Hardtacks

[Kanada]

I remember the man at the recruiting booth. He stood on a chair and shouted to the people on the streets, who hid their faces behind collars and low brim hats. Only a few people crowded around, all young men who'd probably gotten out of secondary school last spring.
He made vague promises of glorious cavalry charges, and being able to march into Ninhundland by New Year's Eve. He spoke of us going home safe, medals donning our coats.

What a goddamn liar.

I was eighteen at the time. I had just finished secondary school, like most of the dumb, straight up gullible boys around me at the recruiting station. Boys were trying to be the earliest to sign their names on the list. A little later I saw it as them bickering over who got to die the earliest. Now I realized everyone on that slip of paper went over on the same ship in the same company. We all were sent to die at the same time.

But I fell for the lies and waited my turn to write my neat signature, Karl Lindholm, on the line, filling out the rest of the needed information next to it. Within two days I was on a train to Kanada's capital. The low, sprawling city of Kalgary.

---

I received much less training than I thought I would. We didn't learn much. All we did were 10 mile runs through the nearby mountains and endless standing around in the cold. Eventually we got to train with the guns, which most of the guys were excited about.

That excitement diminished as soon as we were handed old, lightweight rifles that had logos stating they were made in the 1870's. They were breech-loading, single-shot guns that were accurate up to about 300 yards.

That distance didn't matter in the trenches. We were close enough to hear the Ninhundish singing. So we practiced with the rifles. I was given the rare rating of 'expert', which impressed some of the officers. Soon I was informed I would be Private Lindholm of the 5th Battalion, 4th Brigade, 2nd Division, 2nd Corps of the Kanadian Expeditionary Force.

 

[Andrenne]

The night was warm and muggy. The Andrennian summer in it’s prime.. Mosquitos buzzed around me, but they were the least of my problems. I remember the night like it was yesterday. I entered the trench from the rear, coming from a small town nearby to confirm that our supplies were on their way. Yeah, right. As soon as I entered the trench, my nose stung from the unmistakable smell of the dead, and an overarching sense of dread washed over me. Things in this area of the front were… not going well to say the least. We had been sent here only four months ago, but were dangerously low on supply already. They had only sent 3 battalions, a mere 6,000 men. Not nearly enough to hold back the large initial number of Ninhundish attacks.

We lost men in the dozens everyday, and each day the spirits of the men in the trench got worse and worse. Men barked in my ears, my subordinates complaining about the lack of food, ammo, even fresh water now. I assured them that supplies were coming. The same thing I had assured them a week ago, and the week before that, and so on. I wished that it were all true, but I knew better. We had been abandoned in favor of the more important areas of the front. A particular man could be heard over those shouting of the soldiers, the bellowing voice of Störsselüjtnaant Arno Dahlberg. His voice was gruff and loud- louder than any man I had ever heard, somehow. He slurred his Andrennian as he spoke, and his messy speech pattern matched his disheveled uniform. Most officers would’ve been reprimanded for being so messy, but Dahlberg got a pass due to the lack of a higher authority in this area of the front line.

“Ah, Majur Andersson, just the man I was looking for! The higher ups have sent us some mail, and decided to not only give you a promotion, but reassign you. Turns out the Kanadian chain of command is… Not as orderly as our own, and they’ve requested Andrennian officers. So, congratulations Samuel, you are now a Störsselüjtnaant.” He spoke those sentences in a tone that I'll never forget. A combination of condescendence, arrogance, and jealousy.

