“King is dead. Stop.”
August 3rd, 1927
Lieutenant Colonel Lindström stares at the concrete-gray wall in front of him as the telegram operator continued, “Hold position at all costs. Stop. Report Delivery. Stop.” The young boy looked up at the officer, “Field Marshal Alrikssen.” The operator turned back to confirm the delivery. The Lieutenant Colonel clenches a gloved fist for a moment, although his expression does not change. As the aging man walks outside, he takes his cap from the table, donning it.
Outside, it is clear that winter is fast approaching. The ground is covered in a thin layer of dusting, and men huddle near small fires. In a loose semi-circle around the cluster of small buildings and cabins, men in Royalist uniforms do their various jobs Some patrol, others dig trenches, some fill empty burlap sacks with dirt. Quite a few men are sleeping, tired from the march. To the east and south, a lake, freezing to the touch, and seemingly devoid of fish. To the north and west, empty fields of dirt, painted white by the snow. There is a line of leafless hedges in the distance, presumably to divide property.
Lindström’s men arrived here yesterday. They are tired from marching. They have seen much fighting. Many look accustomed to digging their trenches, with their experience in Andrenne. The 491 remaining men of 12th Division, B Company, hold the strategically important telegram station of Reganstad, Sundeon, and they intend to continue holding it.
Nobody speaks or moves when a man wearing a worker’s clothes looks from the hedge line, turns, and disappears.
4:59 PM, that afternoon
“Goddamn it,” a soldier mutters, after cutting his hand with the rusted handle of his spade. He brings his finger to his mouth and sucks lightly on the cut, continuing to lightly curse. Markus looks around in this moment, which he could consider as a break.
“Hey, Pilles,” another, older man next to him calls out, “Keep digging.” Markus nodded, looking south at the still water of the lake, before dropping back down into the ditch and continuing to dig.
Farther along the line, a young man lights a cigarette and brings it to his lips. He stands in front of his half-made trench, next to his shovel. His eyes catch movement at the hedges, three-hundred and fifty meters away. He stands frozen, staring out at the distance.
Was it just something he imagined? No, he definitely sees movement now. Multiple people- Dozens. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out, interrupted by a noise only comparable to a clap of thunder.
The soldier collapses backwards into the trench, gripping the red tear in his shirt. Silence is broken as peppering gunfire opens in a ring around Reganstad, and the Royalists scramble for cover, many into the houses and others into the shallow ditches, grabbing the rifles they had thrown aside or slung over their shoulders. They had no machine guns set up, so only trained rifle fire comes from both sides.
Despite the shock, neither side takes another casualty, too far away to hit accurately. A few dozen Valkyrist soldiers come out from the tree line, sprinting forward across the field, not weighed down by much gear. One by one, they fell, and not a single man made it halfway.
“Hold fire! Hold!” came the shouts down the Royalist line, and the shots died out, bringing the outpost to an anxious silence.
Fire Section Ekko, Second Platoon, B Company. Markus pictured standing, 2nd from left.
August 3rd, 1927
Lieutenant Colonel Lindström stares at the concrete-gray wall in front of him as the telegram operator continued, “Hold position at all costs. Stop. Report Delivery. Stop.” The young boy looked up at the officer, “Field Marshal Alrikssen.” The operator turned back to confirm the delivery. The Lieutenant Colonel clenches a gloved fist for a moment, although his expression does not change. As the aging man walks outside, he takes his cap from the table, donning it.
Outside, it is clear that winter is fast approaching. The ground is covered in a thin layer of dusting, and men huddle near small fires. In a loose semi-circle around the cluster of small buildings and cabins, men in Royalist uniforms do their various jobs Some patrol, others dig trenches, some fill empty burlap sacks with dirt. Quite a few men are sleeping, tired from the march. To the east and south, a lake, freezing to the touch, and seemingly devoid of fish. To the north and west, empty fields of dirt, painted white by the snow. There is a line of leafless hedges in the distance, presumably to divide property.
Lindström’s men arrived here yesterday. They are tired from marching. They have seen much fighting. Many look accustomed to digging their trenches, with their experience in Andrenne. The 491 remaining men of 12th Division, B Company, hold the strategically important telegram station of Reganstad, Sundeon, and they intend to continue holding it.
Nobody speaks or moves when a man wearing a worker’s clothes looks from the hedge line, turns, and disappears.
4:59 PM, that afternoon
“Goddamn it,” a soldier mutters, after cutting his hand with the rusted handle of his spade. He brings his finger to his mouth and sucks lightly on the cut, continuing to lightly curse. Markus looks around in this moment, which he could consider as a break.
“Hey, Pilles,” another, older man next to him calls out, “Keep digging.” Markus nodded, looking south at the still water of the lake, before dropping back down into the ditch and continuing to dig.
Farther along the line, a young man lights a cigarette and brings it to his lips. He stands in front of his half-made trench, next to his shovel. His eyes catch movement at the hedges, three-hundred and fifty meters away. He stands frozen, staring out at the distance.
Was it just something he imagined? No, he definitely sees movement now. Multiple people- Dozens. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out, interrupted by a noise only comparable to a clap of thunder.
The soldier collapses backwards into the trench, gripping the red tear in his shirt. Silence is broken as peppering gunfire opens in a ring around Reganstad, and the Royalists scramble for cover, many into the houses and others into the shallow ditches, grabbing the rifles they had thrown aside or slung over their shoulders. They had no machine guns set up, so only trained rifle fire comes from both sides.
Despite the shock, neither side takes another casualty, too far away to hit accurately. A few dozen Valkyrist soldiers come out from the tree line, sprinting forward across the field, not weighed down by much gear. One by one, they fell, and not a single man made it halfway.
“Hold fire! Hold!” came the shouts down the Royalist line, and the shots died out, bringing the outpost to an anxious silence.
Fire Section Ekko, Second Platoon, B Company. Markus pictured standing, 2nd from left.