"We sing the praise of war. Not for the way it makes people die, but for the way it makes people come alive." - Arditi, Omne Ensis Impera

"There cannot be any people in this world, be they only a tribe of savages that, faced by a foreign invasion, would not consider with rending pain the predicament of their land. All peoples of the world, from history's beginnings to this day have defended the soil of their fatherland." – Cornielu Zelea Codreanu, For My Legionaries


A flurry of activity was centered around the Two Whales Diner. Militiamen gathered in hurried clusters into the spare couple of trucks being used as transport vehicles, climbing into the truck beds as fast as they could.

Rifles and cans of ammunition were hauled up. Shouting echoed just over the din of explosions and gunfire from the northeast.

Skip Matthews passed this chaotic scramble and entered the diner. He was greeted in the same manner as outside—women and children huddled in the booths, the infants crying out in confusion. He passed all this and made his way into the diner's kitchen in the back.

Matthews could hear the voice long before reaching its owner. A fiery temper emanated from behind the door to the office, and burned the ears of anyone who could hear it. It made Skip think twice about knocking as he walked up to enter. He found his resolve quickly enough, and stepped inside.

"Now!" Madsen barked into the receiver of the phone, "Every last one of them! Get them in there, now!" the receiver was slammed down onto the case. A tense silence hung over the Commander of the Militia, there under the single bulb of light and with maps strewn across his desk.

"Sir?" Matthews inquired. The Bear looked up to him, "What? What is it?"

"I just got back from the line, right about when the Reds struck," he began, "Men under Jackson and Derby are holding, sir. The Reds caught them on their overstretched right flank, and they had to consolidate. They cannot move, and are requesting more reserves."

"God-damnit," Madsen growled. He took what remained of his coffee mug, and downed it in one swig, "It's all going to shit."

"What is, sir?"

"I don't know if you saw it, but the shelling didn't just strike Jackson and Derby. The Reds are trying something up on Blackwell's heights, but I've got next-to-nobody up there besides the boys of Blackwell and...and the Angels. The closest combat unit besides them is the mortar team, and they're not going to be much help, not when the Reds are too close."

Skip nodded, realizing why Madsen was shivering in anger. He was in shame, burning with self-reflection at leaving the right flank so unprotected. Nobody had expected the Reds to continue attacking the line, but probability was just half the fight.

"I have to go there, I have to see it," Madsen psyched himself, "I owe it to them."

"Sir, let me go in your place," Matthews quickly dissuaded, "It'd do nobody any good if you get hit out there."

"No offense to you, son, but I don't break my promises," the Commander replied. He was determined, and no amount of good reasoning was going to shake him from his decision. Skip held his tongue, lest it be ripped out his mouth.

"At least let me join you, sir."

"Fair enough," Madsen agreed. The Head of the Militia gathered his jacket off his desk chair and joined Matthews in walking outside, into the fire and the guns.


A burst of fire snapped over their heads. Eyes flinched at the harsh buzz of these flying lead hornets, snapping and screaming in the air. The bullets were goading them to cowardice, to keep their heads down lest they pay the price.

But many a soul knew that a worse fate would befall them, if they let the Reds come any closer. So when they saw their chance, they raised themselves up, and fired back down the slope.

The barrels of their rifles and automatics were warm in their hands. Smoke choked their breath, blood boiled under skin. Eyes colored blue and green, brown and hazel—all bear witness to the brutality of Man. Thousands of years flashed by in the single second it took to blink, and from the depths of their beating hearts, a madness overtook them.

They had known this feeling before. They were familiar with the swing of the battle-axe, the thrust of a pike, the ramming of a cartridge down the muzzle of a rifle. They had known the smell of blood and gunpowder, the cries of hundreds of thousands, echoing across the countless fields of battle. Dreary clouds passing over the mountains in the north, where the midnight sun rests on the horizon. Roaring seas and towering white cliffs that look over the beaches in the west. The sun peeking through the shade of olive trees, there atop great rolling hills in the south. Vast stretches of marshes and open fields covered in snow towards the east. All of it they had seen, had felt, had known long before they were given the breath of life.

When creation had come to them in sweet voices, carrying them onwards to the brightness of the future, there also came the sour tones of destruction from ancients past, there where darkness crept. And this might be why many people shy away from times before, because they cannot accept the duality of themselves. Where before, men and women were sharpened by iron and steel, chiseled from great marble statues and revered in eternal glory before the eyes of other men and before the Almighty Lord. Where now, men and women are soft and fleshy, with no will nor constitution, like marionettes strung up to do the bidding of their illegitimate masters; cogs in a gargantuan machine, with no purpose beyond the sorrowful task awaiting them.

But to hell with this! This was not their fates, they would not be swept aside so easily. Already the voices of their ancestors had compelled them to do what must be done, they had in themselves the courage to do so—what difference did it make to them, here in the midst of the great battle? There was no exception, there was no recourse! The only way out is through—through to the other side, where they have earned their freedom and peace, one way or another!