The man saluted me, of all people. Of course, he was supposed to salute me before since I was still an officer, but he was an arrogant man that thought himself better than me. The only reason I could think he did it was due to the formality of the situation. Well… “formality”. I wasn’t even certain this was all true until he had given me the letter stating I had, as Dahlberg said, been promoted and reassigned. Specifically I had been reassigned to a Kanadian battalion, the 3rd Battalion, 2nd Division, 4th Army. I said my goodbyes to the soldiers and wished them the best of luck, and I remember a smug grimace on Dahlberg's face as I left. He was probably happy I was out of his hair and he could send these unlucky souls to their deaths and get on with his afternoon tea without worrying about some Major's morals anymore. I left early next morning, when a tall, gaunt man in a sharp dress uniform pulled up to the nearby town in a rather nice automobile. This was different. Usually I had been transported via truck. The mysterious man in the dress uniform hardly spoke a word, minus the occasional question. It was a few hours before I arrived at my new frontline. It would have been quicker, but there were and still are a lot of roadblocks and detours along these old roads. The Kanadians I was assigned to were… something. They looked more like a militia than a trained battalion, by the look of their uniforms, and the rifles they held were older than me. These men were hardly soldiers. I had a lot of work ahead of me. Not to mention that now my higher ups would actually check in on me and my men, considering I was now on an area of the front they cared about and was commanding and entire Battalion. I shouted as loud as I could over the hustle and bustle of the Kanadian trench.

“Attention! All men of the 3rd Battalion, 2nd Division, 4th Kanadian Army! By order of Störsselüjtnaant Andersson; form a line at the front of the trench! Immediately!”

---

Please note that anything a character said would have been spoken in Andrennian, not English.

 

[Kanada]

I had used up my two day free pass in Kalgary, sightseeing the warming streets, and had found myself back at the port, where men were waiting in long, twisting, unorganized lines receiving their basic supplies. I skimmed over my card and got in line for a rather large ship, the Duke Surguard, which looked old and unstable as it bobbed in the ripples.

It took what seemed like ages to reach the front of the line, and as I was close, I could hear the arguments between soldiers and the men handing out our things. Once I got to them, I realized why. We received nothing more than a gray field cap and coat, with an undershirt and brown trousers. They didn't even distribute boots. Hopefully my shoes would do.

Next, near the gangplank onto the ship, I watched as men were handed the same guns we'd used to train. Once I'd reached a short man, looking stressed, handing out weapons. He quickly scanned my card and handed me a newer gun, with shiny iron sights. I was shuffled along, and heard the complaints of those behind me.

---

It was a miserable journey. Luckily, I didn't get seasick, but there was a constant line of men spewing their meals overboard into the ocean as we rode the choppy waves westward. We hadn't been given any ammunition, presumably so we wouldn't shoot our guns on the boat. I still had a suspicion I would not receive any bullets quickly once we got to Andrenne.

It was cozy and warm indoors, and I enjoyed the smell of the salty air, but the boredom was widespread. I didn't want to risk joining in the gambling below deck., so I just passed the time however I could. There was no cheering as we landed in Andrenne. Instead, we began our march south with not but a few words. At least I got a pouch of bullets.

---

"Keep your heads down, men!" called the officers, constantly, as we ducked into the trenches. But many ignored it and stood normally. One curious private looked over the line of sandbags, only to be shot between the eyes and collapse. That was enough of the motive for everyone to stay down.

I heard the sound of unnerving artillery fire further up the line, but they weren't shelling here yet. I approached one officer, who was looking stressed about the new flow of soldiers. There'd been stories aboard the ships that our command chain was in terrible condition, so it was no wonder I'd barely seen any officers. Then I heard a yell from a man in an Andrennian uniform, telling us to line up.

Not a single man uttered 'Yes Sir', but we still formed a loose, slouching line along the length of the trench.

 

[Andrenne]

“What a disorganized mess, no wonder they needed Andrennian officers.” I remember thinking to myself and then mumbling quietly to no one in particular at the same time as I gazed at the unorganized “line”. I decided to cut them some slack. They hadn’t been very well trained, but that wasn’t exactly their fault. I sighed before speaking loudly- Not a full yell, mind you, but still pretty loud.

