The Plains of Pluto - Chapter 25

Greece

Ky moved through the muddy forward trench that still had not dried in spite of the lack of rain for the past week and the relatively warm temperatures. The dampness was affecting everything, from the men’s morale to the construction of the very trench itself.

The planking laid down to provide stable footing had rotted away in places, creating treacherous spots that could be dangerous to men running through the trench in the heat of combat.

He made a note to have the officers check the wood frames of the trench and the planking and replace them as needed.

The trench followed the natural contour of the hillside, cutting a jagged line across the Greek landscape that was probably once lush farmland but now looked like the moons of Jupiter that he’d once flown patrols around in a life long ago.

Or a long time from now, rather.

“Excuse us, sir,” a voice called from behind.

He turned to see a decanus approaching, leading a squad of eight men carrying crates of ammunition, waiting to get past Ky and his party, which were partially blocking the narrow path through the trench.

“Good thinking, decanus. You’re going to find your men go through this ammunition much faster than the older stuff. Make sure you keep a lot of spares around and your men keep their pockets full for when the enemy tries another push.”

“Yes, sir, that we’re doing. We got to train with these things two days ago and by the gods do they shoot fast. Those bastards are going to be in for a hard day when they try and push us again.”

“Better them than us,” Ky said, slapping the man on the shoulder as he stood aside to let him and his squad through.

His men laughed as they went by. The conditions may still be horrendous, but from what he’d seen so far on this tour, their spirits were up now that they’d had a chance to try out the new rifles for themselves and saw just what they could do.

He continued forward, passing a group of veterans who were showing several new recruits how to brace a rifle against the front wall of the trench. The older soldier demonstrated placing the weapon in a notch carved precisely into the earth, explaining how to aim at specific points across No Man’s Land and to recognize the range markers they used to tell where to fire and adjust their sights. Ky paused, listening to the man give his instructions.

“This notch is for two hundred paces, where they usually form their first line. You’ll see when they pass that big crater with the fallen tree there, they should line up just right. And this one’s for one-fifty, when they’re halfway to us. You’ll want to wait until they reach the old crater there with the sleeping man on the rim before you start firing.”

It was a macabre sort of marker, using the body of a fallen eastener who did indeed look like he’d just curled up for a nap, as a visual guide to the distance of the enemy. The recruits, however, took the instructions seriously, nodding along with each word, their faces serious.

“It’s the Consul!” one of the younger ones, a boy still in his teens, said.

The teenager jumped to attention just as a drill instructor at the training grounds had probably taught him. The veterans, on the other hand, sort of turned around or stood up, but otherwise kept slouching and relaxed.

They knew Ky from his frequent visits to the line, and his preference to not stand on ceremony.

“As you were,” Ky said, stepping closer to inspect the notches cut into the trench. “Replacements?”

“Yes, sir,” the veteran answered. “Straight off the train from the training camp. Arrived this morning.”

“Listen to your officers and the seasoned men, remember your training, and you’ll do fine,” he said, putting a hand on the younger man’s shoulder.

“Yes, Consul,” the boy replied, seeming like he was about to swoon.

Ky smiled at him, mostly to keep the grimace off his face. It had to be a Roman. The allied men or even Caledonians could be bad enough, but true Romans were the worst when it came to the pedestal they liked to put him on. In spite of his best efforts, the story of the sword had become all but universal in Rome, and every man who followed the Roman gods believed it with his whole heart.

It could become tiring to deal with. Not that Ky held it against the young man. He knew what he knew, and he was out here putting his life on the line. The least Ky could do was play his part.

He moved on, stopping at intervals to check defensive positions and speak with the soldiers. Britannian troops lined the trenches as far as he could see, most wearing the standard dark grey tunics of the legion, now covered with mud and worn from weeks in the field. Although clean-shaven was the standard in Rome, most had joined their Germanic brethren in growing beards.

At a widened section of trench that served as a squad post, a centurion sat on an ammunition crate, cleaning his rifle. Six of his men were eating a cold breakfast of hardtack and dried beef. All were veterans and remained where they were when Ky replied.

“How are you all?” Ky asked, gesturing for them to continue their meal.

“Good, sir. All quiet through the night. Their patrols were active until about three hours before dawn, then withdrew. We’ve spotted increased movement behind their lines since first light. Probably gonna have a fight today.”

