hand grasps her arm, and pulls her up. Max's stahlhelm feels heavy on her head as she raises it up to look into wide silver eyes.
My guardian angel.
Kate's shouting something to her, but she cannot hear it. Rather, she lets the blonde tug her along, across the open ground and past the car. She feels the glass under her boots and the blood coursing her veins as they run, until the sidewalk shifts and they're turning into cover.
Many arms hold Caulfield steady. This is helpful, since she's yet to stop shivering and cannot fight the urge to collapse.
The ringing hurts so much. It won't leave her alone. Why can't it just leave her alone? What might it take, to be rid of this siren's wail perched in her ears? Max imagines a little mermaid laid at the edge of her ear with a microphone wrapped in their fins, such woes carried from this small voice into her eardrums with awful intensity. And the mousy brunette laughs, for such a thing was as silly to conjure as it was painful to experience!
Max blinks. Her vision sharpens. Her ears finally stop ringing, and are beholden to the silence surrounding her.
The rest of her charge is looking at her like she's gone mad. It's not that far off from the truth.
"…M-Maximus? Are you alright?"
It takes a second to realize they're back where they started, at the wooden fence. From there, neurons fire and a plan takes form in her head.
A whistle came, and they all ducked down to receive the shell. It lands farther back, but the roar of the explosion still makes them flinch.
"We—we'll fall back, let's get the hell out of here. Head back to the church," Max sputters. She shakes off the arms supporting her and clumsily leads her squad back.
The artillery continues its pounding of the town.
"Hammer, Hammer, this is Rook Actual, requesting immediate suppression, grid to mark, over."
"Rook Actual, that's a negative, break. Orders from the top to hold fire until we can get an accurate pinpoint on enemy mortars operating in your sector. Standby, over."
His free hand clenched into a fist. Off in the distance, the ripples of long rifles and automatics could be heard.
"Hammer, this is Rook Actual, I say again: enemy infantry have reached the Third Street line and are threatening to cut us in two, requesting immediate suppression, grid to mark, over."
"That's a negative, break—until we can counter-battery those mortars, we cannot engage any ground targets without getting shelled ourselves. Until forward observers can pinpoint, we hold our posture until then, over."
"Goddamnit—I've got infantry springing up all across my line, and if I don't get some mortars raining down on these sons-a-bitches, they'll cut us right in half—then it'll be your sorry asses on the chopping block!"
"Jackson, Jackson!"
"What is it?" Jackson turned from the radio and looked on to the rifleman that just stumbled into the dugout, who rasped over the din, "We've lost contact with Derby on our right flank, the Reds are flooding into the gap, and we can't reconnect the line!"
"Alright, now listen carefully," Jackson left the radio and stood up, grabbing his M16A4 semi-automatic, "I need you to run like hell over to the Two Whales on Main, get in contact with Lieutenant Corn and tell him the line's fallen. Watch for mortar rounds, and bring some ammo on your way back, now go!"
The runner waited not a second to go off, past the dugout and down the street. Jackson himself got up and swung the opposite direction, turning to the rumble of the ongoing firefight.
The Third-Street line is a defense line that runs north to south, parallel to the aforementioned street connecting Arkadia proper with the suburban sprawl of Pan Estates to the north. A single trench line had been in the works and was deemed sufficient enough to hold the inevitable attack that would come, once the Reds attempt to surround the town and try to starve the defenders with attrition.
But then, the defenders by the Lighthouse Cliff had to retreat from mounting pressure, and this now left Arkadia exposed to observation by the Reds. Whereupon realizing that their troops were funneling into a kill-zone when advancing south along the coastal highway into the town, the Reds swung east and struck the Third-Street line with everything they could throw at it, desperately trying to retain their initial momentum.
For the fifty-six militiamen positioned in the middle of this line, this meant they were constantly under the Reds' infantry and mortar fire, and this pressure was giving way to cracks in the line.
So Jackson hurried along, past the perimeter wall of the house acting as their headquarters, past the edge of the pine trees, and diving quickly into the trench-opening before the stray rounds could touch him.
He was met by the wounded soldiers of his company, lined up along the sides of the trench. These men had tourniquets on their arms or legs, and white gauze was stained red with their blood. Mutterings were shared among them that they were doomed already.
Jackson reached the line, and realized that his thoughts could barely be made out over the chaos. On his left, the harsh reports of rifle and machinegun fire indicated his men were trying to keep the Reds from pushing them out, and were barely successful in this regard. An evil presence could be felt to his right, where the distinct lack of gunfire told a different story.
Time was of the essence. Quickly did the section leader work his way left, through the trench line. He had to make sure as many of them could hear his orders.
"We're falling back, we're falling back! Grab the wounded and displace!"
Only a few of his men heard him, and they didn't need to be told twice—past them Jackson went, and he called again, "Fall back! Fall back to the next defense line, move!"
A mortar shell struck the line, and Jackson was sent to the ground. As he tried to stand, somebody's boot stepped on his back and sent him to the dirt once more. He rolled and brought himself up the trench wall, then witnessed some militia come running past, screaming their heads off—
"They're fuckin' on top of us! RUN—!"
