"I hate war as only a soldier who has lived it can, only as one who has seen it's brutality, its futility, Its stupidity."
Supreme Allied Commander Dwight D. Eisenhower
Chapter 7: Of Mud and Maggots (Part 2)
"Hey Caswell. You remember Tubet yeah? We've been under heavy shit like this, but this is a massive scale."
"Yeah." Benett looked at his blood-shot eyes. It was clear he didn't get any sleep due to attending to various wounded men. "Seems impossible that any of em' are still standing after that."
"We're moving into Wanton castle soon. You gotta catch some sleep, man."
"Nah, It's fine. I'm okay, trust me."
"More guys are comin, right?"
"Yeah. Word from the officers say that the entirety of 3rd Marine is here. Army boys are comin' in later, 7th Infantry division."
"Jesus. Their really pullin' in everything huh?"
The increasing amount of material and supplies were a sign that they were about to head there soon. More ammunition, supplies handed out. Reminders to wear their dogtags handed out often.
Nothing seemed to survive the first barrage on Italica. Shelling seemed non-stop; with the navy's aviators and ships joining in too.
"Alright, disperse!" Another officer yelled.
"Doc, I'll see you back in one piece yeah?"
...
"God damn it!" She slammed the wooden table; the dim lighting blinking as another enemy shell hit near her headquarters.
"Has the empire abandoned us?"
"No ma'am. Reinforcements are being cut off by enemy airpower."
"Then what are of our forces?"
"80% Combat effective, ma'am. You've lost nearly a thousand men so far."
"What section of the city are the men in green at?"
"G1; ma'am."
"Divert the forces from sector G3 into G1. Stop them from reaching the main bunker at all costs; and if all else fails, tell your men they are to use themselves as shields for the civilians to evacuate."
"Aye, ma'am." The soldier infront of her saluted. He was still in his officer uniform; white gloves now stained with mud and uniform equally so. He was Grey Co Aldo; the man who she looked up to for guidance when she was young.
"Im sorry to do this to you, grey."
"I understand that it is an duty, ma'am. We are here for the civilians." A small smile formed on his lips. Despite certain death; atleast the cause would be worthy. "Yet; I regret to inform you that Norma has fallen in the line of duty, in sector G1 by protecting civilians."
"Ah, I see." Pinã grimaced. Day by day she was losing men, and women that she personally knew and were familiar with.
Damned Barbarians.
"Go then," she continued. "I'll see to it and send the letters to his family. They will be proud of the work he's done." She watched the older mentor exit through the steel door; before she worked on the typewriter, fingers elegantly clicking to write an letter that metaphorically seemed to be stained with blood.
Is this worth it?
She gripped the field telephone, ringing up the nearest infantry battalion and mortar sections to reinforce the first sector.
Im sending each of them to die.
Her vision slowly got blurry. The feeling was familiar, tears were coming out. Crying.
She had not cried ever since she finished OCS. Here she was; the daughter of the royal family, reduced into a snivelling mess of a leader trying to grasp onto rapidly reducing control.
Ding!
She finished typing by then; the condolence letter for the death of sons, daughters, husbands and mothers fully written by the typewriter. She plucked out the grainy paper, setting it down onto the suitcase which was already stacked to the brim with them.
Out of the nearly two-hundred thousand men who garrisoned this city, nearly ten thousand had been wiped out in the first day in the first sector. It was appalling.
Reinforcements being cut off, no way for the city to be supplied. Yet, nothing could possibly help them. The great Imperial Navy! It's entire complement of carriers sunk within a few days.
She pulled the telephone to her ear. "Direct the men to point bloody ridge. Concentrate heavy weapons there, and do whatever you can to hold that sector. Is Alpha company still intact?"
"Twenty percent combat effective, ma'am."
She winced.
"Have them be relieved. How about Delta Company?"
"Sixty Percent."
Atleast that was better.
"Have them delay the enemy at bloody ridge." She placed down the field telephone.
...
(13:11)
"Get over here!"
