Chapter Eleven
Deckard and Kitka took the ferry off the island, once known as "the sinking sandbar". From there, they got train tickets to the west. They would take it as far as it would go, then begin the hunt for the missing ultra-team. At the train station, Deckard had spotted a coffee stall, and went on net. Bowden had some information for them. Jones and Blut were dead. They had been found at the base of their tree. It looked liked they had died of natural causes. Jones was lying up against his tree; Blut curled up next to him, his head on Jones stomach, Jones's arm draped over him. Bowden had included a digital photo. The two looked like they were asleep.
Deckard screwed up his eyes in sorrow, his mouth a hard line. Kitka meowed for attention on the floor. He picked her up and held her. As he stared at the photo, he wondered if that was to be his fate. Jones and Blut had been altered beyond their means to stand it. Their bodies, once blunt weapons of destruction, had given out, expired. They had died together, at least. Possibly in the same instant. When his own time came, would it be like that? Or would he not hear the bullet? Would Kitka savage those around until she avenged him or merely sit and cry out until killed? Maybe she would run away, released from her duty to mankind by his death. The thought of her death was too crushing a blow to consider. Sensing these feelings in him, in her uncanny way, she rubbed the top of her head under his chin, chirruping at him. Deckard sniffed and laughed shakily, as he looked into Kitka's honest eyes. He got a hold of himself and set her on the table that held the computer.
"No more sleepless nights," Deckard mumbled to himself.
The next bit of information was at least more cheerful. Bowden had liked the gun. He had been able to trade it for some BAR parts that he'd been looking for. Huh. Deckard had not known that BAR parts were scarce, or even what they were. The Section had not contacted Bowden, but there was a posting on the Racecar site for Deckard to get in touch with them, in code of course. That was it.
"To hell with that," He murmured, as he deleted the message.
.
It was near the end of the grip of the Corps. The Section had been doing significant damage in all areas. The Corps representatives in the government were being voted out at every election. The elections had always gone on. Better to let the peasants think they have some control, the thought was. If an election every two years between the candidates of corporate choosing gives people the illusion of freedom, then let them have it. They had succeeded in disarming the American people through a campaign of safety and the villianization of firearms. They were just a couple of sessions way from abolishing the electoral process once and for all. Most Americans had no means of defending themselves against the IAG. If mass demonstrations or riots came, foreign national IAG troopers would be deployed and able to quell it quickly. The press would be hamstrung to report and therefore helpless. Nevertheless, the thought remained that an illusion of popular control was necessary for a little longer. Now that thought was coming back to haunt them.
Several new political parties had sprung from the ruins of the old. No matter how much they hated one another, they hated the corporations even more. The UN, which became the Unified World Organization, had collapsed as the League of Nations did before them. The European Union still carried on, but its decrees were more often ignored than obeyed. The United States of America altered into splintered provinces. The free states wanted nothing to do with the reformation government, which was just coming into its own. The Neo-Confed was reluctantly cooperating, on a day-by-day basis. The assignments that Deckard was sent out on were getting easier and easier.
The guards were becoming more and more slack. The ones in the beginning were fanatics, determined to throw their lives away to stop him. Their kind was gone now. The newer ones wanted to be alive at the end of a week to cash their paychecks. One, confronting him, had surrendered his firearm without invitation. The alarms and sensors arrays were getting scarce or were badly executed. Deckard could see the changes, and sensed that the days of frenzied assaults on steel fortresses in urban wildernesses were ending. He could see it coming, but he had no idea what it would mean to him.
.
On the train, where they had tickets for a first class booth, they dozed off and on in the sunlight coming through the window. The soft clacking of the wheels kept them sleepy. Deckard had bought sandwiches, tuna on rye, and some magazines. Kitka picked all the tuna off the bread, while Deckard slowly picked through magazines. Galvez had taken too much emotional effort for Deckard Blaine. Then to find out the Jones and Blut were dead, it was almost too much for him. He needed to clear his head, keep his mind on where he was, what he was doing. Otherwise, while on some sentimental reverie, someone else would clear his head with one well-aimed shot. He and Kitka slept during the entire time on the train, except for waking for small moments to eat, or go down the hall.
