Chapter 4 - Estranged

The King looked out towards the battlefield, clenching and unclenching his fist in odd contortions, whilst all around him soldiers went about their business. To his left stood General Grimhelm, his cold looks betraying his thoughts on how well the battle was faring. The enemy had been completely collapsed in the left flank, initially breaking through the hastily prepared militia who defended it. A few hours later, it was taken back by a combination of bayonet charges and mortar fire. The lads had been rigid in their defence, and the news of the King's arrival only bolstered their nerves. Grimhelm responded to a question.

‘No, Sir. The enemy has far too many reserves, and we lack the forces or ammunition to fight off any further waves. Most of the men are down to their last bullets, Sir.’

He unfolded a map from his pocket, and flattened it against a nearby attendant’s back, who grunted in disapproval.

‘Quiet, Cadet.’ he traced a line alongside the map with his finger. ‘This, Sir, is a comprehensive map of Vuren Ridge. I’ve already had the 37th Regiment begin entrenching at any weakened positions, and so far they’ve encountered minimal resistance, meaning the Imperials have pulled back for today."

‘What do you wager, General?’

Grimhelm thought for some time. Then, he looked into the King’s eyes.

‘Tomorrow, this place is gonna be assaulted with all they have.'

'I've learned to trust your intuition, General." Grimhelm bowed, "So what do you suggest we do?'

'This place is crucial for future operations, it's the only area that's maintained it's original lines. I suggest we divert more troops from other areas of the front, it's the only viable way to hold this place.'

A cough from behind made them turn. Scruffy, dirty and with a deathly tired look, stood a Captain. The aftermath of constant fighting had drained any energy he had, and he moved with an uncommitted spirit. 

'Captain Lager, of the 28th Infantry, Sirs.'

'What do you need, Captain?'

'It's about my troops, they're at the breaking point. Since the war started, we've suffered sixty-five percent casualties.'

Lager moved to the side as a stretcher bearer team came hurtling through. On it a wounded man cried out, his legs gone, the bone jagged and exposed. The Captain could scarcely conceal the disdain from his words, his scowl spoke volumes in itself. The King looked at Grimhelm, who bowed his head.

'Sir, I have business to attend to elsewhere on the front. May I be excused.'

The King motioned for his departure, and Grimhelm saddled a horse nearby. He turned to the Lager.

'From what I've heard, more and more units are being dispatched to the front. None of them can be diverted here. However, a training party nearby is almost done with their recruits, first batch and pick will be yours, Captain.'

It wasn't the result he was looking for, but it was far better than nothing. 

{---}

General Sepp sat on the ground, sighing as the cold wind swept the crest he seated himself upon. His Jagers had taken catastrophic casualties against the armoured divisions, and he had been forced to pull them back and allow them a meagre half-hour’s rest before sending them into the fray again. He expected the best of his troops, since after all, they were the best, and he wouldn’t let losses take the reputation of the 88th. Hearing a cluttering of hooves, he turned and smiled in a genial fashion at the face of an uninterested Grimhelm. 

‘How are you, pal?’

‘Fine enough, thanks, General.’ Grimhelm said, and gestured to Sepp's men, tired on the floor, ‘If you could kindly rouse your men again, General, we will need them for our offensive.’

Sepp grinned, and bellowed at his Sergeants below, who in turn began kicking the men up, swearing oaths and spraying spittle. 

‘Nice view you've got here.’

Sepp outstretched his hands before the battlefield.

"First thing they teach you at the academy, Grim, is to have one hundred percent visibility."

Grimhelm snorted, and spat a wad of phlegm onto the floor.

'I never went to some soppy academy, I know how to use a knife and fork.'

Sepp chortled, and drew lines in the mud.

'I've always found it odd how you choose to command a Regiment, instead of a division, or even an army, My friend, you're more than capable.'

In response, Sepp pointed a finger at his men, who packed themselves with confidence, checking each other properly and strapping on for combat.

'That is no ordinary Regiment, Grimhelm, that's the goddamned 88th, best in the army. They'll never miss a shot, never miss an objective, and never give up in their goals. Best in the army.'

The 88th, hearing their commander, echoed their mantra.

'Bold claim, Sepp, but I see. Well, I've telegrammed you the details, make sure they're completed.'

‘You should really start using a vehicle, Grim, it’s faster and more reliable.’ Sepp said as he struck a match, lighting a cigar. He offered Grimhelm one, and he took it, puffing out rings of his own.

‘Nonsense, horses have served men well enough in history, if anything we need more.’ Grimhelm patted his mount, ‘I’ll keep it in mind. General, have a good day.’

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

‘Got it."

‘And remember Sepp, it's all in the hands of you and your men.’

Sepp tapped his cigarette on a nearby ashtray, puffing out a cloud of dense smoke.

‘I’m well aware, pal.’

{---}

'Loosen up, recruit.'

The rifle stopped shaking. One hand firmly planted around the forestock, the other wrapped across the trigger. Stock eased back on the shoulder. 

'Now, you're holding it a bit too hard, it's not your cock, it's a fighting implement.'

A blush. The grip alleviated.

'Much better, now control your breathing.'

A single breath, long sigh. Vision cleared a little, the foresight was more visible. At the end of the range was a dummy, stuffed with straw till it bulged. Black paint drawn in crude crosses on five different areas.

'That's good, now hold it, on the field, you'll need to get used to the weight. Make sure the barrel does not rest on the floor.'

One second, two second, three. The strain was there, muscles ached. But it became less and less evident. Twenty-two, twenty-three.

'Alright, now fire when you're ready.'

The trigger resisted a slight pull. Not ready yet. The bullet wasn't gonna strike just like that. A little wind from the left, compensate. Content with the results, the trigger was pulled. Without thinking, the bolt handle was racked back, letting fly a used round, and then pushed back into place.