"Quick! Move it!" Bullets hit their mark; splintering wood and sending fragments of it everywhere against him; rounds flying away and over their heads. Those bullets belonged to the Saderan positions infront; pillboxes and mutually supportive fortifications.
"Where the fuck's our armoured? Call it in!" Benett ducked; as another round flew directly into the stone wall beside him. Their own machine gunner responded in kind; bullets flying and smashing right into where the muzzle flashes were. Buck was spotted on the right, frankly fiddling with his radio and yelling various requests for help.
He watched helplessly as the marine stretcher team struggled through the mud with rounds hitting and falling all over them. Too far away to help; yet smoke shells weren't allowed for fear of friendly fire if fired across the company front. It was one of the more common pathetic and heartwrenching sights that would appear again: Men struggling to save a wounded comrade, the enemy firing at them as fast as they could, and the rest being powerless to give aid.
The shoudlers of the stretchers were stooped with the weight of the stretcher. Four helmeted heads hung low, as if beasts being flogged. Soaked with rain, and covered in splattered mud, the uniform hung forlornly on the men. The casualty, another Saderan Civilian laid inert on the narrow canvas stretcher, their life in the hands of the struggling four.
To his dismay; the two carriers in the rear had gotten hit by a burst of fire from the Saderan Machine gunner. Their knees buckled, falling over backwards.
"Fuckers hit our boys, where's the tankers?"
The two marines at the front of the stretcher had thrown it down, choosing to save their comrades over the casualty; spinning around to support and grab their wounded comrades as they all limped behind another building and into the reaches of friendlies, mud still being kicked uo by bullets landing near them.
Ra-ta-ta
Another burst seem to be fired. He looked closer, and the civilian was dead, his body filled with bullets originating from the machine gunner.
Worried expressions from the company soon turned into elated ones; when the position where the muzzle flashes came from, a three-story building was absolutely demolished, a cloud of smoke seeming to absolutely consume said building.
A HEAT round; courtesy of one of 3rd Battalion Armour's tanks had hit the building, ensuring that position would never be used again.
"Come on, move it!" He heard the similar voice of Hareford's voice come through the radio.
3...2...1.. Bounding!
As soon as the tank moved infront of the men to act as cover; firing another shell at what seemed to be a position that was so far away.
Tanks, and artillery fired their 120mm guns and M777 Howitzers seem to endlessly fire their 155m guns. Shells with high explosive and white phosphorous would commonly be used, right after one another, thoroughly shelling the area.
Though; the tanks of the 3rd Battalion armoured had received such heavy fire that the average infantryman assigned to attack with the tanks had to seek any protection they could in ditches, holes or stone walls while they covered the tanks from a distance. No man; if they were human could have survived the various supplements of shells thrown at the vehicles. Attack helicopters and strike aircraft flew overhead; pummeling the enemy with numerous explosions, yet the endless stream of shells never seemed to end.
If the tanks couldn't move safely beyond the cover Infantry provided due to Imperial tank destroyer suicide-teams, then neither could the Infantrymen from the amount of fire. Finally, after what had seemed like eternity, the tank had pulled back after suffering some hits that seemed to ruin the stowage and equipment placed on the outside. The only true damage it suffered; was a scratch and a hick on the paintjob, and maybe the crew inside suffering from tinnitus. Armoured couldn't move up into the ridge with them; their tracks hindered by the amount of mud and blood stuck on the floor.
It was fine for him. They were at their destination, at battalion frontlines now. This was where the heavy fighting was; the 'glory' and 'honour' the Marines corp promised. So far, despite heavy fighting it seemed that there was no marine dead, yet.
Massive artillery, mortar, naval gunfire and aerial bombardments from the carrier strike groups continued against the front, seemingly never ending. White smoke burned in the air, before being met by clouds of debris. The bombardments plastered enemy positions all over; till the noise and shock hit him. Thing is; the bombardment had only used a extremely limited amount of guided munitions in an effort to save cost; especially considering the fact that the budget was lower than ever before.