“How are your men holding up?”

“Tired but ready. The new rifles have lifted spirits considerably.”

“Where are you from, soldier?” he asked one who appeared older than the others, with deep lines etched around his eyes.

“Londinium.”

“What did you do in Londinium, before the war?”

“Fish merchant before I enlisted.”

“Family?”

“Wife and three children, sir. Youngest was born after I left for the front.”

“And you?”

“Linnglas in Uliad. Raised sheep.”

“Good farming country there.”

The soldier smiled slightly. “That it is, sir.”

Ky continued down the line, asking each man about their home and family. It was a small thing, but he’d learned over years of command that such personal connections mattered, especially before battle. Men fought harder for leaders who saw them as individuals rather than interchangeable parts in a military machine.

One of the soldiers was trying to balance his rifle and a small package. That was one of the things that Ky had worked with Lucilla to set up. A way for men to send letters on the supply trains back home, and for their families to send things to them.

Besides knowing their loved ones were alive, hearing about the front gave the people at home incentive to keep it at the top of mind, instead of thinking of it as something separate and far away.

“Mail from home, sir,” he explained when he saw Ky looking at him. “Just arrived this morning.”

“I hope it’s something good,” Ky said.

Before he could share his treat with his friends, there was the sound of a distant boom, followed by the distinctive whine of an incoming shell.

“Incoming!” someone screamed.

The shell impacted thirty paces behind the trench, sending dirt and rock fragments showering over them. Moments later, dozens more explosions erupted along the line as the enemy artillery opened up in full force.

Ky pressed himself against the forward wall of the trench as more shells screamed overhead. The ground shook with each impact, dislodging dirt from the trench walls. Men crouched low, protecting their rifles from the debris raining down.

A shell landed directly on the trench twenty yards down the line, sending bodies and equipment flying. Screams of wounded men cut through the din of the bombardment. Medics rushed forward, dragging casualties toward a reinforced dugout that served as an aid station.

“We need to get to the command bunker,” Modius insisted, grabbing Ky’s arm. “You can’t direct the defense from here.”

Another shell landed nearby, closer this time, the concussion slamming them against the trench wall. Ky shrugged Modius off and moved toward the impact site where soldiers were already digging to free buried comrades.

“I’m staying,” Ky said as they pulled rubble off the buried men.

Modius frowned but, to his credit, did not argue. Probably long years of dealing with Lucilla and seeing how stubborn she could be. Instead, he joined Ky, helping rescue the buried me.

Another shell flew overhead, wailing its death song before striking somewhere behind their position. Ky ignored it and continued digging through the collapsed trench section, finally pulling the last young soldier from the rubble. The man’s face was covered in mud, but his eyes fluttered open as he gasped for breath.

“Can you stand?” Ky asked.

Three more shells struck in quick succession along the forward line, causing the ground to buckle beneath them.

“Into the dugout!” Modius pointed to a reinforced shelter twenty paces away.

“Get him to the aid station first.”

“We’ll handle him, Consul. You need to get under cover,” a centurion said.

A shell hit ten yards to their left, flinging dirt and splintered planking upward. The blast slammed them against the trench wall as Modius took Ky’s arm and pulled him toward the dugout entrance.

“Now, sir.”

They entered the reinforced shelter just as another shell landed above. The dugout quivered, and dirt filtered down between timber supports. Inside, soldiers crouched along the walls with their held above the floor to keep them from the dirt falling with each impact. Outside, the men tried to press themselves against the trench walls for protection.

The bombardment intensified. Shells hit in patterns along their front line, smashing the Britannian line in rapid succession.

A medic stumbled in dragging a wounded man whose trouser leg was drenched with blood where shrapnel had carved through muscle. Two soldiers helped apply a tourniquet above the wound.

“Medical dugouts filling fast,” the medic said. “Stretcher bearers can’t keep up.”

Outside, officers shouted for men to hold positions despite the pounding. Ky heard trench sections collapsing and water splashing as the artillery found one of their storage cisterns.

“Flood! Water’s coming through!”

Ky stepped toward the entrance, but Modius blocked his path.

“Please, Consul. Wait until this barrage lifts.”

