Spanish Civil War - Trenches"Get the fuck in cover you useless shits!" Smythe bellowed over the sound of the incoming fire to a pair of Frogs, cowering in the open like they'd never experienced mortars before. Well, they had only been in the trenches for a day, so it could have been really. Groaning in frustration - and picking up the slight hint of a round of differing trajectory from the cacophony of screeches and blasts, the Officer threw himself into a small dug-out section of the trench, shared only by the blasted corpse of another soldier. Suddenly there was an all-mighty whoomph and the trench was filled with hurtling globlets of dark brown mud and small pieces of Frenchman. "Oh for god's sake..." The British soldier thought in his head as he turned over int he mud and glanced down himself. His polished boots were scuffed and coated with mud, his trousers and shirt torn and similarly attired with mother nature's bounty. Now they had blood on them? And...he considered it...not even a small amount. The French didn't get into cover: so what? Now he'd have to spend ages getting the dark liquid out of his clothes - that was the only thing really registering as negative in his mind. Suddenly, after a few seconds of quiet bemoaning, he recalled his task, and promptly stepped out into the trench into the incoming, and began running along. Well, running - there was a short hop over the de-limbed body of a horrifyingly screaming Frenchman, but the rest was running. You'd have to be mad to try and get 20 meters in that
'weather' - 'Bastian made 200 on top of the 300 traveled that far.
Running, and bellowing at the feckless morons caught out in the rain takes it out of a man, so as soon as the door opened in the XIV Battalion's command bunker he practically tumbled through it. "Uh, oi! What are you doi..." The Private demanded to the sodden, muddy, bloody form which careened past him. With not a moment's hesitation, the Lieutenant folded himself back to standing and brushed some of the mud off of his tunic with one hand, holding his rifle with the other. Glaring at the young private, he gently inclined his head to the rank insignia on his shoulder. "Uh... What are you doing here... sir?" The Private said again, saluting and with a much less irritated tone of voice.
"Lieutenant Sebastian Smythe." He stated simply, "Where is that useless cunt? We've been radioing him for the last 30 minutes and we haven't had a single response." The Private looked dumbfounded - partially at realising that this was
the original crazy fucker who ran 20 meters into no-man's land at night to cut the throat of a dying man because his sobbing was disturbing his sleep, and partially because he wasn't expecting that kind of question. "Oi!" 'Bastian yelled, a far cry from the soft and received pronunciation of his previous statement, "Where is the little shit?" He grabbed the junior soldier by the lapels and shoved him bodily against the wall, "Colonel Pwaviti wants to know why he hasn't radioed confirmation of the battle plan!" The private just managed a gesture with his head toward the other rooms. With a slight nod, and without a second thought, Smythe let go of the soldier and pushed his way into a small and illuminated office room. One bunk for the batman - unoccupied. One desk for the batman to cook and work at - unoccupied. One desk for the Senior Commander of the Battalion - unoccupied. The Junior Officer cast his eye about, angrily turning to the Junior soldier to offer a beat-down when he realised he was staring fixedly at the small door to the officer's quarters.
With a sigh he strode up to it and pulled the handle - which didn't do anything. It was locked. A normal man might think 'An officer four levels higher than me doesn't want to be disturbed', guess who wasn't a normal man? In a second he had brought his boot to the door with all the force he could muster, and had sent it flying back into the room, the frame splintering as the lock was torn asunder. Inside the room was a some planking with a curtain on it as a carpet. Against one wall was a single bed set into the rich earthy walls - but with some planks set against the encroaching mud. Sitting, slumped on the bed was the Colonel his shirt off and lying on the bed next to him while he fingered his Browning Hi-Power pistol. He looked up mournfully at the entrance of the Lieutenant, before staring down at the weapon. Without a moment's ado, the Lieutenant strode in and crouched down in front of the obviously disturbed older man, "Sir. Where are your orders? What would you have your men do? What will you command if you cannot even rouse yourself from the perils of your mind?" He demanded, glaring at the man's face. Suddenly, he raised the pistol to his head and cocked back the hammer.
Without a word, the Officer's tone of voice changed, "No. No, there's no need to do that, sir. This can still be salvaged..." He murmured and reached slowly for the gun, "Please, sir: hand me the weapon?" His hand closed around the barrel of the pistol and pulled it slightly, the resistance of the officer melting away as he let go. It was obvious to anyone that the Colonel couldn't command his senses - let alone a Battalion. So Smythe shot him in the head before walking out. He quickly grabbed the private, who was backing away at the sound of the gunshot, and shoved him bodily down into his chair. "Get the Company commanders on the line. Inform them that 'Sebastian Smithington-Smythe is now in charge of this Battalion. Inform them that as soon as the barrage stops they should get out into the trenches and get onto the firing step to prepare to engage, but to not show themselves until my signal of a whistle blast. Inform them that on the second whistle blast - they should have already fixed swords by now - they are to commence an attack. Do it, do it now, do it fast, and then stay here by the phone."
The Brit sighed before strolling back into the commander's room and rolling the corpse off of the bed. Without even glancing at it, he laid himself down on the bed and began to look at the pistol - eventually tucking it into his belt for later usage.