In return, Saderan counter-battery was limited. The only shelling they had teceived was the limited amount of mortar teams that made it through, managing to send a few shells flying overhead before being promptly annhilated by overwhelming airpower. They had been stuck here for god knew how long. Every single time a position was annhilated, another enemy would simply take their place and pin another squad of men down; either some casualties or none at all.
"Hey; fuck! They've got a mortar team up there!" A shell hit the open ground when they were behind cover. The shrapnel slammed into the ancient stone buildings; sending clouds of dirt everywhere. "Get the fucking JTAC to call it in!" In a few minutes; the position where they had received shelling from was promptly annhilated by an explosion, before being followed by a few strikes from their own mortars and artillery. Pillboxes; fortifications of every kind were mutually supportive and covered most of the ridge.
Another man; presumably a NCO
By now; dust and smog had covered the entire urban area they were fighting in. Mud was prevalent, and soldiers often had to trudge instead of run to reach their positions.
"I've got wounded here!" A man called out. In kind, caswell had responded to him quickly.
"Where's you hit?"
"Right here." He responded, pointing to the lower right portion of his abdomen.
"What hit you?"
"Our company's 81 Mortars." Answered the wounded man. He was talkative- and seemed in no pain--Obviously still in shock and dazed from the wound. It was obvious that he would feel the hurt later though. The smear of blood around his trousers was clear enough. It wasn't the round, neat hole of an bullet but a gash characteristic of a shell fragment, the wound oozing and pouring out small amounts of blood.
"Was my own fault." The wounded man continued. "Squad leaders ordered us to move back and wait while artillery shelled this area. Saw a damn bastard and figured if I got closer I could get a nice good ol' clear shot in. When I got here, mortars came in and I got hit. Guess I'm lucky it wasn't worse."
"Take it easy then, gonna havta get you somewhere safe first!" He gripped the man, pulling his body back down the ridge where corpsman were at work already in an deep ravine; cut into the ridge by shovels. About a dozen wounded men, and half that of stretcher cases and walking wounded were there already. He turned; looking back at the ridge where gunfire seemed to be ever present, kicking up mud, dust and stone.
Fuckin' hell.
"Tompot to Dominion! Captain!" Came the recognisable voice over the radio, it was one of their junior officers.
"This is Dominion, send traffic." Hareford's voice responded without any wait.
Buck sighed in relief, before continuing her message. "Hareford, we've got a problem. We're still at O-P…"
Buck hissed, looking to another NCO as the elder mouthed the word 'Victor'.
"O-P Victor!" He continued, giving the man a thumbs up. "Bastard's got us hurt! We're pinned down near two houses, and my men are suffering atleast 24 wounded! We are taking heavy fire!"
"Dominion copies, over. Wait one." The officer holding the radio rolled his eyes.
"Tompot, this is Dominion. Orders are for your company to regroup and move back to O-P Bravo. New tasking will be handed down arrival, how copy?"
"Wilco! Fuckin' Wilco! Jesus!" He yelled, another stray round landing near his foot. He placed down the radio, looking towards the men.
"Move back! Back to the line!"
Tracers started off again from friendly machine guns, covering the men's movements back to safe areas where they could not be reached by enemy fire.
...
(14:12)
Hareford stood before his newly updated battle map, grinding his teeth together.
His company had been receiving heavy fire since the morning, the two liutenants he had on the ground with the company wounded. He'd tried to check any channels for whether he could contact them; but there was none. The same, stringing report was always there; "Sir, hes too wounded, he needs to rest."
He pinched his nose. He tried radioing in to any channels on bloody ridge; but his voice was either drowned out by the constant gunfire or were equally confused as him.
Despite the handicap, he had acted quickly. The men were ordered to fall back to battalion frontlines; not even bothering to try and hold the ridge after such heavy gunfire. His liutenant had raged at him over the radio, demanding a chance to seek for medals and glory. But he complied, eventually. Like it or not, all of the men under his command had to follow his orders.