“First things first, boys! Get into a proper line! Stand up straight, hold your rifles properly! I am your new Störsselüjtnaant, Samuel Kristian Andersson. I am not a cruel man, nor am I a psychopath. As long as you respect me and listen up, I will treat you well. If you decide to act like a dissident or a rebel however, I will have to take disciplinary action. Now that we have that out of the way, I would like your highest ranking officer and your quartermaster to take a step forward.”

Two men took a step forward, neither uttering a word. I beckoned them towards me, and both moved closer to me. I spoke in a quieter voice now, to the officer first and then to the quartermaster.

“What rank are you, boy? And what’s your name?”

“Why, I’m a Lüjtnaant sir, and my name is Martin Kjetill”

“Consider this a field promotion, then Kjetill. You’re a Majur now, my second in command. I want you to get a clipboard, some paper, and a pen. Write down a list of chores for the trench and assign them to these men. I have a few things to discuss with your quartermaster. You’re dismissed, Majur.”

I saluted him as he went off to start assigning chores, before speaking to the quartermaster.

“Your name, Quartermaster?”

“Adam Olsson, herr Andersson.”

“Quartermaster Olsson, why are these men in such a sorry state of affairs? They hardly look like soldiers, and their rifles are as old as my father. Are you low on supply? Have the Nins stolen your weapons?”

“N-Nej, herr. We’re fresh from Kanada, this is what they gave us after our training.”

“My god man, no wonder you men don’t know how to form a line, you all seem to hardly have enough training to be considered militiamen, and these rifles could be considered antiques! The Kanadian command is worse than I thought... This won’t do at all, first chance you get send a telegram back to Mitta requesting new supply. Enough rifles to supply this battalion, a few machine guns, and plenty of ammo- and get these men to take care of their current rifles and uniforms, they’ll have to use them until our new supply arrives and we can’t have their rifles breaking or their uniforms ripping. While you’re at it, request some field caps and helmets, you’re dismissed Quartermaster Olsson.”

After that confrontation with the quartermaster, I picked up my suitcase, which seemed to formal for the front, and walked around the muddy trench to give myself a tour. Eventually, I found the officer’s quarters. It was practically empty, aside from a few sparsely decorated corners of the room which seemed to be reserved for the few Kanadian officers that were in this Battalion. I found a relatively clean bedroom branching off of the main central room of the officer’s quarters, and dropped my suitcase on my new bed. I unpacked, and put on my crisp new uniform, which I hadn’t been wearing until now. It was a grayish green, like the rest of the Andrennian uniforms, but was discernible by its relative fanciness and lack of webbing or rucksack. I put my new officer’s cap on, and stuffed my Sprekker PM-08 into it’s holster. I continued setting up my new bedroom, despite not having much to decorate with excluding a dirty, slightly ripped curtain I found on the ground of the room. I had a long road ahead of me.

---

"Nej" is no in Andrennian, and "Herr" is sir. Majur is equivalent to a Major, and Störsselüjtnaant is equivalent to a Lieutenant Colonel.

 

[Kanada]

I stood tall and firm as the new officer walked past, trying to blend in, but my height made me stick out slightly. I didn't want to be called out for anying. Eventually, he began talking with someone else, and dissapeared somewhere else in the twisting trenches.

Me and a few other men sat down on the fire step, each opening our pitiful excuse for a lunch, a small 8oz tin of fatty meat in a thin gravy, that we didn't know was supposed to be heated at first. Barely edible, I was still able to scarf it down, but not without some disagreement from my stomach. Then, next, was a hard biscut, a hardtack, that I was not able to chew into. After a few times, I threw the stonelike bread out of the trench. I decided to save my coffee, as I didn't know when the next meal would come.

So the days rolled by, and we slowly became accustomed to trench chores. Filling sandbags, cleaning weapons, carrying messages, and bailing out water. The water that would come down in the occational rain, and that the mud would refuse to absorb any more. We had no duckboards along the floor of the trench, I hope that's fixed.

