Welcome to the second chapter of this fic! I actually did research for this chapter. The army lingo, however, I just pulled outta my ass, so don't read to much into it.

Couple notes: this is an au on an au, meaning that the enemy isn't the Germans but the Romulans. And I'll have a bit more room to do what I want in terms of action, because most of WWI seems to be sitting around in trenches. Go figure. Also this will probably end up being slash, so if that doesn't float your boat, well, you know how to go back.

*insert humorous disclaimer here*

Life in the trenches has a routine to it, Chekov finds. At what Mister Sco - Scotty calls "right before the arse-crack o' dawn", they all sit and peer into the darkness, waiting for the enemy to make any kind of move. It's ice-cold then, the rum ration barely enough to burn his throat. The first day, when he's standing in the dark shivering so hard that he's sure the Romulans can hear the click of his teeth, Scotty shuffles a little closer so that they're pressed up against each other. Chekov warms up too quickly to even think of protesting.

After that, they eat their breakfasts, grateful for the hot food, even if it is some of the blandest stuff he's ever had to force down. Once they've eaten their fill, they tidy the trench, insofar as the muddy ditch they call home could ever possibly be tidy, and then they can rest.

Chekov writes home while Scotty and a Chinese-American man named Hikaru Sulu that Chekov has befriended sit and play cards together. He smiles to himself as he hears his two friends bicker over the game and the prize - a chocolate bar.

Captain Kirk, who had been reading a telegram of some sort in the corner, stands abruptly, the movement distracting Chekov from his book. He wanders over to his second in command and the medical officer, a worried expression on his boyish features.

The medical officer, Leonard McCoy, leans towards his friend and peers into his face. "What's goin' on, Jim? Somethin' bad must've happened if you've got that kinda face on."

The first officer, Spock nods once, his angular features solemn. "I must agree with the Doctor, Captain. What is wrong?"

Jim shakes his head slowly. "They want us to take the village."

Bones tries not to scream. "Are they out of their corn-fed minds?! We've gotta snowball's chance in hell of taking it with one man left alive, never mind the whole company! We be slaughtered!"

"On the other hand," Spock interjected, "It is a position of great strategic importance. Capturing it would be beneficial to the war effort."

Jim turned to look at the soldiers in the trenches, many of whom were watching the trio with curiosity. He murmured, "Yes, you're both right. If we can capture that village, it will really help us get a foothold here."

"And if we don't?" Asks McCoy.

"Well, if we don't, then the army will lose a company."

"Whether or not we succeed," Spock interjects, "we must at least attempt. We have our orders, Captain."

Jim looks up at the watery blue of the sky, his brow creased in thought. "That we do, Mr. Spock. That we do."

He turns towards his two best friends and smiles half-heartedly. "If you would be so kind as to gather the troops, I shall inform them of our orders."

Chekov stands between Scotty and Sulu, watching the captain's face as he prepares to make his announcement. Judging by the look on his face, it's going to be bad news.

"Gentlemen!" Kirk speaks softly, so the Romulans won't be able to hear them in the noonday hush. "We have new orders from headquarters. Starting at dawn tomorrow, we are to carry out an attack on the neighbouring village. We will approach it from the north, and capture it. Any Romulan who surrenders will be treated humanely, and unarmed civilians will not be harmed in any way. Please prepare for the attack - and get some rest while you can." He nods, once, and then gestures vaguely as if to say, 'go on, now '. The soldiers drift off in little knots of quietly chatting groups.

Sulu rubs his hands together. "Finally, some action! Don't know about you, Chekov, but I've been getting a little bored around here."

Chekov nods, but he thinks that perhaps sitting and watching his friends play cards is preferable to dying.

Scotty seems to agree with this sentiment, wrinkling up his nose and shaking his head. "Better bored than dead, lad. Still, it'll be a change o' pace from sitting in mud up to our ankles."

He takes a cigarette out of his bag and lights it, then passes Chekov the light. Before the young man can pass Sulu the light, Scotty stops him. "Best not, lad. Third cigarette's unlucky, y'know."

Sulu frowns. "You don't really believe that superstition, do you?"

Scotty flushes, obviously embarrassed by the tone of disbelief in the other's voice. "Well...I'm not sayin' I do, not sayin' I don't, ye ken? 'Sides, it's no' a good thing, to go temptin' bad luck afore a thing like this." At Sulu's expression, he waves a hand dismissively. "Ach, never mind. Ye don't have tae listen if'n ye don't want tae." His accent thickens when he's excited or embarrassed, Chekov notes, and then wonders why he noticed.

Sulu just rolls his eyes and lights his own cigarette. "No such thing as bad luck. Don't you know the sign?" As if on cue, they recite the official bulletin about worry and bad luck. "You're either well, or injured. If you're well, don't worry. If you're injured, you'll either get better or die. If you get better, don't worry. If you die, you can't worry!"

Scotty laughs, seemingly over his funk. "Well, they're right there, I guess." He settles down where he's sitting and pulls his cloak over his head. "I'm gonna get some sleep. You lads best do the same 'till supper time."

Also! Thank you to the guest reviewer, who pointed out that the centennial is next year. Told y'all to call me out if I was a dumbass!