Again, Jackson stood up and trekked further down the line, the mortar strikes giving way to the crackle of small-arms fire. The snap of bullets overhead kept his head down as he reached the first dugout—
To watch one of his men be skewered in the chest by a Red with their bayonet, the assailed militiaman being driven to the ground by the force.
Jackson raised his semi-auto rifle and dropped the murderer with three shots to the back, then rushed his way to the wounded man. Another one of the Reds came tumbling from the top, having tripped over themselves; they too were viciously put down. Slinging his rifle back, the section-leader pulled his buddy into a sitting position, ready to ease him over the shoulder—
"I got you; I got you, don't worry—!"
Blood spilled from the man's mouth. Jackson paused at the horrible sight, and whereupon looking into the poor man's eyes, he saw nothing but resignation. The man knew that his life was over, and with all the strength he had left to spare, this man pushed Jackson off of him. From there he rolled over on his back, and spent his last moments gazing up, so that he could be escorted by flights of angels to the heavens.
The poor militiaman couldn't have been past his twenties, Jackson noted. But this was not his choice to make—to save this man's life was beyond his ability now. He choked down the anger bursting from him and continued on.
He would lose seven more men before his unit reorganized on the new defense line along the town's perimeter, all because by the time he arrived, they were too far gone to be saved.
"We gotta get out of here, now!"
A mortar shell sent a geyser of dirt and tree branches up into the air, many-hundred yards from their position. And despite this distance, the ground was flimsy under them as they flinched from the explosion.
"Tori—Tori!" Courtney cried out over the ringing in her ears, "We gotta get out of here, it isn't worth it!"
"I hear you!" Victoria growled, adjusting the brim of her steel helmet, "But we've got to help them! The militia's counting on us—we have to help them!"
Second Squad found itself pinned down by the preceding mortar strikes all across the northern defense line, having been stopped at the intersection of Cedar Avenue and First Street. They had a better chance to reach the defense line compared to First Squad on their right flank, and indeed Chase had led her charge close enough to where they could begin the process of pulling the wounded out of the line with their stretchers.
But then, the mortars had struck. A swift and brutal affront to their confidence it was, this tirade of heavy lead that was unleashed onto their home. Now the nine Angels hugged the asphalt and crouched behind the abandoned cars lining the street, praying that shrapnel would not find its way to them.
"Oh God, oh GOD—!" Samantha shivered in her boots with fright, and beside her Steph had run out of enthusiasm to counter such an awful reality, and chose to be silent.
"We'll get torn to pieces, Vic!" Taylor called out from where she lay, "We should fall back, while we have a chance to!"
Emilia was prone beside the denim blonde, with her head down and her helmet shrouding her face in shadows.
"What's the plan, squad-lead?" Sara shouted over to the pixie blonde. Beside her, Jenny and Jasmin clung to their rifle and stretcher respectively, each with a fearful look in their eyes.
Victoria glanced back, looking to each of her comrades. She came to the quick realization that not one of them wished to enter the fight like this, shaken to their bones. It was a sobering realization, for her heart beats to the tune of adversity—to hell with these Reds and their damn mortars!
She would not be cowed so easily by the intimidation of the shells, but to have her sisters not share the same sentiment was what held her still. How could it be done, if there was no one besides herself to stand up to the task?
Another shell landed off to their right, over by Second Street. Caulfield was no doubt facing the same problems as she was.
It could not be this way. Not like this—not when lives are at stake.
Chase imagined her father out there, who would be bound by honor to stem the tide of danger for his family's wellbeing, only for him to fall wounded to shrapnel and lead, with no hope to escape. And this hypothetical thought of seeing her kin risk so much for her sake, it spurned her to action, even when the shells pounding at the earth continued with dreadful premonition.
"We're gonna hold here!" Victoria finally commanded, "Tay', take Emilia and head back to the church—tell Max's second that we're gonna need help pulling the wounded out!"
The denim blonde nodded, and wordlessly pulled Emilia to her feet and began to run back to the church, whilst Victoria called again, "Court'! We're going to find some cover by the houses on our right! The rest of you all, stay with me; let's go, now!"
Chase was adamant to get the rest of them into cover to avoid sparing their lives to chance, and with Wagner by her side did she find a suitable place to hide from the mortars. Steph and Samantha were quick to follow. Jenny and Jasmin were looking to Sara as if pleading, and she did not have to think long about what it was they asked for.
"Do what the squad-lead says, this is our chance to earn her trust over the others," Sara rasped to her friends, "If we can prove our loyalty before River does, then our plan can be set into motion."
Her companions reluctantly agreed and followed Sara to where the rest of Second Squad had placed itself—beside the brick wall of the nearest house.
"Sara, you're coming with me—Steph, Sam, you're right behind us. The rest of you wait here!"
A stretcher was passed into Victoria's hands by Sara, and together with Steph and Samantha the pixie blonde squad-lead speared the advance to the edge of the sidewalk.
Cedar Avenue was a sizable stretch of open ground to cover, and they hesitated. The mortar strikes had shifted to the right, over by the town's northeast, which served to their favor. Crossing the avenue, they moved for the opening on the other side, and quickly dived into it.