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[sub][color=Silver][i]Garnian Salient: Front Line, August 25th - [b]The Battle of Hill 58[/b][/i][/color][/sub]
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[color=Silver]	Once he and Paloma had concluded their quick interaction, the final group started to arrive. The line was now complete in about four rows, all tightly crammed together down the entire trench line. It was hard to even see what was going on all around them. Some familiar faces had started to lose themselves in the crowd. A rugged Sergeant walked up and down their line, pulling those like Britta up onto their feet with a large snarl. Those sitting down were forced back onto their feet and met with a cruel glare that was unmatched by no-one but the Lieutenant himself. Alexander was busy making himself useful by inspecting the line as it was. Very few were talking to one another now and it was just the case of the empty wind blowing between each and every body whilst the bootsteps of the superiors lunged around on the duckboards beneath everyone. The rain continued to trickle down, still at a somewhat heavy rate. The moist fog had cleared up only slightly, enough that they would be able to see the hill once they scaled the trench walls. Until then, all they could see were the backs of their comrades and the walls of the mud-trodden entrenchment.

	Jean's eyes drifted back down to Britta, who still stood after being forced back up into her position. She was a gunner, of course, so there was a little bit of a tight squeeze for her equipment. It was obvious that the plan of action didn't require for her to stand in the back lanes of the upcoming show. Heavy machine-gun emplacements that weren't mobile nor adaptive were to fill that role as the lighter, though arguably still sluggish, gunners were to join the huge ranks of the upcoming charge. A small ray of sunshine had drifted upon her when his eyes met her direction, only for a second however, before the fall of the precipitation fell upon her uniform once more. Jean turned back to the uniformed back before him, slightly adjusting the uncomfortable strap beneath his chin.

	To his front, a larger man, with muscle and mud still stretching across his face, stood with a shiver. It wasn't the cold getting to him, and Jean could make that out clearly, but instead the discomforting sight of fear and dread for what Jean didn't know was coming. He tilted his head, eyeballing him with some confusion. The man had a private's insignia etched into his uniform though appeared to have been present on the frontlines for a lot longer, especially with the dirt claiming its home upon his tainted brow. A few tears had already been on his once blood-stained uniform as he shifted on the spot, the duckboards beneath creaking as he did so. His rifle was slightly troubled with an audible shudder amongst it. Some of the mechanisms on the inside could be heard with their metallic shake, keeping in constant syncopation with his own tremor. His eyes were devoid of all colour, that in which he could no longer see the brightness of the world. A sudden ecstasy of pain came from his condensation and each breath was lined with another barrage of whispers that were quite disdaining to hear. Jean held his hand out, in hesitation, before tapping the shoulder of the soldier. He slowly drew his head into Jean's direction, fully showing the true experience he'd been through. He was definitely older than him, by about 10 years perhaps, but that didn't stop Jean from trying to reach out for him in compassion for his rank.[/color]

[color=Aqua][b]"Private, are you...Okay? I can imagine the wait is the worst part, but I'm sure we'll all get through without a scratch upon our sleeves."[/b][/color] [color=Silver]His eyes were strained when the man finally began to speak in his shrivelled whisper, one that continued to shudder and stutter as much as the muscles within his uniform did. Before him was a broken heart and mind being left to the war's bidding, one that was a common piece for the soldiers of experience. Jean just didn't know how damaging the war could be, especially with all the romanticism through media, poetry and news outlets back in the homelands.[/color]

[color=Orange][b]"I d-don't want to go back out there. The wait is the best part, Greenhorn. They...The fields of desolation and uncharacteristic delusion will be once more a resting place for the masses."[/b][/color] [color=Silver]He shivered in his whisper and looked as if he were about to break down into unending tears, yet he somehow held his breath back and continued his fearful twisting of Jean's expectations.[/color] [color=Orange][b]"The fall, we lads call it. Don't want none-of-that. I've stepped above trenches like these...once...twice. Too many times, more. Lad, d'not let me go out there, please? You have a higher r-rank? Use it?!"[/b][/color]

[color=Silver]	Jean was unsure of how to react, his head and face visually taken back by what he'd just experienced. The man had true fear in his colourless eyes and yet he remained where he was, like a good soldier should've. It could have been a stasis of enigmatic confusion and drastic fear or simply the mischief of a lazy trooper, but something about his choice of vocabulary and their poetic translation caused him to freeze, slowly taking his hand off of his shoulder. The soldier didn't say anything else, but instead turned back to face the front and to continue his shivering composure. He was slightly moved by his sudden outburst of whispering panic, yet he yielded in complying to any of his strange requests. The snap of a passing Sergeant called for him to be quiet, quickly making him shut up and listen out for the rest of the day. Everyone was now silent. There was no sound, not even the wind anymore. The world felt like an eerie graveyard. What a coincidence that was. Before long, a figure arose slightly elevated above the rest. His head wasn't yet poking over the trench-line but he still had enough space to see over those around him and to be visible to all of them. He broke the silence with a voice. A voice of a Lieutenant, that was.[/color]

