The farmhouse cellar's single bulb cast harsh shadows across their new tactical map. Three days of fighting had cost them the beachhead and twenty kilometers of territory. Tanya studied the British advance patterns with eyes that burned with more than just chemical damage. Her analytical mind, stripped of its former restraints but no less sharp, dissected their movements even as rage coursed through her veins.

"They're advancing in echelon," she noted, her voice carrying gravel from damaged lungs and barely contained fury. "Each unit maintaining perfect spacing for gas dispersal." Her finger stabbed the map where Weber had died, where Schmidt's perfect posture had crumbled. "Protecting against their own weapons. Like that will save them."

The last words emerged as almost a snarl, causing Major Hoffman to shift uncomfortably. He'd never heard such raw hatred in his commander's voice before. But he'd also never seen her watch helplessly as her men died choking on American ingenuity.

"They've learned from the first deployment," he reported carefully. "Their forward units are running atmospheric tests every thirty minutes. Full protective gear, chemical detection-"

"Which slows them down," Tanya interrupted, cold calculation warring with burning rage in her voice. "Cuts visibility. Reduces combat effectiveness by at least forty percent." The numbers came automatically, but now they served a darker purpose, fueled by memories of her Iron Chorus dying in rainbow-stained fog. "How many horses did you manage to gather?"

"Two hundred and seventeen. Local stock mostly, as requested." Hoffman watched his commander's face carefully. The tactical brilliance was still there, but now it carried an edge of something dangerous. Something born in helpless observation of systematic slaughter.

"And the tabun stocks from Division?" Her words were precise despite the tremor of rage beneath them.

"Three hundred liters. They're holding the sarin in reserve."

The cellar's other officers shifted uneasily at the mention of German nerve agents. They'd never deployed them at scale - a final line not crossed in civilized warfare. But civilization had died on that beach with her Iron Chorus, had dissolved in American fog with Mueller's final transmission.

"We'll use the tabun sparingly," Tanya said, her voice carrying winter's patience and summer's fury. "Not as a weapon - as a force multiplifier." Her mind dissected the problem with familiar precision while hatred burned cold in her chest. "Their gas gear protects against external threats. Makes them feel safe. We'll use that. We'll use everything."

The last words carried such venom that an aide actually stepped back. But Tanya's eyes remained focused on the map, her tactical analysis as sharp as ever even as rage fueled its purpose.

"The horses..." Hoffman began, seeing the strategy unfold.

"Will hit their forward positions at night. No gas masks on horses." A cold smile that held nothing of humor and everything of vengeance. "The British will expect us to poison water supplies, contaminate resources. Standard doctrine. We'll do that too - but it's not our primary strategy."

Her finger traced positions on the map, each touch carrying the weight of memory. Here where Weber had fallen. There where Schmidt's handwriting had degraded into dying scrawls. "Their defensive positions are perfect against conventional attacks or gas deployment. But they haven't considered cavalry raids from multiple directions. Horses can smell chemical agents before detection equipment registers them. They'll react naturally, creating chaos in British lines."

The strategy unfolded with cold logic, but behind each word burned the image of her veterans dying in perfect formation. Her tactical genius hadn't diminished - it had simply found a darker purpose.

"And when they button up against gas attacks that aren't coming..." Hoffman saw the elegant cruelty of it.

"That's when we hit their flanks with conventional forces." Tanya's voice carried the patience of a hunter and the fury of the damned. "They'll be blind, clumsy, wasting resources on chemical defense. And when they finally realize there is no gas attack..." Her smile was a death rictus. "That's when we actually deploy the tabun."

"Against their front lines?" an officer asked.

"No." The word fell like a blade. "Against their rear echelons. Their support units. Their medical stations." Each target was chosen with cold precision fueled by burning hate. "They'll be slower to react, less disciplined with protective gear. They'll die wondering why their perfect systems failed them."

Like her men had died, believing in the protection of masks and protocols.

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"The local partisan groups?" Hoffman questioned, watching his commander's fury find purpose in tactical brilliance.

"Will be our eyes and hands." Tanya's voice carried the cold certainty of a prophecy and the burning promise of vengeance. "The British expect them to be inefficient, undisciplined. They'll dismiss small unit activities as uncoordinated resistance." Her laugh held no mirth. "Another mistake they'll learn to regret."

She marked positions with precise movements that belied the rage in her eyes. "Have them target water sources, but not with obvious contaminants. The British will be testing for chemical agents, checking pH levels. They won't be looking for subtle changes in mineral content that take days to show effects."

Her mind spun possibilities with mechanical precision while hatred fueled its purpose. Not the mathematical beauty of before, but something colder. More lethal. A tactical genius turned to merciless ends.

