"To these I turn, in these I trust—
Brother Lead and Sister Steel.
To his blind power I make appeal,
I guard her beauty clean from rust.
He spins and burns and loves the air,
And splits a skull to win my praise;
But up the nobly marching days,
She glitters naked, cold and fair.
Sweet Sister, grant your soldier this:
That in good fury he may feel
The body where he sets his heel
Quail from your downward darting kiss." – Siegfried Sassoon, The Kiss
From a ways out, beyond the stretches of the bay and into the greater waters of the Oregon coast, two small fishing vessels could be seen. They sailed in a staggered column, one offset from the other by a thirty-foot gap and lagging behind by half that distance. The boats moved for the bay's inlet, where they intended to arrive at the docks.
Petersen lowered the binoculars from his sight, and grimaced.
He had expected the arriving company, but he and his signalmen had not been able to get word over the radio about the danger the ship captains were unknowingly sailing into. Already he'd given word to ready the heavy machine gun and prepare to fire at the cliff overlooking the bay, for the Reds would not waste an opportunity. He had yet to receive word on when friendly mortars would come into play, but he prayed all the same.
"Viking, Viking, this is Bishop Actual, can you read me, over?" the radioman attempted to hail the leading ship for the seventh time.
"They're gonna get shot to hell, aren't they?" a young militiaman gruffed to his buddy, who sat beside Petersen. His buddy shook his head, as if in sorrow, "God help them all."
"Try again," Petersen ordered the radioman. The operator followed through—and received static in response.
"Nothing, sir."
Petersen swore under his breath, "Alright, switch frequency and ask for Hammer's support, we're going to need something from them in case this goes south."
"I wouldn't place bets on them, Jack," another militiaman griped, "I heard stories about how they left the boys on the northern line to their deaths, just because they were scared to be on the receiving end of the Reds' guns."
"Can you blame them?" Petersen remarked, looking through his binoculars as the ships closed the distance to the harbor, "They have good reason to be afraid. If they go, then the rest of us go with them. We can't fight the Reds with just rifles and machine guns when they're shelling us to Kingdom come."
"I ain't upset over that, I know why they do it," came the retort, "it's just that…what's really keeping them, because they're important, or because they're cowards?"
"We'll find out soon enough."
The boats were closing in, further still. It was a straight shot from the mouth of the bay to the harbor, but a good mile or so was left to cross before there was a chance of safety. Petersen knew this, and the Reds could clearly see it from their positions on the cliff.
"Gun, ready?" he called out.
"Gun, ready!" the machine gunner answered, his ammo bearer snapped to attention from the noise.
"They're gonna open up, get—!"
An audible pop came, the muzzle flash could be seen up where the lighthouse stood at the edge of the cliff. The round was hard to trace, but the geyser of water that rose from the impact could be clearly seen; the shot had fallen short of the leading vessel. The ship's captain began turning to change his course and avoid the next shot.
"There! Right side of the fuckin' lighthouse, let 'em have it!" Petersen ordered.
The machine gun, a belt-fed Browning M2HB loaded with one-in-five tracer, opened up on the lighthouse and the surrounding cliff face. The endless, powerful chu-chu-chunk of the cycling action giving a morale boost by itself to the surrounding cadre of militiamen. Red-colored tracers spat from the barrel and zipped in the air, showering the cliff with the lead torrent.
Another pop-flash replied. The Reds were determined to score a killing blow on the boats down in the bay.
This shot was aimed for the trailing vessel, which was caught between wanting to accelerate to the docks and needing to slow down and keep the distance from the other ship in the water. The round also fell short, but not by much—Petersen had to glance back through his glasses to be sure the ship wasn't torn apart by shrapnel.
"Sir!" the radioman called between bursts from the machine gun, "Hammer's on standby, ready for a short fire mission!"
"Lord, we thank you for your mercy," a map was in his hand, and the radio's receiver passed from the hand of his radioman into his own, "Hammer, Hammer, this is Bishop Actual, fire mission, grid to follow, over!"