It was a day and a night and then the train made its last stop on the loop before going back around. The two got off at the station, a dusty wooden stand in the middle of nowhere. There was a sign outside the station. It read "Port Arthur Township"
A crumbly road ran off to the east, but no sign of anything else. Whatever had been here recently, or long ago, it was gone now. Tracking Mallos would be harder than he thought. With a sigh, he hefted his pack and the two went down the crumbly path. It had once been a heavily trod road that led to a once well-traveled highway. Maybe it was here that the Highway patrol had pulled over Mallos. The giant green signs were faded and some illegible with time. Striding along the shoulder, he waited for traffic, but it never came, so they moved over to the middle. There were chirping birds and small animals about. Gophers and squirrels jumped for cover as they approached. The early morning fog melted away in the sunlight.
Instead of getting hotter and more humid, as he expected, the temperature dropped.
Deckard was led to believe that Texas was hot all the time, all over the state. The time that he had been here before, long ago, it was searing. The weather patterns must have changed, because there was a definite chill in the air. During the late afternoon, they spotted a number of structures far off to the left of the highway. There were few trucks and cars around now, all hybrids. A semi pulled out and took the crossroads going west. They turned towards them.
"Port Arthur the port is down by the coast." The man at a gas pump told them, pointing. "You don't want to go there." He declared.
"Why not?" The gas station was small, but clean and well kept.
The man pushed his hat back on his head, and put a foot up on the curb. "There are unsavory elements by the port. Smugglers and worse."
Deckard thanked the man, took his advice on eating at the nearby diner. The lunchtime crowd was thinning out, just a few farmers and ranchers cleaning out the rest of the coffee and pie.
The waitress was right out of a pulp novel, as she served in a pink uniform, chewing gun. No one said anything about Kitka either, not telling him that she was not allowed in, nor commenting on her size. Strange. But judging from the way that the other customers were keeping their heads down, avoiding his gaze, he got the idea that they were used to strange things and wanted no part of them. He paid the bill and left.
Smugglers and worse. That seemed like just the place for Mallos. It was a little cold around here for snakes, but Goramund was no ordinary reptile. Now that there seemed to be a chance of meeting up with the pair, Deckard reviewed the MIL file. According to it, Goramund could withstand extreme temperatures. Part constrictor; he had once swallowed a whole sheep and slept for the good part of a month. They also fed him cooked meat, hay, vegetables and anything else they could think of. Goramund would eat anything. Other spliced animals had been fussy about what they would eat, and that made them impractical. Deckard smiled when he read this. It was true about Channelle. She ate anything he did, and some things he would not.
Occasionally, she would leave her own food to sample his. If he refused, sometimes, she would jump up and take it right out of his hand, or spoon, or
off his fork on the way to his mouth, purring the whole time.
There was little about Mallos' abilities. Deckard assumed that the two had faked their death and made their escape before his abilities could manifest fully. Thinking about how his own mirrored Kitka's, he tried to imagine what Mallos could do. His skin might be thick, hard to puncture. His arms and legs might be double jointed or elongated. He might have folding fangs, maybe tipped with venom. It seemed difficult to blend the characteristics together. He could understand what LesPaul meant about cold blood and warm blood. Snakes were deaf, would Goramund be deaf? Alternatively, did they try to cultivate hearing from the human counterpart? Would Mallos be deaf, as an accident of the genetic process, like his own rudimentary claws? How loud would that rattle be? Disgust at the subject ran through him as he considered it.
A thump of impact was heard in the distance. Small black clouds formed closed to the ground and were swept away by the wind. As it blew towards them, Deckard could smell gunpowder. The reports of small arms fires drifted to their ears. Deckard took a knee, shut off the MIL, and got out his scopes. Kitka went to his side. He could make out nothing. Just a large open field ahead, that looked as if it had been ravaged by an unnatural disaster. The highway, which had been declining in size, lead to the right of it. Motionless, scanning the horizon, he could still make out nothing. They were on a slight incline that might be blocking the total view. Deckard got up and advanced towards what he could recognize as the din of battle.
Unwilling to send Kitka forward in her shroud, he went slowly, the thumps of shells being fired, perhaps two kilometers away. Over the rise and off the highway, he took a knee again. They were in the field, which was overgrown, but showed signs of activity, as soon as a week before. Down in the glen, he could make out figures racing towards what looked to be a base camp dug into the earth, with trenches running to the sides and in front. What the hell? Was this a war? A civil war? Who was fighting it?