One interesting 'chore' was morning hate, where we stood on the fire step and rained ammo down on the Ninhundish trenches, meanwhile shivering in our coats at the sun was just beginning to rise. The Ninhundish fired right back. Our officer warned us to not use too much ammo, or we wouldn't have any bullets for when the Ninhundish really attacked.

Supplies occationally trickled in, coming as a spare Andrennian rifle or helmet, and distributed. One Monday evening, I was given a helmet.

The very next morning, just before dawn, I was shaken awake by a sentry next to me, and I could hear other soldiers shouting. Quickly, I shot up, rifle in hand, and managed to adjust to my surrounding. A large party of Ninhundish soldiers could be seen shuffling towards our line, through the broken barbed wire and destroyed trees. Naturally, I began to fire at them, and I do believe I took down a few. But eventually, some managed to get all the way to our ditches, and we stabbed them away with bayonets.

A single young soldier, that looked nearly 14, was rushed off to wake the Storsselujtnaant and inform him of the second wave of Ninhundish soldiers beginning to rise from their ditches, out of the haze of the morning.

 

[Andrenne]

Despite it only being dawn, I had been awake for at least half an hour. On the morning of the attack I had been drinking tea and reading. There wasn’t much to do in these trenches other than that when you were an officer. Ironically, the book was about an Andrennian officer’s experience during the Second Nordic-Imperial War, during the 1820’s. If I remember the name correctly, it was called “The Freezing Nights” or something along those lines.

That’s besides the point. A young boy in a hurry busted into the officer’s quarters, but before I could scorn him for doing so he explained the situation. I quickly marked my place in the book and set my tea down, hopping to my feet to go out into the trench.

I nearly sprinted to the artillery pit, almost tripping on a sleeping man’s leg once (I then yelled at him, and I think I might’ve scared him a bit on accident). I yelled loudly at them to get their stuff together and start firing as soon as possible. If it didn’t stop their attack as a whole, it would at least have slowed them down. Next I looked for the machine guns… We only had one. A heavy Kanadian machine gun, clunky and kinda old. It wasn’t even loaded. I shouted, again, this time at the machine gunners. They quickly loaded the machine gun, though they dropped the ammo a few times. Eventually they got it right.

The standard riflemen, in this case, weren’t very well trained, as I’ve mentioned before. I had to correct a lot of their shooting positions. One man had the butt of his rifle right in front of his eye. I’m glad I found him before he hurt himself. With the men ready, there wasn’t much left to do but wait as the artillery lobbed shells at the Ninhundish. I decided to consult the Quartermaster later on to ask him to request even more machine guns. The assault itself wasn’t that large, but I didn’t think one machine gun would work in the future.

I was anxious. I had no idea how these untrained “soldiers” would do in a real battle. I feared that many would run away once the real fighting started. I didn’t want to do this, but to try and prevent desertion I made a quick statement.

“Not one inch of ground will be given to the Ninhundish! Cowards will be shot on sight! Not one inch!”

 

[Kanada]

Neither side ducked for cover. I'm guessing the Nins weren't ready for trenches either. Their soldiers looked as green as ours, and marched with backs straight over the mud and corpses of their fallen comrades. Their second wave, we shot down with rifles and kept back with bayonets. But by the next wave, we were shaken and tired. For all we knew, they had more soldiers than we had ammunition. I heard our officer yell an order of no retreat. Cowards would be shot.

The line was on the edge of collapse as we saw another group of men emerge from the opposing trenches, but soon, a machine gun was set up some bit to my left, and began firing shots all over the place, spraying down the next advancing line of soldiers. One Ninhundish soldiers got close enough for me to look him in the eyes. He looked no older than me. But he was shot down by my fellow riflemen. Artillery soared above, launching from both sides. No shells entered the trench, but on occation dirt would fall from the sky onto our caps and helmets.

On the fourth advance, we were low on rifle ammunition, and so we prepared for a charge as the machine gunners tried to reload. But this time the Ninhundish broke into the trenches, and we began to scrap in our ditches. But we still managed to hold the line, and even take a few Ninhundish prisoners, who had to be forcefully captured. Once again, I stood on the fireboard and aimed, waiting for another line of Ninhundish, but none came. The day was won, but not without our own cost. Men in our own uniforms layed dead on the ground, mixed with the bodies of the enemies.