Ky hated hiding in here while his men died, and wanted to be doing something, but Modius was right. Even with all of his enhancements, there was little he could do, either about the flooding or the shells. Muddy water flowed past the dugout, carrying broken equipment and needed supplies alike. A quick-thinking soldier grabbed floating canteens, securing them for the thirst that would follow once fighting began.

On and on it went. The men with him, in the relative safety of the dugout, were handling it well, but Ky knew the men unlucky enough to not have a place to hide would be feeling the full effects with each bone-rattling explosion. After twenty minutes of constant shelling, the shells slowed.

No, they didn’t slow, just shifted, moving from the front line to the secondary line and even a little beyond.

“They’re shifting to the rear areas,” Ky said. “Cutting our reinforcement routes.”

“They learned from last time. Our second line reinforcements kept their breakthrough from succeeding.”

“Which means they’re planning another major push.”

“Sir, the Tribune reports heavy damage to the communication trenches. Second and third line reinforcements will have difficulty reaching us when the attack comes.”

“They will find a way. Tell him to identify alternate routes now, before the infantry assault begins and he’s ordered to send in reinforcements as soon as the attack that’s coming starts. As long as he can do so effectively. Tell him to use his own initiative,” Ky said, before turning to Modius. “I’m checking the line.”

This time Modius followed without argument as Ky went into what remained of their forward trench. The destruction was extensive with whole sections collapsed, creating gaps in their line. Soldiers cleared debris and rebuilt firing positions while others collected weapons and ammunition from the dead.

In one section, water from the destroyed cistern had turned the trench into knee-deep mud where soldiers stood on makeshift platforms, keeping rifles and ammunition dry.

Ky stopped at a badly damaged section where men struggled to rebuild a firing step.

“Use the support beams from the collapsed section,” he said, lifting a timber into place. “Pack dirt behind them and reinforce with whatever you can find.”

The soldiers worked quickly at his direction as a young optio approached.

As they finished, he ordered, “Redistribute from the dead and wounded. Then send men to retrieve more from the supply depot if they can get to it. You’ll need every round when they come.”

For nearly thirty more minutes, enemy shells fell on their rear positions. It was strange on the front trenches, where the relative quiet allowed the men to prepare for the coming assault. They’d definitely learned from past attempts and were trying something new.

“Forward observer reports movement in the enemy trenches. They’re forming up for an assault,” a runner said.

Ky nodded. “Alert all positions. Have them hold fire until they reach the range markers.”

The runner left, relaying orders down the line. Soldiers adjusted positions and checked their rifles while those repairing trenches took up their weapons and moved to firing positions.

“We really should withdraw to the command bunker, sir,” Modius said.

“No. Not this time,” he said, taking a rifle that was lying next to an ammunition crate, checking the action and lever before filling his pockets with cartridges.

“Sir,” Modius began, but stopped when he saw Ky’s expression.

“They need to see that their commanders stand with them.” Ky took position at a firing step. “We have the weapons now. We can finally turn things around.”

Modius was still not happy but found a rifle of his own, following his leader’s example.

Ky could see word spread quickly that the Consul himself was manning the forward trench. More men came running up, joining them on the line. Even some who looked fairly seriously injured had come back into position, ready to keep fighting.

“Here they come,” someone called out.

Through a periscope mounted on the trench wall, Ky studied the approaching enemy as they emerged in a continuous wave. Their numbers were terrifying, but they still had to cross nearly half a mile of exposed ground.

“Remember your training,” Ky called. “Wait for the order to fire. Make every shot count.”

The enemy advanced across No Man’s Land. Through the periscope, Ky saw officers urging them forward, knowing the fire would start any minute.

“They’re approaching the first marker. Six hundred paces.”

“Remain steady. Wait for my command,” a Centurion said, watching the range markers.

“Five hundred paces.”

Ky didn’t interfere. He let the officers do their job. It was their right to give the order. Ky was just a visitor in their world.

“Four hundred paces.”

Men gripped their rifles tightly, focused on the approaching enemy as the lead elements became clearly visible through the smoke and dust left behind by the artillery barrage.

“Three hundred paces.”

Ky joined the other men in lifting his weapon, preparing to fire.

“Two hundred paces! Fire!”