He grimaced, disliking the thought of giving up territory without resistance. But with the amount of technological superiority they had; it would be some time before the enemy themselves could muster a proper attack. Long enough that the remaining men that weren't wounded could dig in and call fire support on the enemy without risking themselves.
"Ray, how long before we have drones in the sky?"
"A few hours." Ray stopped, before continuing to chatter into the radio box. "They can have them here by 1600."
"That's too slow." Again, he looked down to the map. Having one platoon get taken off the board this quickly was something he'd made a contingency for. Tighten the line, hopefully amplify their remaining strength, minimize the numbers advantage and provide support for the other men that were moving through. "Any guarantee for reinforcements? Do they have reinforcements?"
"Yeah, Army Infantry's pulling in soon. As for them, nothing. Airforce and navy's got them completely surrounded; the miserable bastards only have what's on their hands right now."
"Call the men back to the line. Hold defensive positions till mud stops and 3rd armoured can advance with them; then call them for another assault."
"On it."
He turned back, looking at the shoddy map that was pinned onto the equally shoddy makeshift HQ.
Things were already spiraling well out of the 'safety' range he was promised. The enemy seemed to be more dedicated to keep them at bay with the amount of lives they seemingly kept throwing away.
What a waste.
He knew he was winning; the enemy just seemed to have a near infinite amount of men. Knocked out positions constantly being reoccupied, forcing him to divert more forces to keep said positions down again. Platoons in the rear, were often assigned to these duties. Yet, the certain crossfire pinned marines down and prevented them from pushing on.
The simple fact was; the enemy had much more men than him; and high command wouldn't give him any much reserves due to the particularly expensive costs of shipping men across the GATE; and the outpouring support for the war dying down.
"Sir?"
"Here."
"You're not gonna like it. Their ordering for another push."
...
(17:28)
Unlike the first assault, there had been no more breaks until now.
From the moment that their own armoured managed to reach Battalion; they continued to assault the ridge over and over again. Wave upon wave of men from their own crashing against the staunch defensive positions that the enemy always seemed to take after every hit knocking the men inside dead. Saderan bodies, riddled with bullets of every caliber under the sun, laid flattened out under the Saderan light, the rain and downpour ever so often washing away the maggots that existed on these bodies.
The attrition had begun to hit each of the companies now. More and more men were taking injuries. Ammunition was becoming more scarce, Infanry replacements being too far away to frankly utilize well; not being able to have constant air support without drones and so. And despite their efforts, despite the numerous air strikes and artillery bombardments called in, it felt like nothing had changed. The past two hours had felt more like two days.
Caswell sat in her foxhole, accompanied by Benett. Buck hadn't been seen since the first assault. the tacky opera of carnage and misery still surrounding her. He was covered head to toe in mud and dirt. His uniform, covered in blood, his IFAK clearly depleted from the sheer amount of friendly casualties he had to retreat. He'd certainly lost his helmet, having been hit in the head with a stray round so far. To him, he felt… slow, overloaded and overtaxed. Even more fatigued, the ammunition pouches and medical bags he carrying being lighter, much lighter than he ever had carried.
He sat down on the muddy foxhole, uniform soaking the muddy rainwater that accompanied it. He opened the ration biscuit, looking to the sickly grey foodstuff with apathy. These 'things' had been made by the US Government to provide cheap and plentiful energy on the go, acting as the ideal fuel for 'Every marine'! As if the commercials were true during wartime. It tasted like wet cardboard and sawdust mixed all together in one. There was no MREs to be eaten, atleast not anymore after the men had exhausted everything. No field kitchen or anything either. The biscuit; immediately was soaked by the onpour of rain.
As he bit down into the stiff product, the man winced, tasting the frankly more than disgusting flavour of the sawdust. The only thing that compelled him was the need to eat; If not for hunger, he wouldn't have eaten if need be. He recalled his way on how he was here in this miserable existence of what he called life now.