I saw the Andrennian officer turn the corner, examining our bloodied trench line, and I stood at a shaky attention with what was left of my squad, only about ten riflemen and a corpsman.

 

[Andrenne]

The battle had been a slaughter, for both sides. Well… Technically the battle as a whole was ongoing, but this conflict amidst it was over. Blood stained the duckboards that lined the bottom of the trench, though it mixed in too well with the mud to tell. I nearly tripped on the corpse of one of my own soldiers. I stared at the broken squadron of 12 men in front of me.

“At ease… Y-You all did well.”

I cleared my throat, trying to regain my composure before speaking again. Blood stained my own uniform, as I had been forced to use my pistol at close range when the Ninhundish broke into the trench.

“There’ll be extra rations for all you tonight. We’ll break the good svaka out. But first we need to clean this up. It’s not a glamorous job, but it must be done. I’ll be doing it alongside you men. Get your shovels off of your kit.”

Later that night, about an hour after the battle at this point, I had taken half the men of the squad I found and left one of the Majors in charge of the trench. We had trekked about 5 minutes out from the trench, and began to dig a mass grave nearby. One by one, we hauled the bodies out of the trench, Ninhundish and Andrennian, and dropped them into the grave. We buried them hastily, the stench already becoming overwhelming. No one said a word, from what I remember. Though I tried forgetting this part of the night many times, so my memory around this time is a bit hazy. I brought the men back to the trench to celebrate the victory, but the tone was grim and depressing.

 

[Kanada]

I walked with the officer to dig the mass grave. It was somewhat hard, but not nearly as difficult as carrying the bodies. They smelled overwhelmingly like newly rotting flesh, and I had the constant urge to vomit. But eventually, we had cleared the trench of bodies, Kanadian and Ninhundish alike. That night we drank, ate, and 'celebrated', but nobody was in the mood. This had been our whiff of battle.

Two days later, the rest of the supplies had come for us, but we had extra, because dead men can't shoot rifles. But now, as we line up straighter and hold our rifles correctly, we look like a real army in our new helmets and coats. Some boys still need to be reminded by the officer that the helmets don't stop bullets, and they need to keep their heads below the trench line, but I feel safer and more secure in a uniform that fits snug and warm.

---

(Three weeks later, the front has stabilized and the real stalemate begins.)
We recieved two trench mortars recently, which are now fired at the Nins during morning hate. They don't shell us quite as much, but that may be because their artillery is farther north, on a more important area of the front.

I've grown to like our officer, even if he's not a Kanadian. Most of the other men respect him, too, and he gets plenty of hat tips in the morning, but they're still some stubborn few that refuse to acknowledge his authority.

We can feel that summer is going to end. The muggy and hot weather was calming down with every day, becoming more moderate.

Tomorrow is supposed to be pay day, and I'm supposed to recieve (34.1 NSD) for my service. I'm annoyed that I'm being payed monthly instead of by the day, because what I'm earning every day is (1.10 NSD), enough for a small beer and a pack of cigarettes at the store a few miles behind the trench lines.

 

[Kanada]

It's been rather quiet on the front, recently. The only exciting thing that's recently happened is that a plane flew over the trenches a bit south. It was a biplane, and had a Kanadian blue leaf painted on the side of the body. Personally, it looked like it was made out of paper and would collapse any minute, but some people seem to enjoy floating in the death machines.

Fall is definitly coming. It's becoming colder as the weeks pass, and the decks of cards and dice that men brought over are slowly getting lost or falling apart, so we've taken to sticking our spare helmets on bayonets and holding them above the trench line to see how quickly it gets shot for entertainment.

