Paul woke from a cold sweat, he couldn't forget the time he'd spent the day before pondering, wondering about the fires, the fires to come. Paul felt starved of oxygen, he gasped as he awoke to a dark barracks. Calming himself, he heard the light chatter of two others who must've awoken in similar circumstances, but paid them no heed as he wrapped his arms around his head to rest it on his hands. He stared at the bunk above him, Tjaiden's bunk. His mate, he knew, was an unfortunate situation; Tjaiden, back in bootcamp, had been scared so deeply by the prospect of battle, training, and dealing with the drillmasters, that he had wet the bed on two occasions: first after their intense run to the nearby mountaintop on a full stomach, which, he was certain, caused everyone to vomit... and the second, he was sure, was from war nerves as opposed to the almost torturous events provoked by the drillers. There was a third, but Paul didn't account for it; he knew it was because of a night of heavy drinking. But as he lie awake, staring at the unstained, pristine underside of Tjaiden's bunk, he noted that it was a possibility that it might happen again.
Paul rolled out of bed rather than continue along such a corridor of thought, he was determined instead to ready himself for the day ahead, fooling with his clothing in his footlocker.
The two others whom had awoken in the wee hours of the morning as Paul had, he soon identified. Kimrich, a young man he'd known most of his life, in fact, and Brem, the pudgiest soldier he'd ever laid eyes on. In Paul's mind, Brem had performed a miracle getting through Basic, the other was so fat, he was sure, that there was no way he could move in time to get into cover... But his thoughts wandered, if Brem managed, in the future, to get to cover, well... He would perform the second miracle he'd seen the man commit. It wouldn't be the first time that the brown-haired, blue-eyed chubby man had surprised Paul.
Lost in his thoughts, the Private hadn't even thought to check the time. When a whole hour had passed, the door to the living quarters of the barracks flung open. The perpetrator was none other than Sergeant Ulrich, who's rough entrance had already awoken several of the inhabitants of the building. But as if that was not enough, he endeavored to press his fist to his own mouth, so as to amplify his own sound, and created an ad-hoc bugle, through which he trumpeted the tune of awakening Paul had heard over a hundred times in boot camp.
Soldiers scrambled to their feet in their light clothing, many more articles were tossed over shoulders as certain unprepared men readied themselves. Paul, in the wake of it all, could only chuckle to himself at the display; Ulrich moved between those whom were still sleeping in order to hand-bugle the same tone straight into the ears of those who hadn't gotten the message yet.
Soldiers scrambled to their feet in their light clothing, many more articles were tossed over shoulders as certain unprepared men readied themselves. Paul, in the wake of it all, could only chuckle to himself at the display; Ulrich moved between those whom were still sleeping in order to hand-bugle the same tone straight into the ears of those who hadn't gotten the message yet. Each one, in turn, woke with a start, bloodshot eyes and all, and again the humor hit Paul, as he realized what their time in the barracks of bootcamp had prepared them for.
"Alright, you ingrates," Sergeant Ulrich stated, the last word spoken with obvious affection, "It's time we get you out to the lines. Report for briefing at oh-four hundred hours, which gives you fourty minutes to get your sorry arses down the hall!"
The room was filled with the "sir, yessir!" chant, repeated more than a dozen times, but Paul simply smirked and remained silent. He was glad to have, essentially, woken before the "alarm clock" went off.
A few minutes later the very same morning, after a basic breakfast of plastic-like scrambled eggs and chewy hashbrowns, the soldiers of the Fourth combined their presence in the Briefing Room, where there lied an unexpected surprise for Paul.
The Sergeant whom he'd seen within the confines of the mess hall had appeared again, in front of their crowd, to tell them exactly what the situation was. He was just as tall as the Private remembered, the name on his breast pocket read "Katzinsky". He used a long, wooden stick in front of a holo-projected map. The first time the stick hit the canvas of the backdrop, Paul flinched slightly. The thick slap wasn't exactly pleasant to the ears, but everyone in the Platoon was present, he noted, as he glanced around. There were exactly the right amount of seats.