'Lucky shot, recruit, now aim for the second.'

Direct hit.

'The third.'

Right on.

'Adequate, nobody's hit the fourth so far, though.'

Easy.

'Well I'll be damned, you might be worth remembering.'

The fifth was where the head would be. Not anymore.

'Jesus, Oliver that's some fine shots. Fall back in.'

The rifle suddenly became a lot more heavier. Snapping back to reality, he looked at the instructor, baffled.

'You deaf? Fall in.'

Oliver shouldered his weapon, and stepped back. Simon gave him a pat on the back. 

'That was the weapons familiarisation course.' the Instructor paced before the line of recruits, 'I'm aware that it was a lot shorter than you would've thought. I'll be real with you, our supplies are short, and we need to pump guys and gals out the front quicker than we can train them.'

'Every squad is intended to be a fighting machine capable of standing its own ground, against any enemy, or odds." he continued, 'As such, a squad of ten is lead by a squad leader and their second in command, both using a submachine gun for those close quarters engagements.'

The instructor went to a nearby table, where weapons were laid out, as if for auction. He picked out two handsome SMGs, and thrust one each into the hands of Simon and Yvonne. Both were startled, and Simon spoke first.

'Sir, this responsibility-'

'Is now yours, does anyone else in the squad challenge that?'

Nobody did, the past weeks had shown them that the odd farm boy was kind, tough and above all, reliable. Yvonne was similar, considered an older sister to the group. They were the obvious choices for the roles.

'Next up is the machine gunner, one to each squad. They will suppress the most determined of enemies, and provide cover where need be.'

At this, he burrowed under the table to struggle with a beast of burden. He moved it over to Kate, who handled it like a babe. 

'It's not that you just spray and pray, though, a machine gunner alone is useless. She'll need someone to ferry ammo, that thing's a backbreaker as it is.'

The instructor strapped belts of ammo around Ingram's waist.

'Why can't I have the big gun?'

'Because she'll need someone to watch her back, any day of the week.'

Kate and Ingram linked eyes. The two were close, and Ingram nodded knowingly.

'I'll watch her back.'

'Hope you like what you see.'

'Shut up you morons!' the Instructor turned his attention to the remaining 5. "I know this squad's missing one member, but there's a reason for that."

Richard, Peter, Matt, Archibald and Oliver waited. Matt was a headstrong guy, impatient and rubbing off badly on the army's disciplinary methods, yet his temper served to ward off trouble rather than seek it. Archibald was the well-read type, brilliant and conscious, and it was a wonder why he decided to enlist rather than seek a more cushy desk job, which he was capable of. 

"Four riflemen, the workhorses, so to speak." at this, Matt was indignant, "Don't worry son, a squad is not complete without the rifles to supplement it. You are the flankers, the attackers, and defenders of anything, at any time or place. You are the nucleus of the squad."

He gave a rifle with clips to Richard. Then Matt. Archibald set to work finding a way to somehow improve his new weapon. 

"Hey, hey." Peter whistled and brandished the rifle fresh in his hands. Oliver was empty handed. He was perplexed.

'I think we know who our designated marksman is.' the Instructor cracked open a case, crouching to take out a sleek model, clean cut and wrapped around in a thin black veil. 'You best treat this rifle with care, recruit. It's designed to perform to a higher degree than those standard rifles you lot have."

The squad was wide eyed. Oliver's hands trembled as he took it. Slowly, he unraveled the veil, and almost dropped it to the floor, thinking it was no longer needed.

'Oh hell, no, recruit, that's for you.' the instructor bent and caught the veil before it touched the floor. Then, he wound it around Oliver's neck, a screen that was surprisingly warm. 'You are to ensure that your rifle is better kept than yourself, when not in action you will use this to keep any mud or debris out. It also distinguishes your role, you wear it with pride.' 

'And that brings me onto the next point. Your tenth member will be transferred from an existing unit, pretty much to give you some tips and guide you around once you're there. From what I read, and it ain't much, whoever it is will act as your spotter, Marksman.'

Marksman. That was pretty cool. Oliver liked it. And a spotter to boot, that was nice.

'That concludes role assignment, next week we'll start formations and squad-level tactics. 5th Squad, I want a lap of the grounds before you hit the sack, move!'

{---}

Private Leros was not happy. She sat flabbergasted before the QM. Around them was an arsenal, ammo boxes and orders lying around, but she was there for an alternative reason. The note issued from headquarters was crumpled up and torn in front of the Quartermaster, who was quite afraid.

'It's a month's job, you'll be in and out before you know it.' he bargained.

'I'm not babysitting some newbies!' Leros pounded a fist on the table, sending papers flying, "You can find somebody else to do that!'

'But circumstances-'

'What circumstances?! I smell bullshit!'

'Look, Leros, this new squad, it's got a marksman, but no spotter, the guy's a one man team, and that doesn't sit well with command. He'll be chewed out by the end of the first week.'

'I'm a one man team, and look where that's gotten me.' Leros flaunted her sniper, etched with multiple tallies, 'That guy will just have to learn fast, then.'

'Leros, I know you don't like working in pairs, not after what happened last time, but-'

'Listen here, shitbrains, I want no part of this, find someone else.'

The quartermaster flushed, and used the card he did not want to use.

'As my brevet rank states, you will comply or risk breaking the oath under which you swore."

'Bastard!'

'Private Leros, 88th Regiment, you will report to HQ first thing tomorrow morning, failure to do so will be regarded as desertion and dereliction of duty, good day.'

'Double bastard!' she stormed out, kicking a bin over as she went. Her tirade of curses continued from even a distance away. 

The quartermaster blessed the lord, these 88th guys were mean.