Kitka put a paw on his knee and leaned into the wind, but it had shifted towards the battlefield. Deckard decided to get a little closer. They moved on steadily, stopping every dozen meters or so to kneel and look. He had just put his pack back on when it happened.
"Up with your hands!" A tall figure in a gray uniform stood in front of him. A man, in a spiked helmet, pointed a long rifle at him with a long thin bayonet on it. Before he could consider a reaction, four other men stood up, pointing similar rifles. Kitka looked up at him, as he slowly raised his hands. They had been hidden well.
.
The men who captured him were clad in antique looking wool uniforms, with cuffs and braid on them. Their helmets were covered with canvas, with a hole to let the spike out. They had bolt-action rifles, bulky rucksacks and various bits of gear hanging off wide leather belts. The man in charge merely motioned for him to throw over his pack, so he did. Rather than going through it, he merely shouldered it, and gestured with his bayoneted rifle which way to go. The other four took up positions, two in front, facing him, and two in back. The soldier in charge led the way towards the bunker.
Deckard tried engaging them in conversation, but they did not reply, as if they hadn't heard. Kitka shrouded when they were confronted, but Deckard, seeing the odds, made no motions, so she faded back in.
She strode along beside him, meowing out her confusion. Clearly, she had been expecting a fight, and now none was forth coming. Getting the one in charge had been a certainty, but with the other four, that would have got him shot, maybe killed. The four other soldiers had stood far enough away to avoid being grabbed or hit. They had done this before, that much was obvious. Deckard had no doubt that one false move and they would shoot to kill. This was an open field, and they were holding their rifle steady and true.
The bayonets were another problem. If he had charged one, he would've been stuck, then he'd been shot by the others. Then the question of what Kitka would do in the event of his death would be answered. Nevertheless, he would still be dead or dying. Besides all that, he didn't feel like he was in imminent danger. Above all else, his curiosity was peaked. These uniforms and guns, what was that all about? No army equipped it's soldiers with wool uniforms, much less the rifles they carried, which Deckard had identified as bolt action. Was this an insurrection force, making do with what they had? No, it must be a reenactment group of some type. He had read about them in half a dozen Netwindows that he'd stumbled upon. Weekend warriors would get on their costumes and pretend to rough it for a weekend or so. Still, they looked as if they meant business and Deckard didn't think of taking them lightly.
They would take him to their commander now, and Deckard would explain his position. The commander might know something of Mallos. In all likelihood, he would be let go after proving that he was just passing through. He made a clapping noise with one hand and Kitka jumped into his arms. The squad halted at this motion, and the two in front angled their guns up at his face.
Deckard assumed an innocent look. After a moment or two, they continued. As they got closer to the fortress, they entered the opening of the trenches. They were wide enough for three people to walk abreast, and eight feet high. In some places they were reinforced with wood, it more or less went right into the small fortress. It was cramped inside, with a low ceiling, all made out of rough timbers. There were several exits, presumably off to different trenches. Men in the same gray uniforms went here or there, or sat or lay where they were, looking at him. No one wore the spiked helmets inside, but rather wool hats with a red circle on the front.
To his surprise, everyone seemed to be smoking, just right out in the open. Smoking was illegal, but people still did it. Even big shots like Haining and his crowd had to purchase a permit for it, and that was only good for a certain number of hours. If a cop saw you with a smoke, he could search you, your house, your car, and get evidence from other crimes.
Just the same, if a person smoked, he or she did it at home, or a hidden place. No more than two people smoked at the same place and time. Here, they were dangling off the lips of almost everyone he saw. Not just men either, he saw quite a few women too, all wearing the same uniform. The smell was strong of boiling cabbage, smoke, soil, and humanity. It was dim, lit by a few kerosene lamps. The two front guards left them at the front of the entrance and the soldier in charge stopped him.
"My name is Sergeant Klaus Woller of Company B. I am taking you to my Commandant, Commandant Von Garcia. It is necessary to take you in to be questioned by him. You will not be harmed or interfered with in any way if you cooperate. May I have your assurance that you will not try to attack or run?" His speech was clipped and blurred with an uncertain accent.
Blaine considered this. "I will not attack if you do not and I will not run."
The other two guards left and the Sergeant shouldered his rifle.
