The roaring of a shell screamed overhead, as the column of infantry ducked again, a reflex that they have come to realise would become part of their daily schedule. March, Shoot, Duck, Sleep and Repeat. The Division would begin packing up the camp at around 4 in the morning, march until 4 in the afternoon, begin an attack, march again under intense artillery fire, and then pitch their tents at 11pm for a night of disturbed sleep. Most would be lucky to not be awoken covered in earth, and many found difficulty in catching even an hour of sleep. The luckiest would never wake up again. This was war, a hell on the good world where the landscape became more akin to the moon, full of craters and ditches and trenches and stagnant pools of fly-covered water. Every now and then, they would march by the remains of a failed attack, thousands upon thousands of bodies piled atop one another, to form an unnatural mountain peak on the plains and lunar landscape of the battlefield. Closer inspection by curious creatures would find the horrifying leftovers of an entire Battalion pounded by artillery, mowed down by machine gun fire, and incinerated by the presence of a new battlefield development - the flamethrower, which belched fire and spat death. War was hell.
{---}
The flaps of the command tent parted and a familiar figure strode in. The occupants of the tent, seeing the figure, snapped to attention with hasty salutes, until he strode by, his boots clicking against the wooden floor. A disgruntled secretary piled high with papers dropped his load, mouth opened in awe, and saluted with a stock still position. The figure waved a hand dismissively, and the room erupted back into action, commands being relayed and radios being restarted, the occasional crackle and panicked voices flowing throughout the tent.
'This is Platoon 2, B Company, 92nd Infantry, we're pinned down by *crackle*, and need immediate support! We're about to be-' the sound was cut off abruptly, and shaking his head sadly, the radio operator switched to a new channel.
The figure brushed his uniform down, removed his cape, and approached a group of officers hurriedly chatting around a table laden with a map of the battlefield. One officer, seeing his approach, grinned mightily and lay an arm around his shoulders.
'Oswald, get your crummy hands off me, we're in War, not a bloody ball.'
'Yessir,' he said with a toothy grin, and waved a hand around the table. 'You should be familiar with the Generals, are you not, milord?'
The King nodded gravely, and looked each other in the face. Firstly was the man who had laid his arm around him - Oswald von Rosenberg, his own Grandson, the Head of Warfare who had taken the first train out to the front, eager to get a taste of combat. He looked at another face, General Sepp, a notoriously slippery soldier, and commander of the equally dangerous 88th. Next in line was Royal Guard Commander Rudolf, also shipped from the capital with his shiny Guard Contingent, their mettle as of yet to be tested. To his right, General Grimhelm busied himself with a cigarette. Grimhelm seemed out of place, in his fur coat and axe by his side. Transferred from the Nordlands, Grimhelm served as an observer on behalf of his northern comrades, a welcome asset to the Army, a veteran of innumerable battles and master of the battlefield. Last but not least was the Grand Marshal Durham, a quiet man who understood the shattering effectiveness of artillery, and used Silveria's own stores to wreck almighty havoc upon the enemy lines. Nodding to each, the King approached the map, and began discussions.
'Tell me what happened, in the briefest manner possible.'
Durham picked up a command stick, and highlighted several positions across the map.
"The enemy has concentrated their attacks on these areas. Our militia were unable to contain the threats, and out of the 7 attacked points, 5 of them have achieved breakthroughs. The most successful of them have penetrated 30km, and is currently holding the town of Middlein."
"They've taken considerable losses, however." Grimhelm added, struggling with a lighter, "They're unorganised, the only reason they managed to get so far is because we simply don't have the manpower yet. Those regulars are taking far too long to mobilise."
The King nodded, and surveyed the map. Across it were various boxes in red, green and black.
"What do those represent then?"
"The red boxes indicate positions which are currently being attacked, and at risk of being overrun. Green, on the other hand, are forces that are being assaulted but holding." Durham bit his lip, "And black is for units that have been completely destroyed."
He counted 19 of such black boxes. Fists clenched, the King called for his attendant.