A bullet came and found its mark. The Red twisted from the impact, and collapsed to the ground. Another bullet flew, and struck the Red beside this first one, splitting their head open. Branches swayed as their leaves were torn to shreds.

Rounds struck the mud of the berm, losing their energy and being lost in the thick barrier. Some crashed into the thick trunks of trees and sent little splinters in every direction. Even more would whiz over the heads of the Arkadian defenders.

Warren ducked down to reload, and witnessed the moment one of his boys was struck in the head. They jerked, then fell to the bottom of the trench. Graham quickly stepped for him, and leaned down to see the damage. The round had gone clean through the head and left a red bloom from its point of exit. Terror coursed through him, which was quickly replaced with a seething hatred. Nostrils flared, he got back up and took position, and fired down at the advancing Reds—

A mortar shell struck a fallen pine tree and splintered it into halves, throwing the whole of it up into the air. Victoria watched as it sailed up and came back down, awestruck by the sheer power that echoed in her ears. A hand kept a tight hold on her helmet as she heard another whistle, the impact shaking the ground beneath her feet. She is showered by fist-sized clumps of sizzling-hot earth, the charred pieces of dirt rolling off her helmet and jacket. Her grip on her Mauser rifle was steady as she raises it up, and squeezes the trigger—

With her thumb, Max presses down on the next clip of rounds, taking her rifle's bolt and closing it. A cycle of motions proceeded without any thought, for it was a matter of reflexes, a matter of life or death. Squeeze trigger, open bolt, close bolt, squeeze trigger—over and over again. Most of the time, Max wasn't even sure where her shots went, but that wasn't of her concern. So long as the Reds knew she was here and had the ammo to scare them off, it didn't matter. Caulfield thinks of her father's proud laugh, and her mother's loving smile; she burns with a longing she couldn't describe. So again, she raises her rifle and casts out the invaders with every bullet she had left, one round at a time—

Another shell strikes the churned-up dirt. Emilia's rifle jams, and she can't close the bolt. Her nerves become numb, her heart drums in her ears; the cries of men and women and whizzing of bullets in the air only adds to the cacophony. She slips on the mud at her feet and falls down as a burst of lead snaps through the air above her. Her rifle was quickly forgotten as she curls up, unable to breath, unable to merely think. The world was suddenly smothered and crushed under the weight of this savage display of brutality, and she couldn't find a way out. She cries out, but she can't even hear herself over the terrible orchestra. A hand suddenly takes her by the arm, and pulls her out—

River adjusted her grip on Greenock's arm, and shouts to her, "Keep hold of me, don't let go!" then pulls her friend down the trench. She passes a number of firing positions, their occupants desperately keeping up the suppression against the Reds' attack. River reaches a suitable position, and pulls Emilia into it with her. Another shell crashes upon the heights, the both of them flinching from the horrid sound—

Chloe lines up her sights on a Red crossing towards a piece of cover and squeezes the trigger. The attacker is struck in the leg, tripping over themselves. She growls, cycling the bolt and firing once more—a hit to the center mass. The Red lies still, and she feels nothing of it. She has looked upon Death's face often enough that she does not bat an eye at his presence. The emptiness of life had taken her greater meaning in times before, where she could not find an explanation for her suffering, but now, she finds it here in the depths of this misery, where cannons and rifles sing their chorus of violence. A hatred for all that wishes to see her dead shines in her ice blue eyes, and is reflected in her rifle's muzzle flash. She will defend the lives of her friends, no matter what it takes—

Alyssa takes a deep breath, adjusting her grip on the MG-34 machine gun in her hands. Its bipod helps to mitigate the recoil when firing, but that means nothing if the Reds focus their fire against her. Both sides engage in a constant battle of suppression; Alyssa would burn through her belt of ammunition and spend long, tense seconds helping Dana load another belt into the gun, all whilst bullets are scraping the paint off their helmets. Anderson's hands, speckled in dirt, take the shiny brass belt and insert it into the gun, rack the charging handle, then hold tightly to the gun's pistol-grip. She waits until the fire shifts to another part of the line, then angles her weapon down the slope—

Brooke watches as a stream of red tracers from Alyssa's machine gun sweep across her field of view. These tracers smack against the trees and ricochet off the slope, arching up into the sky. The outgoing rounds curtail the Reds' suppression, and now the Filipina has the chance to aim her shots. Though her muscles are shaking, though she's scared for her life, Brooke waits for the right moment. Alyssa's fire shifts away for a couple seconds, and that's when the bastards make their move; one Red comes up from cover, and heaves their arm back. Brooke pulls the trigger, and they fall out of sight. She's cycling the bolt when another quickly pops up, and lobs something in the air. She catches them with a bullet as they try to duck back into cover, but before she can cycle another round something smacks the top of her helmet—

Stella turns when she hears the unusual donk of something against Brooke's helmet. She angles her head down, her attention zeroing in on the sudden movement of a cylindrical object, like that of a firecracker—

It's not a firecracker.