"Their supply lines?" another officer ventured.

"Are too well defended for direct assault. So we don't attack the supplies themselves." Each word carried the weight of lessons learned watching her men die. "We target road surfaces. Weaken key bridges - not enough to collapse, just enough to fail under heavy transport weight. Force them to reduce convoy sizes, multiply the number of required trips."

The strategy was elegant in its simplicity, but behind each element burned the memory of Weber's steady hands falling still, of Schmidt's perfect posture corrupted by chemical death.

"The local population will suffer," someone pointed out.

"They already are." Tanya felt the truth of it in her damaged lungs, tasted it in the copper tang of every breath. "The British brought gas to this fight. But we'll use civilian hardship strategically. Not through crude contamination, but by forcing the British to expend resources on humanitarian aid."

Her mind calculated casualty projections with familiar precision while rage guided their purpose. Each number represented not just a statistic, but a weight to be hung around British necks.

"Have our agents spread specific rumors," she continued, hatred lending steel to her voice. "Not general panic about poison or disease. Detailed stories about particular water sources, individual supply dumps. Make their intelligence units waste time investigating credible threats."

The plan unfolded like a serpent uncoiling, each element carefully measured while fury gave it purpose. Not random brutality, but the methodical dismantling of enemy capability driven by cold rage and colder calculation.

"At sunset," she concluded, hands steady despite the tremor of hatred in her voice, "we begin the withdrawal. But not in a single movement. Small units, irregular intervals. Make them commit forces to multiple pursuit actions. Wear down their protective gear, exhaust their chemical detection teams."

Her officers studied the map with growing comprehension and growing unease. They saw their commander's tactical brilliance being redirected, not abandoned. Saw her analytical mind turned to darker purpose by a rage that burned cold enough to freeze hell.

"We'll leave behind more than poisoned earth," she said, each word carrying the weight of promise and vengeance. "We'll leave uncertainty. Fear. The knowledge that every step could be fatal, that safety is an illusion. Let them claim their twenty kilometers. We'll make sure the ground itself bleeds them dry."

The bulb flickered, casting shadows like gas clouds on concrete walls. In that uncertain light, her officers saw what their commander had become. Not a mindless force of destruction, but something far more dangerous - a tactical genius stripped of moral constraint and driven by burning purpose.

"Sunset," Hoffman confirmed, understanding the elegant horror of the strategy and the fury behind it. "But Colonel, this kind of warfare..."

"Is exactly what they taught us was possible." Tanya's voice carried winter's patience and summer's rage. "They showed us that civilization is a thin veneer. That rules of warfare are illusions. Now they learn what happens when those illusions shatter. When every rule they broke becomes a weapon in our hands."

The plan was beautiful in its cold precision and terrible in its burning purpose. Each element carefully measured, each action calculated for maximum psychological impact. Not random brutality or crude revenge, but the systematic destruction of enemy will driven by a rage cold enough to freeze stars.

Her lungs burned with each breath, American ingenuity written in damaged tissue. But pain was no longer an enemy to be overcome. It was fuel for something darker, something that combined tactical brilliance with absolute hatred.

Sunset approached like gas seeping through mask seals. Soon the withdrawal would begin, leaving behind not just poisoned earth, but poisoned minds. The British would claim their territory, plant their flags in contaminated soil.

And in that victory, they would learn what their gas attack had created. Would understand too late that they hadn't faced a mindless beast, but something far worse - a tactical genius driven by cold fury and colder purpose. Someone who would use their own precision against them, turn their every strength into weakness.

The hunt would begin at sunset.

And in that hunting, in that cold application of merciless strategy driven by burning rage, her enemies would learn that their carefully measured warfare had awakened something far more dangerous than mere brutality.

Something that combined tactical brilliance with absolute ruthlessness.

Something that would teach them that true horror required no special weapons - only the will to use everything as an instrument of vengeance.

The shadows lengthened like gas clouds as sunset approached. Tanya felt the promise of it in her damaged lungs, tasted it in every copper-tinged breath. The British and Americans thought they understood warfare's ultimate expression.

She would teach them how wrong they were. Would show them that precision and chemical weapons were poor substitutes for cold fury and colder purpose.

Sunset approached.

The hunt would begin.

And in that hunting, her enemies would learn what they had created when they turned air itself against her men. Would understand too late that gas masks and chemical detectors were no defense against an enemy who combined tactical genius with burning hatred.

Something merciless.

Something that would teach them the true meaning of warfare stripped of everything but cold fury and colder calculation.

Sunset approached like death on silent feet.

Soon they would learn.