The trench erupted with hundreds of rifles firing simultaneously. The front enemy rank staggered as bullets tore through them. Unlike previous engagements where defenders would now be frantically reloading single-shot rifles, giving the enemy a chance to close more ground, a second barrage followed. And then a third. And then a fourth.

Ky was already empty, having worked his rifle’s lever mechanism with inhuman speed. Seven shots found marks among the advancing troops before the men around him had fired their fifth shot. By the time they emptied their rifles, he was sliding in his last reload into the rifle and lifting the weapon again.

The effect on the enemy was devastating as their front ranks fell under the unprecedented volume of fire, creating obstacles for following waves. Officers tried to maintain momentum, but the continuous fire tore their formations apart faster than they could reorganize.

At one hundred fifty meters, the enemy advance faltered. Men dropped to the ground, seeking cover from the literal hail of bullets while officers moved among them with threats and drawn swords. Some troops resumed advancing, but others stayed in place, unwilling to face the wall of lead cutting through their ranks.

“They’re breaking on the left!” a soldier called.

Ky shifted attention to the left flank, where enemy troops were falling back. The rest of the attack, however, continued in spite of their losses, with men reaching the hundred meter mark.

“Concentrate fire on the right flank,” Ky ordered.

Enemy officers had found the weak point in the Britannian line where a collapsed trench section had reduced the number of men able to fight, and they directed men toward this gap, accepting casualties to exploit the vulnerability.

Ky targeted officers directing the assault. Sophus’s targeting assist tracked and highlighted people for him to kill. His rifle never stopped firing as he eliminated targets. Every single bullet was a kill shot.

The men around him cheered as Ky mowed down the enemy.

At seventy-five meters, the enemy force began to waver as their losses mounted beyond sustainable, even for troops threatened with execution for retreat. Officers struggled to maintain momentum as men sought cover or fell back.

The enemy, however, wasn’t without their own surprises. A group rose from a shell hole to the right, throwing objects toward the Britannian line.

“Grenades!”

Most fell short, exploding harmlessly, but several landed on the trench parapet. Soldiers kicked them away or flattened themselves as the devices detonated, sending shrapnel outward.

He shouldn’t be surprised. As weapons go, the grenade was not a terribly difficult weapon to copy once it was seen in combat. The easterners probably didn’t even need to steal examples to achieve the feat.

Just seeing them in combat was enough.

Despite these attacks, the Britannian line held as the continuous fire from them prevented the enemy from closing to effective grenade range. For every grenade that reached their position, dozens of attackers fell trying to get close enough to throw them.

Numbers, however, had a power all of their own.

At fifty meters, enemy commanders committed their reserves in a final push. Thousands of fresh troops surged forward, hoping to overwhelm the defenders before they could reload.

“Grenades forward. Prepare for close combat,” an officer nearby ordered.

Soldiers passed grenade crates along the line.

The enemy reached forty meters, then thirty, as men charged with fixed bayonets, accepting casualties to close the distance. Their officers drove them forward with threats, creating a human wave meant to overwhelm Britannian defenses.

“Throw!”

Britannian grenades arced through the air, landing among the densely packed attackers. Explosions tore through their ranks. Still, they pressed forward as survivors regrouped, pushing ahead with the attack.

No amount of sustained fire was going to stop them from reaching the trench, although the losses they suffered here were probably the worst they’d sustained in a single attack in the war.

“Fix bayonets!” someone ordered as the distance closed to fifteen meters.

The first wave of Eastern troops topped the lip of the trench with bayonets leading, plunging into the Britannian line and splitting the defenders. A squad of Easterners drove forward through the initial breach, shoving aside the bodies of their comrades.

Ky’s rifle swung toward them as he worked the lever to chamber the first round. The rifle bucked against his shoulder in rapid succession. Three Easterners toppled backward with red holes in their grey tunics.

“Break on the left! They’re through!” a voice called out somewhere ahead of him.

More Eastern troops poured into the gap, widening the breach. Beyond them, infantry pressed forward across No Man’s Land, feeding the breakthrough now that the Britannian fire had slackened.

“The line’s compromised,” Modius shouted next to him.

“I can see that.” Ky ejected his spent cartridges and slid fresh rounds. “Get reserves from the right section. I’ll handle this breach.”

Ky ran along the trench toward the rupture, dodging around men and even hurtling them at times. Britannian soldiers fought hand-to-hand in the open section of the trench.