"Then follow me." He swept aside a thick curtain and Deckard went through. It was Headquarters and no doubt. A radio operator was at the back left, manning an ancient set up. A cot was up near the entrance on the right, next to a table with several books on it. A central beam held up a network of wood slats overhead. Several hooks embedded in the ceiling held lanterns casting a yellow glow about the place.
In the middle was desk with a canvas-backed chair in front of it. Behind it sat a short chunky man of Hispanic background with a large walrus mustache. His uniform, gray in color, was more elaborate than those Deckard seen before. The seams, pockets and cuffs were outlined in intricate silver and gold braid. His chest fairly sparkled with badges and ribbons. Around his neck, he wore a blue Teutonic cross. The Commandant was bent over a map, marking it here and there with a pencil. Also on his desk was a riding crop, a chrome helmet adorned with a large detailed brass eagle, black leather strap and tall fluted spike and a heavy German pistol. Deckard signaled Kitka to get out of sight and stay out of sight.
"Prisoner to see you, Commandant." The Sergeant snapped up a salute.
The Commandant looked up and returned the salute. The s
olider turned on his heel and exited.
"Please sit down." The Commandant rose and gestured. Deckard took a seat, sitting back, folding his hands in his lap.
"May I pour you a drink? Schnapps? Brandy?"
Deckard declined.
"Welcome to the 3rd infantry battalion. I am your new Commandant, Commandant Von Garcia. I have distinguished myself and my command in numerous campaigns against the British, French and Belgians. I know you look forward to meeting your comrades and having a distinguished term of service."
Deckard Blaine leaned forward in his chair, mouth open in surprise. He regained his composure to make his protest.
"Commandant, I'm sure your cause is just here, but I don't meant to enlist, I was on my way to Port Arthur."
Von Garcia bristled at this. "Port Arthur is under our control. Any persons caught in our territory out of uniform are subject to conscription or execution by firing squad. It is your choice." He took his seat again.
"I might add," he went on, noting Deckard's posture getting ready to spring. "I have this bunker wired with laser emitters that will go off on anyone not wearing our uniform with the press of this button." He picked up the riding crop. On the butt end was a red button. "And my troops will shoot you down if you run." Von Garcia leaned back in his chair. Behind him was an iron potbelly stove with a chrome kettle was sitting on it, steam rising out.
"So you see, I know that you look forward to a distinguished term of service." He eyed Deckard. The Commandant had been through this chat with others like him.
After a moment, he stood up again. "I realize that the war has disturbed your life, as it has everyone's." He looked sad at his own comment. "But, if you stand by your comrades, and serve your unit with honor the quicker all this will be over." Confident. Satisfied. "Senior Private, take this man to this company, and see to it that he has been outfitted and supplied by our quarter master."
Deckard's emotions ran the gamut from disbelief to anger to helplessness. He sat there flexing his hands, staring at the Commandant. Running through several scenarios in his head, they all would up with his being dead. He could get Von Garcia and the private, but the men outside, who might number into the legions, would surely bring him down. If Bowden and Murphy were here, they could do it. This sort of situation was right up their alley.
"Come on, and I'll get you squared away." The private said, standing at his elbow. Deckard got up and followed him out of the bunker. Sure enough, right outside the door, was another officer with his pistol drawn, two others flanked him with rifles.
"Here's the new recruit," The private said to the officer. "Good luck," he said to Deckard.
The officer holstered his pistol and stuck out his hand. "I'm Lt. Vesthaus, B Company,"
Deckard shook his hand.
"You will be called Hans Muller. When you get outfitted, report for duty." He went off to the left hand side trench, one of the men went with him.
"Muller, I'm Sgt Steiner, your squad leader. Come with me." He was a youngish sort, with ancient expression. His uniform was worn and mended. Turning, he went down the opposite side. Small arms fire erupted up and down the trench along with minor explosions. Deckard followed, having no idea what else to do.
The network of trenches was intricate, making several turns. Some parts were thick with machine guns and soldiers. The noise of gunfire was everywhere, with men and women rushing back and forth. Some were wounded, but he never saw any dead. He asked Steiner.
"They'll be plenty of dead tomorrow, it's Verdun day. Today, its just Watch." They plodded on. Steiner seemed to be a regular guy. There was a certain frankness in his eyes.
"Verdun day, can I ask what that is, or is that some military secret."