The heavy machine gun's one hundred round belt was spent, and a frenzy came as another ammunition can was readied. Some men attempted to keep up the suppression with their rifles, even if it wasn't nearly as effective.
"Rog', send your traffic Bishop."
"Grid, November-Kilo, zero-one-three-six, eight-two-five-niner! Target, enemy infantry in fixed positions on the lighthouse cliff, adjust for pre-set elevation, break!" then, after a moment's pause, "Requesting one salvo, high-explosive short-fuze, T-O-T on fire mission, over!"
Another pop-flash. The Reds have shifted their guns to lay the pain down on Petersen's detachment on the harbor. The round impacted shortly after the sound, kicking up a geyser of sand some yards in front of their positions.
"Hammer copies all, standby for MTO, Over."
"Where the fuck are our mortars?!" a grunt called over the din of the M2HB, and his cry was met with reciprocating gripes. Petersen called to them, "Standby! Keep up the fucking pressure on 'em! Keep firing!"
The barrel on the heavy machine gun was slowly beginning to steam, and red hot hues were showing on sections of the barrel. A jam would occur, and the gunner would rack the handle to clear the gun, then continued to suppress. The ammo-bearer already had a third can of ammo ready to go.
"Bishop Actual, MTO as follows," the transmission cut, and Petersen motioned to his radioman to have his pencil and paper at the ready, "Hammer, one salvo, zero guns in adjust, three in effect, target number Alpha-Charlie one-zero-zero-one; time-on-target, one-four seconds, Over."
"Holy shit, they made it! Look!" a militiaman called out, and motioned to the edge of the docks.
Petersen snapped up from his crouch beside the radio, and beheld the sight of miracles: the two boats had finally crossed the open water and were turning into the docks, the linemen gathering quickly to cast their ropes to pull the ships to safety.
Another pop-flash. The round struck the rocks that lined the outer edge of the protruding section of the harbor, there where the linesmen had gathered. A mighty splash of water and shrapnel rose from the impact, and Petersen could see several men go down, for they had not the time to duck into cover.
"Oh, Christ Almighty," he swore—as a chorus of pops came from the east. The section leader turned his attention to Blackwell's heights, and hope shone through his doubts: The militia's mortars were finally opening up on the Reds!
"C'mon now, unjam the fuckin' thing!" a rifleman barked to the men on the machine gun, and the gunner frantically racked the bolt handle to clear the malfunction. From above, the Reds had adjusted their aim, and their next shot sent towards the militia impacted at the edge of the concrete foundation their position was laid upon.
Petersen was knocked to the ground by the blast, as well as the rest of his men. Recovering, they were quick to return fire and keep the Reds from utilizing their guns again—but then the mortars struck the lighthouse cliff. Great plumes of dirt and rock went up with each strike, and the militia cheered at the sight of it.
A mortar shell had landed short, and cleaved a great chunk of rock from the side of the cliff, sending it all down into the frigid waters below. Another shell struck the lighthouse itself, and blew a great big hole in the side of its cylindrical structure. Even from where they were, men looked with awe as the giant monolith seemed to keel over, and buried the surrounding cliff with brick and metal debris.
The counter-battery fire would start up five minutes afterwards, whilst they were unloading the boats of their cargo of arms and ammunition, and desperately trying to send them back out to sea with more people looking to escape.
"…is there anything else?"
"Not that I can think of," Brooke's hand zipped up the pouch, dubiously packed full of spare tissues. She rose from her crouch and passed by Stella, who looked around the dorm room one last time before closing the door.
"If you forgot something," the ebony brunette teased her friend, "then God help you if you need it."
Brooke sensed some cheekiness to this comment, and side-eyed the other girl, "Oh yeah?"
"Yeah—like somma' these!" then Stella unzipped her own backpack, which proudly displayed the specific items in question: a couple packaged rolls of toilet paper.
Brooke stared at the loot, then at their owner, and simply raised her brows, unimpressed.
"Hey, you never know what could happen," Stella immediately justified herself, "I've seen people kill for this stuff, literally! Better to have it and not need it, than to need it and not have it."