An Eastern soldier appeared at a junction with rifle raised. Ky fired without stopping. The man fell backward with a hole between his eyes, Ky stepping on his body as it fell, working the lever as he rounded the corner and finally reached the breach.

A group of Eastern soldiers had established a foothold in the trench and were tossing grenades around corners before advancing. Their backs were to Ky as they prepared to roll up the Britannian line.

Ky raised his rifle and fired. The first man pitched forward, dead before hitting the ground. Ky worked the lever, aimed, and fired again. The second man fell. Five more shots, five more bodies, all before they had a chance to react. Seven shots in less than four seconds.

Two more Easterners jumped down into the trench. Ky didn’t have time to reload and instead charged them, hitting one with the butt of his rifle hard enough to crack his skull open before putting his bayonet into the chest of the other.

More Easterners dropped into the trench, pressing forward despite their losses. Several climbed onto the parapet, firing down into Britannian positions while their comrades advanced below. Ky dropped to one knee grabbing a dropped rifle and hoping like hell it was loaded. It was. Three shots, three bodies tumbling from the edge.

An Eastern officer with gold braid on his collar directed the assault, pointing units toward weak spots in the line. Ky’s rifle barked once. The officer’s head snapped back as he collapsed.

Britannian soldiers responded to his sudden appearance. Eastern troops, accustomed to facing single-shot weapons, found themselves caught in a storm of lead as his men redoubled their efforts, overwhelming the enemy’s numerical advantage.

An Eastern grenade landed at Ky’s feet. In a single motion, he scooped it up and tossed it back over the parapet. The explosion sent dirt raining down as screams erupted from beyond the trench.

Ky pressed forward into the thickest part of the fighting. An Eastern soldier lunged with his bayonet. Ky sidestepped, grabbed the man by his tunic, and hauled him forward as a shield. Two Eastern rifles discharged, the rounds punching into their comrade’s body. Ky felt the impacts through the corpse, then shoved the dead man forward into one of the men while thrusting his bayonet into the nearest attacker’s chest.

The trench had become a charnel house with bodies piled atop each other, creating barriers that channeled the fighting into confined spaces. The longer Eastern rifles proved unwieldy in the tight quarters, forcing many to resort to bayonets, knives, or improvised weapons. Britannia’s new, shorter rifles remained effective, spitting death at point-blank range.

Ky ran into a group just trying to clear a section of trench, dropping onto the Britannians there, firing into them at point-blank range. Muzzle flashes ignited clothing, creating small fires on the dead men. The air filled with the stench of burned wool and flesh.

A group of Britannian reinforcements arrived with Modius, pushing through communication trenches from the right flank. Ky directed them to secure the initial breach point while he pressed forward.

The Eastern forces had established a foothold and were expanding outward, trying to cut the Britannian line in two.

Ky reloaded, sliding a fresh round into his rifle before vaulting over a barricade of broken timber and bodies, landing amid an Eastern squad. His rifle spoke seven times in rapid succession, killing a handful of men. He was too close for the enemy to shoot him with their long rifles. Ky parried the thrust with a short sword, then reversed his motion, driving his own bayonet into the attacker’s throat. He pivoted, firing point-blank into another man’s chest.

More Britannians came in behind him, finally sealing the breach.

“Hold this position,” Ky ordered a nearby centurion. “Reinforcements are coming through the second communication trench.”

The centurion nodded, dispatching runners to adjacent sections with orders to consolidate their line.

Ky moved forward through the muddy warren of trenches. The sounds of battle intensified ahead, telling him he was headed in the right direction.

Eastern troops had captured a fifty-yard section and were forcing Britannian soldiers back with coordinated volleys from their muzzle-loaded rifles.

Ky diverted, going down a communication trench and then parallel down a secondary trench before back up another communication trench that ran along a communication trench that led behind the captured section. Four Eastern soldiers appeared, blocking his path. Ky’s rifle barked twice and two men fell. The others raised their weapons, but Ky was already upon them. He drove his bayonet into one man’s chest, then reversed his grip and smashed the butt into the fourth man’s face.