Steiner made a sarcastic laugh. "Nothing is a secret here, Muller." They seemed to be going away from the fighting. The trench seemed to widen and shorten. "Tomorrow, you'll get all the answers you need." They were at some type of rear camp. There were several structures of wood or canvas, or both. A hospital, a depot, a mess tent.
"You can't tell me what's going on." Steiner never looked at him or stopped.
"I can tell you tomorrow." Pointing at a short green building. "Go in and get outfitted. When you're done, get back to B Company, first squad. The troops'll point the way." He walked off, but then stopped and turned and looked at Deckard.
"Sorry to be short with you, Muller, but the only thing that new men know how to do around here is die." He resumed his course.
Deckard watched him go and then went inside. Kitka stole in after him.
He was outfitted with a gray wool uniform and identification disc. It was the only thing that looked tech. It was a hard black plastic with his name and a serial number imprinted on it. It was serrated in the middle. Putting it on, Deckard decided it was also a tracking device. When activated, the laser emitters would send out a signal. The disc picked it up and replied with it's own. Any moving target of the right size without a reply signal would be zapped. He would have to remember that when an opportunity rose to leave.
Deckard also got two hats, wool uniform shirt and pants, a pair of hobnail boots and a metal spiked helmet. Other gear he got: a k98 rifle, 60 rounds of ammunition in leather pouches, a rucksack, a short shovel, a gasmask container with gasmask, a water flask, a mess kit, haversack, a belt to put all of it on and leather braces to hold it up. The quartermaster told him to put it all on and then surrender his civilian items. All non-issue equipment or non-period equipment discovered on his person would warrant a fine and/or punishment up to and including death. After this short speech, he turned back to his paperwork.
Deckard was not really watched, so he was able to put all of his important items in the haversack. He was told that he would be given back his personal effects at the end of hostilities. The gear was impressively antique. Each item looked to be authentic.
Kitka stared around wide-eyed at everything and was jumpy. Deckard didn't blame her. The whole place smelled like burning metal and rotting canvas. With everything on, he felt like he weighed 300 pounds.
Outside once more, he stood in a line to get a helping of Haricot beans, with bits of meat in it, and a hunk of bread. He locked this up in his mess tin and headed back towards the line. Kitka climbed up and sat on his backpack, as he made his way along.
The men and women that he spoke to about Company B, 1st squad, all blinked at him, and then pointed the way. Their faces were grim and smudged, their eyes either dead or fiery. The first squad was far forward, next to a row of heavy, belt-fed machine guns that seemed to go off at random intervals. He flinched at the noise and went inside. Three other squads shared the bunker, but only six or seven people were present. They all had attitudes mirroring Steiner's when he tried to talk to them, so he gave up.
Getting a bunk that was as far away from the machineguns as possible, he began to unload his new belongings. There was a small shelf above the bunk and Deck set most of items there. He decided to keep the shovel, the ammo pouches, the bayonet and the haversack. The helmet was cool, but it didn't seem to be very effective. Deckard lay down on the cot; hands behind his head, watching the others play cards, or sleep or listen to static filled band music through what they called a "wireless." Kitka settled on his chest, kneading at his uniform. He stroked her ears and thought.
This was some kind of reenactment of a world war battle. The uniforms were drab and there seemed to be a singular lack of fanaticism, so it must be the first part. Another soldier also sat alone at the other end of the bunk. Was he new here as well? Most likely not. He seemed bored and at ease with his surroundings.
Deck got up and approached him.
"Hi," He said looking down at the fellow.
"Hey,"
"Mind if I ask a few questions? I'm the FNG around here."
The guy considered this. "What do you have to trade?"
While not exactly friendly, it seemed he was at least willing to talk for a price. What would be of use to him, though?
r /> "I've got some beans."
That brought a reaction. The man took a spoon out of his boot and stood up. Deckard went to his bunk and handed over the mess tin. The solider opened it and began to eat.
"Okay, what do you want to know?" He asked between mouthfuls.
"I assume that this is some sort of war reenactment, right."
"Boy, you don't know the half of it." Another mouthful, "This is all the work of Commandant Gerhard Von Garcia and Captain Sir Anthony Malkhart. They started this over ten years ago. It was a reenactment then, it's all real now." Chomp. Chomp. Chomp.