"Do you require an escort, Sir?" Rudolf asked, hand on the pommel of his sword. "I have a mounted contingent waiting just outside."
"That would be much appreciated, Rudolf." The Commander whistled sharply, and left the tent, "As for you gentlemen, I'll allocate more resources to the front, work on a counter-offensive."
"And where are you going?" Grimhelm gave up on the lighter, and crushed it underfoot. He gnawed on the cigarette.
The King pointed at a red box.
"Maybe those men need a little moral support, eh?"
{---}
'Not a chance!' exclaimed Jennifer, batting a hand on her son's shoulder. 'You're to stay here, war, as if!'
'But Ma!', began Oliver, but his mother smacked him again.
'Your mother's right, son.' Benjamin said over a spread newspaper, tutting occasionally. 'War's no place for a boy.'
'I'm turning sixteen next week! All my classmates are over at the depot…' murmured Oliver.
Benjamin folded the newspaper, and looked his son in the eyes.
'Son, those friends of yours are not good company. Much less that Callum.'
Oliver slammed a fist against the table.
'Don't badmouth my friend!' he slid off the chair, and stormed upstairs. 'I'll be the only one left behind.'
'Honey, you were too harsh.' Jennifer cleaned her hands on a cloth, and followed him upstairs. Benjamin breathed out, and opened up his newspaper again. Opening the door to his room, Jennifer watched as Oliver shoved crumpled clothes into a suitcase.
'Now, dear, we only want you to be safe.' she sat on his bed, and placed a hand on his.
'Then why are all the other parents letting their kids go?' Oliver whipped his hand away, and rummaged through his wardrobe, kicking up shorts and shirts. 'You should be proud, I'm gonna be a soldier!'
'You could work at the factories!'
'And be called a coward? No, I'll fight, you watch.'
'Your father works at the factories, is he a coward?'
Oliver paused.
'I just want to be there, when it happens, ma.' Oliver found his jacket, and buttoned it up. 'I've been asking for the past month, it's all I want, ma.'
Jennifer's lips tightened.
���Dear, is it really what you want?'
Oliver clasped his mother's hands.
'Truly.'
She lay a hand on her brow. Benjamin entered the room, hands in pockets.
'Son, this is not a decision you can make on a whim.' his eyes seemed sad. 'You must be sure.'
Oliver contemplated for a while. Everyone was going, even little Tommy down the street. Although Oliver was pretty sure he was fourteen, lo and behold, little Tommy walked into the depot, and returned with an enlistment card, parading it for his peers to see. And Callum. The last time they had met was a month ago, at the train station. His friend wore the khaki uniform that was two sizes below, bulging at the seams, but he was so content, full of pride and patriotism.
'I'll meet you there, Ollie.' he had said, waving from a train window as it bellowed steam, 'I'll see you soon!'
Oliver held the form before him. Issued by the school, it disclosed parental permission to enlist their charges. Without it, he could not join. Now, he handed it to his father, who read it with a passive face. A lapse came over him, and at last he produced a pen and signed.
'Your grandfather was a military man, you know?'
'Really?'
Benjamin closed the pen.
'He never came home.'
{---}
The man behind the counter read through the papers with a lethargic gaze. Several times, he looked at the papers, at Oliver, at the papers and Oliver again.
'You sure you're 16?' he drawled.
'Y-Yes, Sir.' Oliver stuttered, 'Well, 16 from next week, I h-hope that's not a problem.'
The man fixated on the last page, before stamping it.
'You're clear, move to the right.'
Oliver grasped his papers, and shifted towards a narrow corridor, where a line of boys waited outside a clinic. He joined the line, and nervously straightened his documents. A stray piece fell, and he bent to pick it up. Another hand reached it first, and Oliver straightened. A friendly face met him. Handsome and well-kept, with solid green eyes and tousled blonde hair. Oliver had not seen him around.
'Oliver eh?'
'Yeah, t-that's me.'
'You go to school, Oliver?'
'Uh, yeah, I do. Who are you?'
