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GROUP 4: But last years light is shining hotter than the sun
I see the safest place around;
In that city down below
Departure of the other teams
Perhaps it was a touching fair well or maybe it was barked insults of "Get back in one piece or I'll kill you myself" - either way, for better or worse, the groups of volunteers go in the early morning fog of winter.
The remains of the COST soldiers are left behind with Captain Lewis. The Captain is terse as ever, but he stubbornly orders the remaining men - all ANZACS to him - into position to guard their lines, forming some kind of sensible defence in the small section of blocked in trenches.
Basic fortifications are the first step. The remaining guns are set up not only at the north and south of the rectangle, but also to the east and west, forming a boxed position with sandbags and extra guns to defend each front.
This means an unfortunate amount of heavy lifting and - you guessed it - more digging. It means arranging what has been scavenged, too, to defend them. But given that everyone is now functioning on the equal terms, there is a certain amount of customisation allowed to it. If you've got an idea, it's barely even a question - the Captain just gives a dead-eyed look and says, "Why are you still standing here, get it done yesterday!"
The order is to make no sound, keep your steps muffled, and your eyes open. Small mercies is how much of the tunnels survived the barrage, so that the wounded - and their cries - are hidden in the depths of the rabbit warren that is Lone Pine. Now the base of operations of those left behind focuses on staying alive and getting out safely.
If you look in the thick mist - still smothering, still stinging on the skin - you can spot the tree that gives the area its namesake, strangely like a serene, encompassing warning.
One tall, lonely pine that somehow survived the barrage and shattering explosions stands in the middle of no man's land. It's as good a gravestone as any man will get here. Some of the older soldiers will sometimes tip their cap in a solemn respect to it.
Dawdle too long and you might get jostled, or perhaps the Captain will snap at you. They need to count their stockpile to see how long they can survive here with what they've got left. The rations need to be organised. There's always another set of hands needed.
But for the first time in the trenches, it's almost peaceful. It's almost like no one is here but these few hundred men left alive. There's no shelling, no machine gun fire, no grenades, no whistles of soldiers getting ready to die. There isn't even the sound of the Turkish soldiers the other side of the trenches, with their mild, affectionate jeers. Sitting there in the scarred earth, time passes like living in a bubble. There is, after all, nothing to do but wait.
The soldiers still gamble, make bad jokes, and occasionally scuffle. The lack of food is making everyone tense. If a fire is lit to stave off the cold, it's done near the wounded in the depths of the tunnels, where the smoke and light can't be seen. All of this quiet has the soldiers wary.
It can't be right at all.
GAS, GAS AN ECSTACY OF FUMBLING
Two days pass with no word and no movement and, for those looking for them, no sign of the Regency. The trenches of Lone Pine are quiet, the tunnels echo with soft murmurs, but mostly everyone waits for a single word of the other teams. Worse for the ANZACs after all; they won't know until they see a man for themselves just whether it has succeeded or not.
It's not much comfort.
Then, in the clear of the morning, just as everyone settles in to have their ration of breakfast -
"GAS MASK, BOYS, QUICK!"
It's cut off with a splutter of wet choking and coughing.
The air fills with a sudden explosion of thick, yellow gas. It smells like a strong mix of mustard spice and almost garlic, rather than anything dangerous.
But it couldn't be less pleasant. It takes seconds to fill the space and it burns with each breath. Eyes watering then stinging, and the men who aren't quick enough begin to cough, wet and heavy. It can almost be felt in the lungs as it settles and burns and burns and burns, like something is scorching on the inside of the throat and nose. Each inhalation drives it deeper, exposed skin feeling like it's on fire and melting.
Men fall with it, like weakened children on their hands and knees as the gas settles, deeper into the smoke. Others make quick but unsavoury work, if their mask isn't near them. They get a piece of material, piss on it, and desperately wrap it around their faces to neutralise it. Disgusting, but effective.
Which leads the question, COST recruits, how did you go about your training getting your gas mask as quickly as possible?
THE ODD ANGRY SHOT
The one mercy is that the gas is heavy and begins to sink, settling like a blanket around the ankles. And every soldier, young and old, private to captain, grabs for their guns and gets ready for whatever is about to come. It's almost instinctual for some of them.
The first bullet takes a soldier straight in the gut to send him sprawling into the dirt and the thick yellow gas.
The guns are seen before the people firing them, figures that emerge on all sides of the Trench. They drop into the space from over the top of the wall, or leap over the side of the sandbags to the right and left that block each side. Soldiers in German uniform, armed like any other of the war.
Or almost any other. In their hands are a new type of weapon for this fight, the Lewis Machine Gun. The handheld weapon is as devastating as it seems, as it will one day change the war itself, but here now in this small pocket of abandoned trenches, everything becomes a new desperate attempt at survival.