"Alright, you sorry excused for Skye's Rangers!" the man barked, and for some reason, his eyes situated on Paul's own, and for a moment, he felt awkward, even felt the heat rise in his cheeks.
"This is the situation. Long-range clear scanners have detected, in a radius of point two parsecs, a jump fleet of Bandits we can only guess range in the number of about fifty thousand-"
Paul's thoughts were filled with the image of a crowd of what he could only assume was less than five thousand, and suddenly, he felt nauseous again.
"Bandits which intend, we're sure by their trajectory, to land on this world. This will be your first live fire trial, let you all succeed and vanquish our foes." Here was where the Sergeant pressed a button on a hand-held remote, and the slide changed to show an aerial view of the campus they were currently situated in. The gate Paul had witnessed the day before was the strategic point of entry from a pair of mountain ranges.
"Our estimations tell us that at least one DropShip's worth will land just outside of our north eastern mountain range. You can expect, by our calculations based on the weight of the ship, to experience intense infantry combat supported by heavy vehicles and possibly up to two BattleMechs. Third Platoon and all of the Sixteenth Battalion will be supporting you on this mission to repel the Bandit invaders. Your post will be Charlie-Seven, here." He tapped the board with his pointer to indicated a series of trench networks to the east of the ones Paul had seen the night before, in a grid denoted as "C7." Bravo and Alpha coordinates were almost entirely composed of the base's assets. They were the rear guard on the right flank, so to speak.
"We have intel that the 1st Battlemech Platoon is on the way, expect reinforcements at Oh-Sixteen-Hundred hours."
Paul glanced at the holoclock on the wall. Six hundred. Twelve hours to go until mech reinforcement. His face paled again, and he hunched over, feelings of vertigo rushing about him. Twelve hours of hard fighting, potentially two battlemechs? Tanks, enemy troops? Even if they were just Bandits, the young man found himself in a world spinning, before the soldier next to him nudged his shoulder.
"Hey, you okay?" asked a black-haired male sitting beside him, his fatigues read "Detrig." Paul took two seconds to respond, composing himself, then nodded. He gazed back to the Sergeant, and listened, mostly unintently, as he concluded the briefing. By the end, Paul felt nowhere near as prepared as he had. They were organized back into their formation, and the order was given to march to the gate.
Two soldiers ahead of him was Albert Krop, his head placed on his shoulders so straight that Paul assumed any tension might snap it like dried clay. But still, the sight of his bootcamp friend put him at ease, at least somewhat. But when they finally, in full force, marched to the gate that he'd seen before today, the young man's mind raced with thoughts of fleeing. Running, deserting, becoming an outlaw, perhaps just to survive. Then Albert stepped forward in time with the rest of the unit, and he knew he had signed up for this too. Paul marched with the rest of his unit through the gate, and as the order was given to halt and turn right, they moved into position into their trenches. Today would be a long day.
As Paul noticed those ahead of him in the formation break it to take up position, he remembered Albert's words from the day before. Runs, he'd said, just boring, normal exercise, and yet here they were, rifles in hand, taking up trenches as the infantry which was notorious for getting crushed under the might of the Battlemech. Why had he signed up for this? His thoughts aside, their CO barked orders to spread out, and up ahead, just before he did so, he could see over the lip of the trench the other groups of units moving into position themselves. There were so many people, now that he could see it all from the steps into the trench, that again his resolve was bolstered.
"Brett! Get in position!"
Paul snapped out of it and hustled down the stairs, rushing passed Lehr in the process until he found an alcove cut into the trench with only one other soldier in it, and pressed himself into the tiny rounded outcropping, filling the rest of the space it offered. He leaned up against the trench wall, and noticed his Platoonmate staring at him, before he realized how quickly he was breathing, and quickly got it under control.
Ultimately, he had underestimated their detail's ease. It would be two whole hours before anything of note happened, most of the time they had just been waiting around, bored, all ears, the battleground was silent. Each soldier in turn was ordered to make a patrol along the bottom of the trench, running to the end and back, taking request for water, ammo, rifle cleaning kits, or the like. When it was Paul's turn, he took the opportunity to approach the bunker at the eastern entrance to their trench, and when he got inside, he found a lone soldier, piss drunk, bumbling to himself with a flask he could only assume had been hidden prior to this in hand. The pulse laser turret he had all but abandoned lie in the middle of the room, and the soldier, whom seemed rather excited to see him, greeted him as he entered with a slurred set of words.