"How many times have you gotten your tongue twisted up on saying that?" Brooke sighed.
"Only three!" Stella grinned pridefully. She zipped her pack up, moving at an accelerated pace down the hall, "I'll be with Alyssa, if you need me!"
"Yeah," Brooke acknowledged, watching as her friend went off to check on Anderson and the others. The Filipina sighed again, and felt the indent of her phone in her pants pocket, trying to resist the urge to check it again.
Warren was off with the company of fellow volunteers made up of Blackwell's male students and similarly aged counterparts from the caravan. They had been deployed just down the slopes of Blackwell's heights, having settled in the trenchworks they've worked on over the past couple of days.
Cell service was spotty at best. She'd receive text messages from him that were delayed by several hours, and had to resend her reply five times over before it finally got through. This was assuming there was even service to begin with, the lack of which had slowly become the norm.
Brooke was stuck here, wondering if he was still alive. She knew he was surrounded by fellow brothers-in-arms, she knew Warren wasn't reckless enough to make a costly decision—but the fear of the unknown had her by the heartstrings, and controlled her with its unrelenting grip.
She sighed, and decided to clear her head of these doubts.
The cold air greeted her as she stepped out into the dorm's courtyard. None of her squad-mates were outside, still rummaging for other personal items they might need, so she was alone to enjoy the silence.
Well, relative silence. The guns were alive and rumbling a ways down the slope, somewhere in the north of the town. The fighting had not ceased since daybreak, a handful of hours ago.
Brooke takes a seat on the cold, concrete steps leading up to the entrance. There's still some small puddles from the previous rain. News spoke of even more thunderstorms rolling in from the great Pacific, and with that comes more miserable nights and gloomy days. No one is looking forward to it.
She sniffles, and rubs at her nose. The wound on the bridge of said nose had healed, and the itchy bandage had long been discarded, but she's careful not to irritate it. It wouldn't do, to get a cold and have to deal with that on top of what she's already suffered.
The rumble, having been a distant thwum of heavy guns and pitter-patter of small arms, suddenly erupts with strong reverb close to where she sits. Brooke cocks her head toward where the sound is coming from, confused. They weren't supposed to be in an active combat zone, not by intention at least, unless something bad has happened—
The Filipina stands up, unslinging her rifle off the shoulder and into her hands. She moves from the dorm entrance to the gate, so that she might travel down the corridor and towards the open street to see the commotion. It was dangerous to do this, and she had yet to see any of her fellow Angels join her outside, but danger was beckoning her forwards.
Passing the gate, Brooke treks down the corridor. The sound is echoing down this corridor, and rings in her ears. She hears her heart drum, and her grip tightens around her weapon. She makes it to the end of this narrow passage, and pokes her head around the wall to observe.
There, on the football field across the street from Blackwell's main building, a cadre of figures were manning a section of tube-like structures dug into the ground. And Brooke realized, as a great thumping noise came from the tubes, that these were mortars operated by friendly militiamen. Another group of militiamen were beside these mortarmen, gathered around what looked to be a radio like what she'd seen at the church, but it was difficult to make out.
"Brooke!"
She turned to see Stella and the others filing into the corridor. Her best friend came running up to her, eyes wide with worry, "Where the hell were you, you had me worried for a second—!"
"Look," Brooke motioned, and Stella looked in wonder as the mortars of the militia opened up another salvo on the Reds, great thumps ringing from the mortar tubes.
"God-damn! Hey Alyssa, come look at this!" the ebony brunette pointed to the mortars out in the field. Anderson heard her, and looked out in awe, "Oh, wow—mortars! Those are sixty-millimeter, if I'm seeing those right."
"What are they shooting at?" Dana asked. Beside her was Juliet, as well as squad-leader Caulfield and the others of First Squad.
"They're probably hammering the Reds, I'd bet," Chloe piped up, a savage grin on her face, "That'll teach 'em to not fuck with us."