There has been rumors that a large Ninhundish barrage has begun farther north, and that a large battle is soon to come, but we know nothing of it. I doubt the the Nin's will be able to break through, though. Both sides of the front have become fortresses, and we are in an endless seige with each other. Trenches have become more defined and neat, and the occational pillbox can be seen, up in the distance.

One night two other men and I are sent out to set up more barbed wire. Dasterdly thing, it is. Thin lines with little spikes every two feet, coiled up into bundles. Hurts bad when you prick yourself on it. Both sides already have plenty of it, piled up in front of their trenches, but we just keep adding more.

The two others and I crawl out into no man's land with coils of the wire, and begin to patch any holes blown during the occational mortar barrage. After nearly an hour, we can crawl back into our relatively warm trenches, to continue our sentry watch. We've hardly seen any infantry movement from the Ninhundish, and I doubt we will for a while. It's nearly certain death to lay down in no mans land, and even worse to stand in it.

 

[Andrenne]

I only remember these days due to the occasional odd complaints I got from soldiers. One such complaint was that someone’s helmet netting was slightly out of order. I, to this day, do not know as as to why they brought something so minor to an officer like me. Regardless, not much happened. Oh, actually, we did get a tank. That was fairly major. It was called the “Lindberg Gt. 1-17”, though most of us just called it the Lindberg. The thing wasn’t actually too large though. A bit taller than the tallest man in the trench. Regardless, it was a force to be reckoned with. We hadn’t seen the Nins drive something around like this so far yet, therefore we felt pretty happy that we had something like this on our size. It was loud, too. Some men complained when the thing drove around, but I didn’t see why. The trenches were already loud, and the tank didn’t change that. I could feel an overarching sense of anxiety throughout the trench. Despite sparse movement from the Ninhundish, many people sensed an attack. This time, we were more than prepared. We had a lot more machine guns, and our supply and weapons were much more up to date than they used to be. The men in the trench were getting better and more well trained with each passing day. Whenever the Nins were ready to attack, we’d be ready to defend.

 

[Kanada]

A 'tank' was recently brought up to our battalion. It didn't look like much, I was almost as tall as it was, but it was sturdy. Squads took turns fawning over the little machine, which looked like it could hardly hold three men inside. It's loud when it moves, so I appreciate when it's shut off for the night.

We've seen a few more biplanes, some Andrennian and some Kanadian. Maybe they gave the report that quite a few Ninhundish troops were moving north. As soon as it was received in our battalion, it was spread like wildfire. What if the previous attack was just a test? What if they were just prodding our line to find where it was the weakest? What if our section was the weakest? But it drowned out soon, and the battalion returned to normal.

I'm getting to see the officer more. He's lucky to have his own quarters, we just have to dig little enclaves in the walls to keep the rain off our heads.

---

A short letter arrived to the Storsselujtnaant days later,

To Storsselujtnaant Andersson,

The Kanadian Expeditionary Force High Command orders for your battalion to be marched 18 miles north to defend against a breakthrough in the line. We have a new, unexperienced batallion to hold your spot in the line. Begin marching the dawn after this message is received. Further orders will be sent quickly.

Best of luck,
KEF General Solberg.

 

[Andrenne]

It was unexpected- This letter that is, there wasn’t another attack in the span of the last attack and the letter or anything. Another thing that was unexpected was the Kanadians using miles. I expected that they would use kilometers, like we do in Andrenne, but apparently those northeastern laahnntera[note]Andrennian Slang, "Maples", similar to "Maple Drinkers", non-derogatory.[/note] forgot how to use proper measurements. As you may have noticed, I had been writing in the past tense, but now we’ve gotten to the present, therefore I will continue writing the in the present tense. Carrying on with the genuinely important things… The letter I’ve received entails that we’re to move north. I don’t feel confident leaving this area of the line to an inexperienced battalion, especially if they have Kanadian officers. I hate to discredit the maple drinkers, but there’s a reason they called in Andrennian officers. I also wasn’t aware I’m under the command of the Kanadian High Command- That makes me feel slightly less confident, referring to my earlier point. There isn’t much I can do.