-=-
The Lieutenant glanced at the ceiling of the small room. The mud shook with every impact, a tiny amount of dust trickling ethereally down in the air like the souls of the condemned seeking their way down. He reached over the body and pulled up his Lee Enfield rifle. It was beautiful, varnished, polished, buffed, cleaned, scraped, oiled. The only dirt on it was that which he hadn't cleaned off over the last hour of waiting. He carefully pulled the bayonet out of his scabbard and held its handle in his thumb and forefinger, gently balancing the tip of the blade against his thumb. He slowly turned the blade, almost entranced by the way its steel caught the light, oblivious to the way the twisting of the point cut his skin and dripped a small amount of blood onto his sleeve. Sighing, he slid it almost-sensually onto the rifle before looking the weapon itself over. He slid the bolt back, deftly catching the ejected round and pushing it into the internal magazine before inspecting and running his finger over and around the chamber. He glanced down the barrel, noting the way the light wasn't blocked by a single piece of debris. Finally, he snapped the bolt forward again and held the rifle to the length of his body - like the sword of a post-mortem bust of a knight in a church - and turned his gaze away from his beloved rifle again. The ceiling was gentle and calm, with not a single trickle of dust ethereally tumbling.
"Are they ready?" He called to the private as he strode into the main office, rifle in hand. Receiving a tense nod, he stepped out into the trench and looked down its length. While it was not possible to see far because of the way it zig-zagged, he was pleased to note the some-times raggedly dressed Foreign Legion soldiers pouring into the firing line and stepping up ready to engage. They looked rather bewildered and tired. Though an artillery barrage would do that for most people. Smythe glanced the other direction and was pleased by the same happening in the same manner on that side too. He risked a glance over the top - maybe a few thousand Spaniards were filing the gap between the trenches, pouring from their holes like worms or other bugs. Well, it was time for them to be crushed. He waited - they filled out and approached cautiously, there was no fire. They began to relax at about 100 meters away. At 50 meters away they were walking along like they were in the park. He smiled. If Smythe was mad... The next minute was going to well and truly be a... mad minute.
Gripping the whistle in a hand, he stuck it between is lips and blew on it as hard as he could - the sweet shrill note playing out among the almost-silence of the battle line. The Oncoming troops' expressions were comical. One of them was so filled with shock and horror that 'Bastian nearly laughed as he put a round through the man's chest and dropped him. He racked the bolt and fired again, and again, as the rifle fire rippled across the line. Men fell, stumbled, twirled, tripped, tumbled - and died. The Defenders racked their bolts and fed their belts and fired their rounds - and cut the enemies down in their hundreds. Smythe fired and fired and fired - crying out exultantly as the attackers slowed, lost momentum, faltered and turned. Now, it'd be madness to begin an attack now. But...
He blasted the whistle again and scrambled up onto the parapet, bellowing out to the men, "FIX SWORDS YOU SHITES! LET'S GO STICK A PIG, EH?!" as he knelt and fired off the last few rounds of his third magazine in a minute. With a roar of rage and joy, he threw himself forward at a run, a half-glance behind him showing that the other men were following behind - the spearhead of a wave of men. A thousand angry Spaniards and Foreigners screaming and baying from high heaven to the furthest depths of hell for your blood is scary enough - but when they're charging at you to come and take it from your cold, dead, torn, shattered form? That's what night-mares are made from. The sure knowledge that a thousand men are coming to mercilessly savage your form 'til it lies lifeless on the ground: and naught between here and Hong Kong - going either way around the world - will stop them. The distances closed, exultantly joyful in the anticipation of a good fight, the Brit grabbed his rifle and held it in the position to gut the first man he came across.
He knew not what they looked like. Most were fleeing with their backs turned, a few were firing and a few had even dropped their weapons in fright to make them run faster. Smythe didn't care. He picked his man: a small-looking chap, skinny and unarmed. The fellow stumbled and Smythe was on him in an instant as he turned onto his back, his hands up begging for mercy - a young boy of sixteen or seventeen? 'Bastian slapped his arm aside with the muzzle and jabbed the blade forcefully into the enemy's eye-socket before pulling it out and continuing running. In moments he was standing on the parapet of the trench. Without a second thought he fired the rifle and cycled it twice into the heaving mass of men below. Realising that wasn't going to kill fast enough, he reached into his belt and raised the Hi-Power to eye-level, firing the weapon again and again and again into the men until it was empty. With a groan of disgust, he tucked the offending piece into his belt before jumping into the trench - following the example of some of the other troops already. Quickly his body entered an almost mechanical routine - lunge, stab, withdraw, move on, lunge, stab, withdraw... He didn't know how long he was fighting for, he wasn't sure when he had dropped his rifle in the gut of a Spanish Captain and taken out a straight razor to finish the job on a few grenade-injured Spanish.
That didn't matter. What mattered was the enemy were dead. His orders were followed. His job was done.
Safe in that knowledge he backtracked in the trench until he found the weapon and pulled it out. Dragging it to a small dug-out in the wall he watched as Spaniards began to reinforce the new front-line, Machine guns and mortars and men and stretchers moved past as the shockingly blood-soaked soldier began to clean his rifle, his blades and his pistol with all the care of a museum curator restoring the only known example of some antique. Another day...another fun-filled day in
some man's army.