Paul brushed off the greeting, and instead looked at the man with an expression of contempt. He knew what he was doing wrong, and as Paul expected, the man straightened up somewhat, becoming only slightly more aware.
"You're supposed to be at your post," Paul stated, motioning to the turret.
"I would'...ve. But'd ya know what that'd get me? A nice, big, hole in m'head! They go for the turr- turrests. They go for the guns..." He slumped onto a crate in the corner, frowning, eyes watering, and Paul grimaced.
"They go for anything that moves," he stated, the Private had already thought about this too much to have another soldier lose his nerve when he was on the field himself.
"Gimme that," he said, grasping the flask with the reflexes his smaller size offered him, and after taking a swig, he threw it right out the gun port of the front of the bunker, much to the other soldier's protest, before turning and rapping his helmet heavily. The berated soldier wobbled, and fixed his helmet.
"H-Hey, that wasn't yours!" he protested, and Paul glanced at him sidelong.
"To your post. Do you need water? Cleaning kits? Any supplies? Better speak up now."
"...W...Water's good..." the drunk soldier mumbled, and Paul nodded curtly.
"I'll be back with it. At your post."
He turned on his heel and left, his teeth grinding. How dare that man! They were ALL risking their lives! He finished his round, as the bunker was just before the end of the trench, and he reported to the logistics officer assigned to their detachment on the supplies requested. He started to hesitate, about to mention the drunken soldier, when he heard a sound, distant at first, which grew into a deep, low whistling. His eyes went wide together with the officer's, before the latter shouted.
"GET DOWN! TAKE COVER!"
He grabbed Paul by the shoulder and practically threw him behind a stack of crates, the small, young man landing breathless in the dust as the first shell impacted.
An explosion so immense that it rattled the ground cascaded through his ears, and he covered the back of his neck with his hands, wincing at the intensity. Dust blew around him, but he was unharmed, and he got up on his knees to peek over the crates as the second shell repeated the first's devastation. From his spot, he could see that the first shell had impacted directly onto the bunker he'd only just exited, the whole thing was collapsed and smoking, he knew it's inhabitant had no chance of being alive. As he looked for the second shell's hit, something behind him knocked the wind right out of him and shoved him straight into the boxes, forcing him to topple one and smash his cheek right into another.
Disoriented and confused, Paul wobbled to his feet, his vision blurred, and was grabbed again by the arm and tugged in a direction unknown to him. Somebody was saying... Something, and it took a few seconds for him to realize he couldn't hear due to the loudness of the impact he'd just endured.
"-ett! Brett! Are you with us?!" he finally deciphered, clutching one hand to his throbbing temple. Where was his helmet? He felt something wet, looked at his hand. It was red, but he was okay.
"Y...Yes," he managed, then looked up, noticing Albert Krop standing over him. He was in the trench. Looking around, he spotted others glancing his way and around the vicinity, he heard more explosions in the distance, and confused shouting.
"There's a DropShip landing, it's peppering us with Long Toms!" somebody mentioned, and Paul clambered to his feet, peeking over the trench. There, about five kilometers in front of the trenches, there hovered a DropShip, slowly landing as it fired at various positions of the trenches. The emblem on the side of it he was familiar with, it was a Bandit ship, one of the ones he was sure they'd sent as part of the force of fifty thousand mentioned in the briefing. His ears were ringing, his head ached. Krop handed him, or rather pushed into his hands, another helmet, which he placed over his head. Good thing he'd had the other one, or he feared he'd be braindead by now.
Around him, some officer was yelling to ready their weapons, and if it weren't for Krop handing him his rifle, Paul feared he wouldn't have even had one to ready. But finally, in the action, disoriented, he peered over the edge of his trench, and set his rifle on it as the ship was landing and the exit ramps lowering. Today was going to be a long day...