He joined the military at only 18; like most of them. Now here he was at 24, doing more miserable things than he could have ever imagined. He joined out of desperation, and need. After the war, his father died in Korea, and his body was unrecoverable. His mother; forced into a life of prostitution to make money for the family. Afterwards, she had gotten addicted to drugs and had killed herself after her son had come back from BMT. Afterwar shortages and famines forced him to join. The Military promised him money, a better home, and duty, so why not? Ever since he joined, and ever since both his parents died, he had been in an downwards spiral. No money for education; hence this was his only way.
Though, in the wise words of hareford; he supposed it would be nicer if it came with more warm food and a shower. He hadn't showered since they moved out of Tubet; and would be likely the same till they got relieved. He smelt like shit; his uniform? In mud, and he slept in it. It wasn't appalling that men had gotten trench foot in the company.
But the thought still brought him peace in the hole he was in, eating disgusting food and doing disgusting work. Because if nothing else, atleast she was reminded that she was here for a reason.
"Caswell." Buck's voice came over the radio, crackling to life. "Bring the men around to the fort; can't contact the others. We got new orders."
"Copy." He responded, wincing as he scarfed down the disgusting ration bar.
The 'Fort', as Buck had named, was a rectangular foxhole covered up of HESCO barriers and more duckboards; something fancy to keep them out of the mud. One of four that had been erected in this ring, acting as a position for each team leader's clmmand posts. They were rather small, resembling small little forts made by a child. But they did the job, easily acting as rallypoints and places for the wounded.
Except now, when they were all desperately low on medical supplies.
Caswell climbed up and over the lower wall, dropping down to see that the other men had gathered up here already, tired and exhausted. Buck stood at the high wall, face covered in soot from all the explosions he'd taken.
Buck sat in the dirt, trying to service his M4. The thing had been made mainly of polymers and plastics, which had helped to keep the weight reasonable. But now, after being used and abused for so long, it was becoming less and less accurate, for example the barrel of the rifle noticeably turning into a curve now.
Another corpsman was kneeling over another casualty. The latter was now in pain and had a nice, deep gash across his right thigh, metal fragments sticking out of it, having been shot to pieces after the pesky mortar teams continuously fired outside of their own company's mortars ranges, before in turn being annhilated by airpower that took long to arrive. The former was missing two left fingers, shrapnel having made it through his entire right arm; his body had been flung into the air as it hit him. It was an wonder he was still alive, and equally amazing that worse wounds were not sustained.
It seemed like a baptism by fire for all of them, except NCOs who were veterans like Buck or officers like Hareford.
"He is fine now?" The corpsman assumed, looking down at the other man tending to the casualty.
"As fine as one can be under the amount of drugs i've given him." The other man wiped the muck off his lips, trying to crack a small joke. No one laughed, too tired to laugh.
Buck waved for the marine marksman at the post to come down. His name was mark, Caswell observed. He looked more off from everyone. Physically he was the best off, only suffering some cuts and wounds. But mentally, the marksman looked utterly defeated and petrified. Being 'up and close' in a sense where he had presumably shot people through the use of his high powered scope during this trial had clearly taken its toll. His eyes were blood-shot, as if at horror against himself. His words and actions seemed slow and muted, personality all sucked dry. The only thing that remained was a terrified man who was ashamed of himself. Caswell looked further, looking at the cuts on his wrist. It was obviously self inflicted, and fresh. Three cuts to his hand; assuming that they were killcounts. Caswl closed his eyes, hoping this siege would end quicker.
"Hey so," Buck wavered in his speech. "Hareford's been ordered for a final push. Means we're moving with him again, this time with support of 3rd Armoured." He hesitantly let out the news. "Pack up everything by 2100 Hours. We're movin out."
The consensus in the men was clear. They didn't know whether they would be wounded.
...
(21:18)
Benett looked up into the sky, his rifle cradled in her arms as he leaned back in the fancier foxhole.
It was a rainy day like always, the weather being always the same. Rain, mud and mud. A few birds could be seen frantically flapping in the air, flying west and making their great escape before the firefights reignited.