Reaching the contested section, Ky found himself behind a squad of Eastern troops preparing to fire another volley. He grabbed the nearest soldier and hurled him into his comrades. The man collided with three others and knocked them off balance, who then quickly finished off with his bayonet and a well-placed stomp, saving his rapidly dwindling ammunition.

The remaining Eastern troops turned to face this new threat, their rifles unwieldy in the confined space. Ky moved among them, firing at point-blank range, using his bayonet when enemies pressed too close. His genetically enhanced strength and speed gave him an overwhelming advantage. He broke one man’s neck, drove his fist through another’s ribcage, and ripped out a third’s windpipe.

Britannian troops, seeing the massacre conducted by their Consul, surged forward behind him, cutting down the now panicking Eastern forces. The section was secured in minutes.

Ky reloaded, counting his remaining ammunition before waving on his growing, patchwork squad that had started following him from fight to fight. 

“Push forward to the next junction. We need to close the gap.”

The intensity of the fighting began to diminish as Eastern casualties mounted beyond sustainable levels. Their assault had fractured into isolated pockets of resistance as communication broke down and officers fell.

Ky reloaded with his last rounds as he continued fighting alongside increasingly confident Britannian troops, eliminating one threat after another.

An Eastern officer attempted to rally his men for one final push. Ky’s rifle cracked once and the officer dropped. He seemed to be the last officer in this section. Without leadership, the remaining attackers faltered. Some sought cover in shell holes, while others turned and fled toward their own lines.

The retreat began in small groups then spread through the Eastern ranks. Panic replaced discipline as soldiers abandoned their positions, their wounded, their weapons.

Ky grabbed two handfuls of rounds from an open ammunition crate nearby and stood, looking at the route in progress.

“They’re breaking!” Ky shouted. “Counterattack! Now! Over the Top!”

One of the Centurions with him pulled out a whistle and blew it. A moment later, more whistles blew, signaling the general advance. The Britannians hadn’t been asked to do this before and were exhausted, but they could sense victory.

The men didn’t even hesitate. They poured out of their trenches in pursuit of the retreating enemy.

Ky vaulted over the trench parapet with them, firing from the hip at fleeing soldiers. He waved his men forward. No Man’s Land lay open before them. In a few places, the retreating enemy attempted to establish defensive positions in shell craters, but Britannian soldiers were almost on their heels and quickly eliminated these pockets of resistance before they even became established.

The Britannian counterattack gained momentum across the entire sector. The men were in a near frenzy as they charged, ready to take revenge for all of the attacks they’d been forced to endure.

The retreating Eastern soldiers, exhausted from their earlier assault and demoralized by their heavy losses, offered increasingly disorganized resistance. Some surrendered, others fled.

Ky drove forward relentlessly, his rifle firing and reloading with inhuman speed. The Eastern front line trenches appeared ahead, largely abandoned.

Ky spotted the opportunity to seize the opposing defenses. Emptying his rifle into the nearest Easterners, he cleared the immediate approach before leaping into the enemy trench with dozens of Britannian soldiers following.

The surprised defenders never stood a chance. Ky bayoneted his way along the trench line, Britannian rifles spitting death at any Eastern soldier who stood his ground.

The breach of the enemy line widened as Western soldiers poured into the enemy positions from multiple entry points. The rifles proved devastating in the confined space, allowing small groups of Britannians to outgun much larger Eastern units.

An Egyptian rearguard attempted to slow the Britannian advance from a trench junction. Ky gathered a group of soldiers who had become separated from their unit.

“On my signal,” he said, sliding in fresh rounds.

Ky burst around the corner, firing as he moved. His first shots eliminated the two Egyptian officers. More rifles fired behind him. The three remaining enemy soldiers broke and ran.

Ky pressed on, clearing trench after trench. Eastern resistance collapsed. In an hour, it was all over and the entire front line position had been secured. Britannian forces pushed further, capturing the enemy’s reserve trenches and support positions.

His men seemed ready to chase the runners all the way into Sarmatia. Ky reluctantly had to stop them to keep his own line from becoming dangerously overextended.

Hundreds of prisoners sat in groups under guard, their weapons stacked nearby. Britannian soldiers moved through the captured trenches, collecting abandoned equipment and tending to wounded from both sides.

The war wasn’t over, but they’d finally managed to get ahead of the Easterners. It felt like this might be the beginning of a new stage of the war.