The shape in the dark
For the COST recruits, it quickly becomes apparent that something is wrong with these Germans. It's no more than flickers in the power dampening mist that mixes with the Gas, but they can make out the shape of the Regency soldiers. When they're shot or punched or otherwise touched, for a moment the shape of the German uniforms fall away and the jackal masks are seen, if only as a brief silhouette against the gas.
Not that there is time to stare. It's clear that the Regency is not here to take prisoners. The close quarters make a mess of it, so best take what you can get to defend: Enfield, machine gun or grenade. Maybe you can work the mortars. Whatever it takes, it's time to defend those lines and push the enemy force back out of the position at the tunnels.
What follows is hard fighting without break or mercy. Whatever you do to drive them back - do it, as quickly as you can. Survive, and remember your orders: save as many men as possible.
THE LAST MAN STANDING
Eventually, the enemy is driven back to the right and left of the Trenches. It takes a better part of the day; retaking the position comes at the price of a great many men and it doesn't let up. The mood is dire; how are the ANZACs supposed to hold this until the others get back? What if even more Germans come?
Because once the Germans are pushed back, they don't let up. The war goes back to what it was, taking up spots behind sandbags and boxes and piles of dirt, taking shots at each other.
Moreover, on the second morning, the heavy artillery ammunition runs out. Everyone begins to worry about the rifles - there wasn't much ammunition to start with.
The fighting goes on, caught in the twisting trenches of Lone Pine.
Pity the only weapons remaining are hammers and shovels - maybe a rock, if nothing else. Whatever will do, will do. It's been two days of fighting and even the food is starting to run low. People begin to look for alternatives, coming up with weapons for when the ammunition runs out. The men are panicked, even if they keep it simmering to a hunted, ugly look of realising there is no way out.
Of course. "What else is there to do but fight?" asks the Captain, in perhaps not the most eloquent of speeches but at least the most straightforward of them.
"So let's go bloody fight."
Except, in the evening of the third day of the fighting, the enemy - whether they were German or Regency - is gone.
The mist is gone. Everything is, once again, still.
What the hell?
READ THE OOC INFOPAGE.
no subject
She isn't supposed to be here, a woman so close to the front, the red of her hair covered by a nurse's scarf. She can't help herself. That had been always been the part of her training she found it hardest to swallow: the lessons about how to stand still, how not to interfere. Natasha had dedicated the last ten years of her life to ignoring them.
"You won't help them if you can't fight. An extra body is a liability." At least her accent is perfect. She reaches into her pack, for a bandage, or disinfectant. "We need to get back to the hospital.
no subject
Ducking away his left shoulder, he lets her attention fall to the right arm, hoping it’s only the blood that she’s noticed. Though there had been the chance to get specialized disguises for the mission, Bucky had opted for retaining his natural appearance. Should any of the natives to this time point realize he has something that simply cannot be in this point in history, there would certainly be hell to pay.
“No, it’s not so bad, see? I don’t need the hospital. Just a little disinfectant and bandaging and I’ll be right as rain.” At least to staunch the thing. The bullet can be removed later. He just needs the pain to settle, to stop shaking.
no subject
It should be said that she doesn't have the softest bedside manner, but that's common enough amoung the girls in the field, and not on the propaganda posters. She'd seen them herself, in her youth, relics of a hated regime, of a war Russia shouldn't have been fighting. Like she shouldn't be here at all.
She brings a bandage out of her pack, and a small bottle of disinfectant. "Sit down," she says, moving closer to get a better look at the wound.
And then she catches a glint of something metal where it shouldn't be...
no subject
Reluctantly, he lets her do her thing, not unaccustomed to field care as he’s seen plenty enough treatment along the front in his own time in Italy. He sits as she instructs, angles his right shoulder so she can get a better look, then—
The unmistakeable glance, the direction she looks in clear, makes his chest clench. Shit.
“Miss?” he interjects, trying to disrupt her attention. “It won’t be bad, will it?” Feigned fear. He can still make this work. Attention is all about focus, and focus can be altered by misdirection. He shrinks back in his seat. “Never been shot before. Told my girl I’d show her all my scars, but I didn’t really want any.”
no subject
She isn't sure why those words come to her then. They'd been given to her in a dark and lace filled room, many years ago, by someone of the old school. But Natasha doesn't tell the man the last of what Headmistress had told her, as she stitched up a childhood scrape: You will endure many such lessons in your life. Not all of them will be from enemies.
Searching the soldier's face, though, his sudden panic after her glance at his left arm, she thinks she sees something else familiar. Natasha can't put a finger on what, though. Her eyes narrow.
"What's your name, soldier?"
no subject
At the request for his name, he thinks nothing of it, giving it easily, though with his false persona attached.
“James, miss. But my friends call me Jimmy.” ...he needs to wash his mouth out later for that one. “May I ask what yours is?”
no subject
Natasha couldn't tell if he was lying about his name— the tremble seemed genuine. But she had seen something there, something about his left arm. She's sure of it.