The enemy had begun their incursion that morning. At first, a few units probed their defenses. Then the first assault came, non-humanoid creatues rhat seemed to be from storybooks running into their kill zones and fortifications. But after that, for hours now, there was a foreboding silence. No second attack, no scouts in sight. Merely each company, dug in and awaiting their opponents' next move.
Hence why he was loitering in the glorified hole she found herself in. Each of the teams was now stuck on high alert, preparing for the inevitable second strike that was taking far longer than he'd have preferred.
"Move out! Disperse!" Hareford's voice came over the radio. "Squad leaders take to your objectives!" The plethora of men dispersed; taking cover against heavy fire that seemed to start whenever they moved, now supported by the company of the 3rd Armoured.
He climbed out of his trench; running to meet his platoon.
"They just don't know when to quit!" The man beside him said. Benett was fairly sure the machine gunner whomst the word was aimed at was ignoring it, the older machine gunner continuing to lay down fire even as Honey Badger complained.
"What, not going to tell me to stop underestimating them?" Came the response.
"Cause they don't know when to give up!" Benett finally gave in, shouting across the loud gunfire.
"What? I can't fucking hear you!" The machine gunner let out another burst of gunfire; rounds impacting the pillbox ahead as the creak and vibration of the M1A2 Abrams belonging to 3rd armoured began to move up the ridge.
"Move behind the tanks to the other side! Move it!" The men huddled behind the massive behemoth of a vehicle; shells of various different calibers impacting the tank's turret cheeks and frontal hull, before being greeted in kind with laser-accurate 120mm HE shells.
"Front gun's down! Second mortar platoon! Set up mortars here!" Clanking of mortars and baseplates evidently being set up on the ground behind them could eb heard; moving them within range of the pillboxes and so on. Soon; friendly shells belonging to 81mm mortars dusted and hit the enemy infantry; combined with the destructive power of a single bulwark of steel; the M1A2's 120mm HE rounds; and the explosive firepower of various 155mm artillery shells.
Seemingly; the enemy line began to buckle against the repeated hits; even their deeply entrenched fortifications soon fell. Mud, gore and viscera flew everywhere. This time it was heavily inflicted on the Saderans.
"First platoon! Clear out the buildings!" Various squad leaders buckled out; yelling amidst the organised chaos that was taking place. On his right was a JTAC calling in a fire support mission. The results of it an building being entirely blown in half.
It was working. They were winning. Enemy gunfire seemed to lessen as soon as possible; slowly inching to a halt. The familiar sight of marines clearing out buildings had slowly greeted him. Some were being dragged back; but it was a wonder that no one was killed yet. Atleast, not friendlies. The men slowly made their way to the point; before a large round impacted the M1A2.
Exactly a 105 HE shell had impacted the vehicle; coming from an towed anti tank gun. a large plume of smoke emitting from the turret cheeks. Like a primordial entity coming back for revenge and something out from a movie; the M1A2 was fine. It had suffered an small dent, and repaid the favor by sawing the men who handled the anti-tank gun in half with it's co-axial.
The men who were crossing with the cover of the tank however? Not so lucky. A marine laid dead on the ground beside the tank; his face mangled from the shrapnel. Barely unrecognisable; and only his plate carrier had prevented his body from becoming mangled.
"Move out! Fifth platoon, take that pillbo-" A stray round hit the man yelling right in the ankle.
"Fuck!" He yelled; before limpimg back to cover. Despite the technological advantage they had possessed, Infantry was still infantry; and they were flesh, soft and weak.
...
(23:00 Imperial Standard Time)
The battle was lost. Bloody ridge had been taken. They were on equal ground now; there was no high ground for her to exploit.
She walked outside the command post, looking at the variety of wounded men and women serving under her, before running to the aid tent. There were two familiar faces inside.
"Bozes. How is she?"
"Those bastard from across the gate hit her today. She came across the front, and was hit by one of their mortar rounds." The female medic responded. She was a trusted friend; diligently ever serving with Pinã ever since the creation of the rose order. It was a shame she had to leave; she had become disillusioned with the empire after what she had seen in the suppression of the Bunny warriors.