Eyes widen. Fear grasps her heart. She cries out—

"GRENADE!"

Her hands react before she realizes they're moving. One hand pulls Brooke down by the collar of her jacket, the other seizes the grenade and hurls it back from where it came—

THUM

The world spins. Stella's face slams into the mud. Darkness takes her.


It's quiet. Tendrils of white smoke are caught in the wind, and trail up into the sky.

Some shouting barely registers, coming from further down the slope. Sara turns her head to the sound. From where she was, she can see the militia assume the blasted sections of the forward trench, crossing past the craters and under the fallen tree trunks to cover the whole line.

Sara gave the men a moment's glance before resuming her work, looting the dead bodies of the Reds. Beside her, Jenny and Jasmin silently observe the carnage around them. Once they were sure the Reds had retreated, the girls had wandered out and began searching for useful items at the behest of their leader. Sara was quick to pass by water canteens and spare ammunition, searching the dead for something in particular.

So much so, that Jenny gathered the courage to ask, "…what're you looking for?"

"Something important," Sara replied. She never specified what it was, choosing to rifle through the pockets of dead men. When one corpse didn't have what she was looking for, she stood up and searched another. Jenny lost track of how many after she had counted past her two hands.

"…don't you think Victoria and the others will notice—?"

"To hell with Victoria," Wilson hissed, tossing away another useless body, "That bitch can choke on a bullet for all I care. The only reason we're going along with her commands at this point is because our plan needs us to."

Sara stopped, and hummed in curiosity. She found something worthwhile.

Jenny watched as the brunette circled around a dead soldier, who was lying face down. A bullet had gone through his chest and out his back, leaving a red hole in the woodland jacket he wore. But that was not what caught Sara's attention—rather, it was the pair of wires that connected a small portable radio on his back to the head piece lying a few feet away, having been knocked off when he fell.

Wilson wasted no time in pilfering the dead body and was rewarded with a small ledger and pen along with this portable radio. The brunette smiled, her eyes gazed down at the objects of her obsession, taking them and stuffing them in her pack. Jenny shivered, and rubbed her hands together despite not feeling cold.

"Let's go."

Sara took point, Jasmin and Jenny silently followed. Back up the slope they went, past the second trench line, all the way to the Blackwell campus where the First and Second Squads were resting. The Angels were gathered in the front quad, huddled under the shade of the few trees planted within this open space. The brunette and her friends found a tree of their own to rest upon.

Sara took this moment to glance to the other girls surrounding her and her friends. Small details caught her eye—a misplaced number of Angels, a member or two of each squad missing from their usual circles.

Wilson spots the blue-haired second-in-command of First Squad, who was standing beside Samantha, and Emilia, and Victoria's two companions. These girls were attentive to someone who laid upon a stretcher, and Sara recognized this wounded girl to be Samantha's closest companion, the one with the white beanie and short auburn hair. Myers surely had a close connection to this wounded girl, if her pained expression was to go off of—Sara took that into consideration as she kept observing.

Another group of girls were formed up, this being the majority of First Squad. The Arkadian girls were in mourning, for one of their own had been wounded. Sara could hardly make them out from where she was, but it was obvious that the loss of one of their sisters took a toll on the squad of Angels. One girl amongst them, an Asian by the looks of her, was beside herself in grief. The others had to keep a close hold of her as she wept. Sara imagined that they were driven by madness already and assumed that they were giving this girl consolation over the fact that she was still alive. How lovely it would be, to be reminded that one would live to see the deaths of all their friends before they themselves are taken by a bullet.

Over yonder, out of earshot of anyone within these two groups, Max, Victoria, and River were having an intimate conversation. Sara narrowed her eyes in disgust at the sight of Schwartz, who was now an integral part to the command structure of Second Squad. That position was meant for her, it should have been for her, but it was not the case where she could just assert herself as second-in-command without Victoria's blessing, which had been absent since she attempted to sway the pixie blonde. River being in such a position of power was sure to become a problem if she waited too long to make her move. Time was ticking towards the fateful moment of action.

"Jenny, Jasmin."

They looked to Sara, waiting silently for her command. She gave it, "We're going to find a suitable position to use the radio we have. Once that's done, we'll give those squad-leaders a headache by inciting the others to speak out against their bloodlust. Nobody will want to keep up this hopeless cause, not after what's happened."

"…why are we using the radio again?"

"To secure a way out of this hellhole."

Jenny became nervous, "You mean, we're going to be—?"

"It will be fine," Sara quickly dissuaded, "I'll be the one talking to them. So long as you keep your mouth shut and let me do the negotiating, we'll all be out of this soon enough."

Jenny went quiet after that. Jasmin said nothing in objection.

Sara was too busy glaring at River to care.


A/N - Happy Fourth of July. God bless the United States of America, and to those who had given their lives for its land, its people, and the faith which carried them through hardships. This author chooses to honor those who give all they have for freedom's sake, for in them was the love of faith, and folk, and fatherland which guided their hearts to greatness. God bless you all. - MB