From out in the distance, where the ground rose up to the heights farther northwards, the girls could see the puffs of smoke rising from the impacts, the distant rumble carrying from far out beyond to where they stood. The lighthouse cliff was wracked with tendrils of white smoke, mixing with the grey clouds above.
"…hey, Alyssa?" Max called.
"Yeah, Max?"
"I don't know much about mortars and how they work, but don't you think the Reds might try to retaliate?"
"I'd say so," the stocky girl replied, "Only question is, how long it will take until they start swinging back at us—"
From the heavens, an ominous whistle came. Immediately the girls ducked, and fell to the ground—
THWUM—THWU-THWUM
Mortar rounds struck the rising slope of the heights. They were off target, having missed the campus grounds. But it is not merely the direct impact of artillery that truly scares volunteers and veterans alike—it's the shaking of the ground, the roar of the explosion, the metal shrapnel and burning hot debris that rains down upon them. The sense of personal security is viciously stripped away, and one's life becomes reduced to a simple question: will you be able to escape, or will you be swiped off the face of the earth?
"Cover, cover! Hug the wall!" Caulfield called to her comrades, and they heeded her orders and braced themselves against the right wall of the corridor. No one spoke, no one cried out. They were shocked to silence by the whistles and THWUMS.
A thunderous fury came down upon them; great leaping geysers of dirt rose over twenty, thirty-foot-tall trees, showering the area with charred specks of hot metal and dirt. Howling came, rising and falling in pitch, like hounds of hell the noise rushed down upon them and suffocated the air they breathed, leaving them gasping for relief. In one instance, Max looked back and called to her squad to keep hugging the wall, but not a single person could hear her—the noise was too monstrous to make out anything else. They prayed to the Lord, their God, so that they might endure this hell not a second longer than necessary.
When the barrage relented, they retreated back to the dorm.
From a ways up the heights, far out of reach from the shells, a two-man militia team lie prone in a small rocky perch, one man with a pair of binoculars in his hands and another with pen, paper and a handheld radio in his own. Though lingering wisps of fog would obscure their sight, they could see the entirety of Arkadia down below, as well as the surrounding forests and hills.
A particular point of interest caught their attention, far to the north and well out of reach of friendly units—a small clearing on the opposite side of a gentle ridgeline, where puffs of smoke denoted suspicious activity.
"Hammer, this is Knight 1-3, standby for fire mission, grid to mark, over."
The wind was bitter and unrelenting. Being so high up on the heights, it was practically guaranteed to have a dry throat and runny nose. It did not matter to them, not when their efforts to relieve their comrades down below was so close to being realized.
Static came from the handheld, then came the crunchy reply, "Roger, Knight, send your traffic."
"Grid, November-Zulu, zero-zero-one-three, eight-three-seven-two; altitude, one-five-six meters. Target, looks to be enemy infantry with mortars in entrenched positions, break."
A pause, then, "Requesting one salvo, high-explosive quick; calling for immediate fire for effect, over."
They'd have to be swift. It was a risky maneuver to call immediate fire-for-effect without giving corrections—but if they could knock out those enemy mortars, then no more good men and women would have to fall prey to the lead rain. The militia's mortar section—Hammer—was already taking inaccurate incoming fire, and if given enough time the Reds would find their mark.
"Knight 1-3, this is Hammer, MTO as follows," the radioman readied his pen to copy the transmission, "Hammer, three guns, zero in adjust, three in effect, target number Alpha-Charlie one-zero-zero-two, commencing fire-for-effect, over."
From where the forward observers were situated, they could see Hammer's position on the academy's football field, and the men operating the mortars were quick to begin sending some rounds back at the Reds. It wasn't long before Hammer gave warning to them, "Shot, over."
"Shot, out."
Waiting.
Seconds passed, much too slow. The Reds' mortars gave no sign of ceasing their barrage. Though the shots were wild and off-target, the dread creeped with every subsequent impact.
"Splash, over."
"Splash, out."
Five seconds, four, three, two, one—
Impacts sent shrapnel and dirt in all directions. After this, the dust and smoke crept up into the sky, so that all the militia and the Reds could see. The mortars had gone silent.