I’ll have the men woken up before dawn so they can be allowed to eat a nice breakfast before we leave our trench. In some ways, I’ll miss this trench. My officer’s quarters have seemed rather homely recently. Of course, this trench is also a hellish cesspool of dead corpses and unshowered men, so I suppose I’m also glad we’re leaving this trench. With luck, this new tank won’t cause much trouble. If it breaks down while we’re marching, we’d be vulnerable to an ambush. I’ve been trying to interact more with the men, eating my meals with them, staying out of my officer’s quarters more, so on and so forth. I’m hoping it’ll pay off.

Spoiler: Lindberg Gt. 1-17 (The model of tank the 3rd Battalion recieved.)

 

[Kanada]

We awoke slightly earlier than usual, but we still began to eat our rations. The last of this week's, actually. The sun began to rise as we finished our measly portions, and were told to exit the trench to the rear. This was strange, for the entire battalion to leave the trench at once, but we formed into column marching order, and began to move away from our trenches. Rumors began floating around.

'Other parts of the front are collapsing.' 'We are on the retreat.' 'The Ninhundish are already sieging Mitta!' These were quickly snuffed out by the officers. So talks of rumors were replaced by marching songs. We only knew so many, but we tried our best. As we walk along the roadsides, bodies from the counter-attacks on the ninhundish lay in the ditches beside the roads. Any village near the front lines is covered in shells, and the road is barely usable. It takes us two days to march to our destination.

---

First you can hear the battle. An endless drumroll of shelling into an unbelievably small area, throwing up mud and bodies. The din of the mind-numbing explosions grows louder as we continue our nonstop march through the fields.

Next, you can smell the battlefield. The smell of fresh mud, gunpowder, and rotting flesh. It overwhelms your nostrils with such a terrible feeling of death. You can hear it up and down the column, gagging and complaining.

Finally, you can see the battle. Tucked in what may have once been a peaceful little valley, covered in farmland and grass, was a miniature version of what could only be hell. There was no green, only the brown of dirt and the gray of uniform. Bodies stacked five high in front of the trenches, used as sandbags.

We pass a unit of Kanadian mountaineers, who march away from the battle, decimated. They carry their wounded, and lines of blinded men sluggishly march from the sounds of battle. Good god, if some of the best trained men in our country are destroyed here, what will become of us?

Into the meatgrinder.

We enter the trench, if it can even be called that. A muddy ditch barely giving any cover to the hail of bullets overhead. We're up to our shins in mud. Standing at a posture that would have been safe in our previous trench is suicide. We sit, backs against the slope, and try to catch our breath. Confusion takes over. Where are our officers? I can only see the piling bodies of enlisted men. Where even is the enemy? The bullets seem to come from everywhere. Nothing can be worse than this unbelievably unorganized entrance to the trench lines, desperately filling the widening gaps.

An hour later, it starts to rain. In the next month, it only stops raining for two miserable days. Sprinkles to downpours, the mud is quickly turned to sludge. A man can drown in it. If you attempt to crawl into a shell hole for cover, you may sink and become trapped by the slippery sides of the hole. Water will fill up around you. Duckboards become useless pieces of wood, sinking halfway into the slime that is the ground underneath us.

Good god, where are our officers?

 

[Andrenne]

Whatever morale we had was lost when we entered this trench. It’s been hell for everyone for the last months, and there’s only so much I can do for the men. If I could control the weather, I’d make it sunny, but unfortunately I’m not one of the old pagan gods. It’s as though God himself decided that these men should drown in rainwater and blood. I need to take a stand and try to organize something out of this chaos.

I’ve begun to order men to fix duckboards, and to actually attach them to the sides of the trenches with wood and corrugated iron so they don’t sink into the mud as easily. Next, I’ve decided to shore up our cover on top of the trench. I’ve ordered the men to stack up the sandbags higher, and in open areas give us wood and corrugated iron parapets with sandbags in front as basic cover to stop men from getting their heads blown off. I’ve also ordered the men to reinforce any of the underground areas. Finally, I’ve requested we get periscopes so that men can look out of the trenches without being shot.