"Now, it's the real thing. The blood, the bullets, the fighting. All real." He was finished and handed back the mess kit. "I left you the bread, you'll need it for breakfast." Licking his spoon clean, he replaced it in his boot, and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief.
"All of these men here, either volunteered or were drafted, like you and me."
"How did you know I was drafted?" Deckard asked.
"If you'd volunteered, you'd already know what was going on." He got a pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket.
"Let's go have a smoke." He turned and left the bunker. Apparently, it didn't enter into his head that someone would turn down such an offer. Deckard followed, motioning Kitka to stay on his bunk. Outside, The man lit up his cigarette and offered one to Deckard. Deckard took it and let him light it.
"My name's Kropp."
"I'm Deckard, but also Hans Muller, so take your pick."
Kropp looked at him intently. "Another Hans Muller, The Lt. really likes that name I guess. Anyhow, these two jaybirds started this job a while back, and they got into an argument about how the battle of Verdun would go if changes were made." He blew out a plume of smoke. "They decided to put their theories to the test."
Deckard took a drag and resisted coughing.
"So tomorrow is Verdun Day."
"Ach ja. It's going to be messy. Might last a week."
"What the purpose of this?"
Kropp looked somewhat surprised. "The purpose? Historical accuracy. The honor of B Company." He took a long drag. "Who knows?" He said after a pause.
"Why do these people stay? Why do you? Surely someone could wrest the control stick away from Von Garcia." Deckard said.
"You don't understand, do you?" Kropp bit his lip and tilted his head. "We have to stay here. What else would we do? Do you know what's waiting out there for us?"
"What?"
"The unknown, Muller. Out there, we're nothing! Here, we are men. The men of company B, 1st squad. We eat, we sleep, we fight, and we die. That's what we know." Kropp's voice had a tinge of sarcasm in it.
"You don't sound convinced."
"Well, I'm different. I have more of a head on my shoulders than most of these apes. I wasn't as affected by the beam either."
"What beam? You mean N-beams."
Kropp's eyes went glassy and he paled, as he shot Deckard a look of panic. "Never you mind about that." He started to go back inside.
"Tomorrow, we go over the top, and if you get back, everyone'll warm up and you'll feel different." He said over his shoulder.
Deckard went inside as well and back to his bunk. There were a couple of soldiers, a man and a woman near it, looking at Kitka. At his approach, they cast their eyes down and went away. Kitka had stretched out on her stomach, paws out, eyes mere slits. She gave a soft cry as he sat down and moved her over.
He thought he knew what had happened around here. The N-beams that had been used during the Info war had broad spanning effects. Of course, they had come up with a cure to the effects, but no one knew what the long-term residuals would be. Deckard thought he might be witnessing those residuals now. The N-beam left a person exposed to it forever crouching in a corner, shaking with fear. They had to be sedated in order to fed intravenously. Then some of them began walking out of mental wards. A treatment had been developed. The former victims were a little nervous, but able to function. So X began developing a vaccine that was proactive. After inoculation, a solider could withstand the N-beams, with just a facial tick, but the after-effects? No one could say. No one until now. Some of these people had obviously been exposed to the beam and then cured, others might've gotten the proactive dose, some might just be crazy. Whatever the reason, everyone was going over the top tomorrow, and he had no doubt that the other side was just as real. Deckard had confidence in his abilities, but what good was skill against mad men?
.
The predawn hours, Sgt Steiner had come in and lit all the lamps yelling loudly for them all to get up. Deckard had slept like a stone. The cot had been made of wood and rope, the pallet stuffed with straw. He rose, dressed and fell out with the others. Kitka shrouded and went out with him.
"Okay, people, listen up-" Deckard looked about. There were six others in the squad besides Kropp. Three other men and three women. Their faces were hard and grim. The other squads had been spread out further down the line. The morning air was crisp and cold.
"Today, we go up and over, through No man's land and onto the Tommie's side. We take the first trench and hold it until sundown."
He looked around and buckled his helmet.
"Okay, on my signal," The machine guns were silent. The squad went along the trench line, grabbing handholds and footholds to boost themselves up. Deckard took a deep breath. He wondered if this had actually happened at Verdun.
The signal was given and men and women all went up and over with hoarse cries, firing their rifles. The machineguns went off on cue.
Deckard leapt up the side of the trench and charged in the direction of no man's land. He fired his rifle once for conformity's sake and then dropped the clumsy weapon. The air was rife with the buzz of rifle bullets.