"Will she live?" Pina looked down at Hamilton's body. Half an arm missing, her face scorched. Her body was bandaged, nearly every part of it.
"Hopefully so. How's the situation at the front?"
"Grey's gone. Beefeater, you and I, including Panache are left." She winced. War wasn't ever a glorious thing, but she hoped that each of them went down with the dignity that was supposed to be granted for them, just like the posters that were put up across the imperial capital.
Looking for glory? Join the Rose Order Today!
What a joke. They were expendable, despite being elite and considered more top of the line; here they were, not being utilized properly. Her brother? She didn't know where he was, and her father, molt hadn't bothered to reply to her request for reinforcements at all. Men, women and people she personally knew were dying like flies, hit by an enemy that seemed to be invisible other than one battalion sized force that was making it's way through bloody ridge.
"I see. Keep up the good work Bozes."
"Ma'am. If I may." Pina observed her friend's facial expression. She was exhausted from treating this much casualties, eyes bloodshot and the skin of her hands breaking from the amount of dried blood she had to remove. "What's the point? Why don't you just surrender?"
"Is it worth it?" She followed up.
"What's gonna happen to all of us when we don't surrender huh?"
Pina responded, "Then we'll die. Or worst, be sold off as slaves."
"What a load of shit." Her friend cursed, somethinf that was ridden from her an long time ago due to her class of higher nobility. "You've served longer than me, and still believe in those lies the empire brought you. It's fine, go on. The men need you."
She was silent. Exiting the aid camp, she was greeted by Panache. Her officer uniform covered in grime and dust, obviously shaken too.
"Ma'am." Panache saluted her.
"At ease, how's the situation?"
"My company suffered 200 men dead. Their all gone." It was obvious she was trying not to cry. "They've broken through the ridge, remnants of 9th battalion are trying to slow them down."
"I see. Head back to battalion quarters, I'll see to it."
She headed back to the command tent; collapsing with exhuastion. The day was spent running from place to place; receiving reports that were always the same thing. Companies reduced to less than 40% combat effectiveness, or personal friends dying.
Her eyes swelled up, and finally she let hersef go.
"Mother, I beg of you.. where are you? Help me.. help me." She dreamt of the royal concubine who had so much comforted her during her childhood, days of hardship of training.
...
(23:47)
The battle was over. An astounding victory with a few men lost, and a couple injured.
If he was a dramatic story-teller then he wished there would be an romantic way to end the battle.
So much for that.. Caswell remarked to himself.
To the battle-weary troops; exhausted after their first baptism of fire, mopping up was shit news. It was hard for them to accept the order, but they did. Burying enemy dead and removing brass and equipment; was a hit to the staggering and already sagging morale. Fighting was their duty; but burying enemy dead and cleaning up didn't seem right for them. Men complained here and there, believing that it was the ultimate indignity to them who were the ones who fought on.
"Would you shut up?" Caswell finally gave up.
The two marines looked at him, they had been complaining for hours now about the dead bodies. Not that their argumenrs weren't reasonable either. Bloated corpses; and mangled faces weren't something they wanted to see.
"Just do your fucking job." He followed on.
He spaded dirt over the corpses with his entrenching shovel, cursing every body he had to bury while other companies and battalions worth of men moved past their position. It was still raining, and misery seemed to exist for every remote second they existed in.
For now, word came off the line that the marines suffered only 18 dead and 56 wounded for nearly 600 dead Saderans, and 800 wounded.
He turned, looking towards logistic convoys which were finally entering through the ridge. Showers were being deployed, and food finally came. In addition to food; finally came precious water. He had not drunk anything in nearly three days, and it seemed as if he would die of hydration.
Atleast there's something to look forward too.
After burial duties were done, and he showered in hot water for once, new combat fatigues were issued, and he lied down in the newly constructed tents. It was nice, being able to sleep on a bed instead of inside a muddy foxhole. Slowly, he drifted off to sleep; closing his eyes and drifting into unconsciousness.
writers note; please give more feedback