I pray to god that all of this works. I’m going to give a speech to try and boost morale soon.

 

[Kanada]

It's been miserable. Non-stop rain has brought the sludge up to the very tops of our puttees in the dryest of places. We thought that all the standing water would attract endless bugs, but it seems most have been killed off by the approaching winter. The ground simply refuses to take any more water.

We've lost 8 lads of the original twenty in my troop over the last week, and just as we were finishing our first try at attaching the duckboards to the side of our trench like our officer told us too, the Ninhundish began their artillery barrage, throwing men and supplies all over. One time, as I was moving through the communication trench, I was hit by a clump of Earth right on the top of the scalp. I fell forward into the water but felt fine.

One order from the higher up told us to shoot the men stuck in the mud, putting them out of their misery. I thought that I'd never do something as horrid as that, but one time... As I was on a patrol, I could hear the quiet crying of a man over the parapet. I know I shouldn't have looked over the sandbags but I did, and saw an Andrennian man up to his stomach in mud, arm blown off, a few yards away. He was calling quietly for his mother in the semi-peaceful dusk.

Pulling men that are that far into the mud is impossible. It only sucks them down further once you release pressure. So I raised my rifle and put the man out, first looking over my shoulder to make sure nobody would see my terrible action.

The only good thing so far is that I've recently received a scope for my rifle. It looks a bit crude but works well. Sometimes I sit in the same spot for hours, scanning the enemy parapet for heads popping up.

One day in early October, the rain finally stopped. The officer comes out to give us a rousing speech. Men began claiming that our luck was turning around. Ha, maybe we'll make it out of this hell after all...

---

A four-day-old letter lays open on the wooden table in the officer's quarters. It reads:

To Storsselujtnaant Andersson,

The Kanadian Expeditionary Force High Command orders for your battalion to advance 150 meters due West into the Ninhundish trenches after the rain has stopped. If reinforcements are required, send back a request. Once in the enemy trenches, hold them until future orders arrive.

Best of luck,
KEF General Solberg.

 

[Kanada]

It happened in what felt like an instant.

The rain stopped. It simply stopped falling, and the clouds parted, and sunlight shone through. It could only warm us up so much, however, but we still drank in the sight. Men cheered half-heartedly, weak smiles on faces. Men began eating their rations and conforming to a more relaxed stature. Then the artillery began.

Far behind our line, it opened up. An opening 'boom' followed by an orchestra of hell. Shells shrieked overhead and began pounding the enemy lines, sending a massive amount of high explosive shells, and grinding up almost any enemy defences. After a hard half-hour of confused Kanadian men peeking over the trench at the sight, we were ordered to put gas masks on and get ourselves ready.

Dear god.

As the high-explosive barrage began to slow, tear gas shells were launched into their trenches, making them want to scratch at their face and rip their masks off for relief. Then they sent mustard gas, choking and burning the lungs of any man foolish enough to take off the mask.

We readied ourselves quickly, attaching bayonet to rifle. Our battalion didn't appear to be in the first wave but was one of the early ones being sent out.

Sheep to a slaughter, we had nearly no idea what was happening, other than we were expected to march over the parapet and move west. The first whistle blew, and a line of men went from a crouching position to a standing posture, marching forward at a quick pace. They found very little opposition, however, there was still a machine gun nest somewhere along enemy lines, barely holding on to life against the barrage of explosions and gas.

Another battalion went ahead of us, rushing through the holes in our barbed wire and over the moonscape of brown and gray. Our group was next, and some prayed quietly. I looked to our commanding officer, and the glinting whistle hanging from his neck, for some sort of recognition or comfort in our moment of confusion.

(OOC: Heckin Andrenne, I'll continue this anyways.)