"Kitka, go, now!" He yelled as he ran along. Kitka was most likely at the Tommy's trench already. She would be of more use there anyway. They couldn't work in tandem out here. There was no subtlety out here. This was crude and wasteful insanity. Smoke and noise of guns and screams were thick. Deckard reached the barbwire that was the border and leapt over. The others were far behind him. No man's land was pocked with holes. He could see dozen or so Tommies rushing towards him in green uniforms. Deckard pulled out his entrenching shovel, picked up his pace and was among them. Using his shovel, he smacked the first one in the face with a two handed swing, side-stepped a plunging bayonet and sent it's owner to ground with a blow to the neck. A round whistled past him and he turned to see the shooter pull back the bolt of his rifle.
Covering the distance quickly, Deckard seized the barrel and pulled it towards him, and brought his spade across. The shooter fell and tumbled over, blood spraying out. A small object landed near him, and he gave it a good kick. It soared upwards and exploded about thirty feet away. Dirt showered him, as he realized that another grenade had landed near. He felt around on himself and was unhurt. The others were now with him and hand to hand combat ensued all over the field.
A Tommy, who had just sunk a knuckle knife into the ribs on one of his comrades, turned on him. Deckard chopped him in the knife hand with his spade. The knife fell to the earth and the Tommy scrambled for his side arm. Deckard kicked him in the gut and he doubled over. A bash on the back of the head and he crumpled. The way was open. He rushed the trench and jumped into it. Surprising a couple of British soldiers, he knocked one to the ground and looked for the other one. The other one had run for it. Taking off his helmet and wiping his forehead with his sleeve, Deckard gave a low whistle. Kitka came around the corner. Dropping the helmet, he bent down and scratched the top of her head.
"What's here, girl? What's here?" He asked softly. She looked up at him and wound around his legs. The fighting was still going on up top. Deckard folded up his cuff enough to use his dart thrower and began to explore. The trench was not unlike the one he'd been in last night, except it was empty of all material and equipment. A couple of Tommies lay on the bottom of the trench with slashed throats. Kitka's doing. He turned the corne
r and encountered a Tommy Machine gun crew just setting up. He sent them each to sleep with a dart in the neck. Von Garcia must have surprised Milk-heart or whatever his name was, by attacking a non-fortified position. The men that were in this trench had climbed up to attack, but had no reinforcements.
Taking the machine gun off his tripod, he gave it the once over. He had an idea about how to operate it. If Bowden were here, he'd be able to field strip it, name the parts, and give lectures about it. Taking it along the trench with him, he came upon two other crews. They were also trying to set up one of the ungainly weapons and were easily made to surrender. Rather than take them prisoners, who he would have to watch over, he drove them off with a burst of fire at the ground. They would probably run right to their friends and bring them right back. He needed the rest of his squad to hold the trench. Where were they?
This was an idiot's business or a professional's, and he was no professional, not at this. Deckard put the machine gun over his shoulder and hefted another one and returned to where he'd come down. Kropp and one other had just jumped in. They wheeled about to attack, but saw who he was and stopped. They were panting and sweaty.
"Where are the others?" He asked Kropp. Kropp gestured with his thumb back toward no man's land.
What were they doing? He poked his head up to see his squad not far away. Steiner was waving his arm and yelling.
"REEEETREEEEAT!" He could hear.
Kropp climbed up, putting a cigarette in his mouth.
"You gotta to be kidding." He mumbled. "We almost made it!"
"Why are we retreating?" Deckard demanded. "We've got three machine guns here! If we get more men, we can hold this trench."
Kropp kept moving off towards Steiner.
"We can't hold it unless he reach the first trench in under twenty minutes with at least four men," He turned toward the solider that was with him. "Sorry, Sharon, you know what I mean."
The girl solider murmured that that was ok, but she also looked disgusted at what was happening. Cursing, Deckard dropped the guns and joined the other two. The three of them walked back to Steiner. The Tommies were gone, dead, wounded or run away, but Company B had apparently lost the morning's action.
Deckard whistled to Kitka, who scrambled up and kept pace with them.
Kropp noticed her. "Steiner's gonna be mad you brought a cat out here."
"What cat?" Deckard asked, innocently, as Kitka shrouded.