'Oh where are my manners?' the boy extended his hand, 'My name's Simon Montfort, it's a pleasure to meet you.'
'Likewise.' Oliver shook his hand, and the two just looked at each other for a while. An awkward silence fell over them.
'Oh right, so where are you from?' Simon asked to break the silence, laughing lightly, 'Me, I'm from the countryside, I came into town to enlist.'
'I-I'm from central, a city boy yeah?'
'I guess, ha.' Simon handed back the paper. 'The city's real nice so far.'
His accent was pronounced and heavy, almost alien, but Oliver had never met many people from the countryside. Often, he and Callum ignored the farm boys and they left them alone in turn. Callum never really bonded with the boys, despite being from a rural area, and had adopted the dialect of the city. Now that he thought about it, the farm boys had been dirty and unkempt, healthy sure, but brash and coarse. But Simon?
'I wouldn't have thought you were from the countryside, Simon.'
'Ha, I'm glad.' Simon smiled, and put a hand behind his head, 'It's real nice to meet you, Oliver, I was scared that all the city kids would hate me.'
Oliver smiled, and looked behind him. The line had diminished by a large margin.
'I think you're next Simon.'
Turning, Simon let out a surprised outtake, and grinned.
'Guess it is, I'll see you around, Oliver.'
'You too.'
Something about Simon was off, but Oliver dismissed the thought. He was just glad that he had made a new friend, at least he wouldn't be alone.
{---}
The ground shook again as enemy mortar emplacements set up alongside the ridge. Captain Lager had just received a telegram, and he shook the dirt off it as he read it.
General HQ
To : Captain Lager, 28th Infantry Regiment, 11th Division, GSA
General HQ has requested that you stay and defend your position until further support can be provided. The 88th is currently en-route to your position and will enforce your flanks.
Glory to Silveria.
Enheartened by this, the Captain yelled the news to his men, who cheered and fought with more vigour, their stamina suddenly regained. Breathing a lament of annoyance at the enemy mortars, an idea suddenly struck him.
'Pierson, Nick, Sebastian! Get your asses to me!'
Three men hastened themselves to him, and snapped off hurried salutes in a crouching position.
'Those mortars are pissing me off!' The Captain yelled 'Come with me, we'll do something about 'em!'
The three men looked at each other and then their Captain in disdain, who scowled in return and began lowering himself down the mound. Dutifully, they followed, thinking to themselves if they had been better off as bakers or miners.
Nick was instantly shot in the thigh and rolled down, but the rest of them zig-zagged and eventually reached the bottom, taking cover in a copse of trees, dragging Nick behind them, who cried out in pain and unloaded his rifle at the enemy in spite. The mortar teams were now in sight, stripped down to their trousers, and keeping up a deadly hail of fire. Making sure Nick was properly treated and comfortable, the rest of them set up firing positions, and waited. Then, as Lager fired the first round, they picked off the teams. Pierson aimed down his sights, saw a young man, more akin to a boy, excitedly throwing rounds down the tube, and squeezed the trigger. He moved on quickly, unwilling to witness his results. The mortar teams caught on quickly, and ducked into their foxholes in panic. The mortars stopped, but the small fireteam also saw enemy infantry approaching to aid their allies. All three lobbed their grenades as far as they could, and the enemy were temporarily checked.
They needed to pull back, but Nick had proved too difficult to move. Refusing to be carried, he sat there, awaiting his fate. Making sure he was well stocked with ammunition, they took anything else Nick didn't need, allowed him two swigs of whiskey and rabbitted up the mound. Covered by his fire, they almost made it to the top when Sebastian was caught by a machine gun round to the shoulder. Pierson dropped his rifle and dragged his comrade over, just before a fresh wave of bullets sprayed the area. The Captain sighed morosely, catching his breath, as Sebastian was taken away by a pair of medics. Men clapped Lager and Pierson on the shoulders as they passed back to their foxholes, but Lager had lost two men, casualties that he could not take, casualties that were now mounting in the hundreds. However, the incessant shelling had stopped, and Vuren Ridge was theirs, for the time being.