[color=0AB100][b]"15th Atlantic Rifles, listen to the brief!"[/b][/color] [color=Silver]There was a slight difference in how he was dressed than in comparison to before. Now on his hilt sat a large sabre tucked neatly into a leathery sheathe. Upon his chest piece laid yet another socket in which the handle of his trusty sidearm poked out of. It was a very battle-ready rendition of his previous smartness and formality yet he hadn't completely lost that sense of seniority and importance. His hair waved gently in the August wind as he stood higher up, still not revealing his head to the battlelands above the trench-line. Around his neck sat the binoculars, slung around like the rifles everyone else carried.[/color] [color=0AB100][b]"It is our duty, to the Federation and to humanity itself, to do whatever it takes to end the miserable war and cripple the bastards that identify as Imperials. Their dictatorship and outdated ideologies are to be destroyed by us, by you! Over this trench lies Hill 58, the most important sector of the Garnian Salient. For days, and weeks, on end, artillery pieces atop of this hill have shelled us relentlessly and have managed to garner the range to fire into the town this Salient aims to protect. We have been tasked by our highest commanders to go forth and take this hill out of their grasp and to secure it immediately. This is a high-priority operation, thus we will be dealing with it as such."[/b][/color]

[color=Silver]	Jean felt his heart race. These were real terms for the war they were to be joining on this day. The real battles were going to begin now. Were they as romanticised and glorious as everyone said they were going to be, or was this just another facade to cover up brutality? Jean had no idea how to even think of the latter and thus stuck to the instinct that had been drilled into his mind ever since he joined the training academy and went through boot camp. He felt his heart race, though not from excitement, as the briefing took a nose dive in its glory. Now a darker side was beginning to show.[/color]

[color=0AB100][b]"Once we start the charge, you will not retreat unless ordered to."[/b][/color] [color=Silver]Eventually, he strove forward and began to part the tight crowd slightly, moving towards a singular youthful soldier, possibly only 18 years of age, who stood with a terrified look on her face. The girl, as such, was selected and handpicked for a job some might think was lucky, meaning they wouldn't have to charge. The arms shuddered as Lieutenant Middleton gave her a rifle, and stated loud enough for everyone to hear his warnings. They seemed devilish, and brutal, to lay upon this small and sweet girl, but Middleton had his way of getting what he wanted, it seemed.[/color] [color=0AB100][b]"If anyone is to come back without orders to do so, Private Lucia Farris has been personally ordered to kill anyone on sight. We do not accept cowards nor traitors in our regiment, and neither does the Federation army."[/b][/color] [color=Silver]Jean listened in shock as Middleton leaned in towards the girl, keeping his face but a nose's length from hers, and audibly muttering personal orders towards her once more.[/color] [color=0AB100][b]"If anyone who isn't an officer comes back without orders...You shoot them. Got it? You shoot them. [i]Shoot. Them. Dead[/i]."[/b][/color]

[color=Silver]	Tears were clearly dribbling down from the apparent Lucia's face as she snivelled at the cruel fate she'd been placed upon. Jean didn't dare to look back, feeling the eyes of Middleton burn into his own mind. An unsteady breath started to take his throat. Was he realising something or was this just a point he missed from the war? People always spoke about the harshness of officers, but they also stated that the harshness was what led to victory and success. Could this really be what was driving the war forward? Jean held his throat in its place and clutched his rifle harder, staring only at the timid man before him and his soaked helmet.

	Middleton didn't return to the front, but instead remained on the same levelled ground as the rest of his regiment, just at their rear. He didn't want to go at the front of course. It would be [i]improper[/i] for the most important Lieutenant of the Federation to go first into whatever was out there. Who'd be the poster-boy if he was to go?[/color]

[color=0AB100][b]"Fix...Bayonets!"[/b][/color] [color=Silver]At first, he hesitated, but soon all those with a rifle in their hands were beginning to unsheathe the blades within their webbing and to attach them onto the ends of their barrels. These bayonets didn't get in the way of the direction it could fire, nor did it ruin its line of sight, but the sharpness on its tip definitely added a minute and small amount of additional weight to its balance. Jean struggled to get it out before quickly twisting it onto the end of the barrel, his heart pounding with the knowledge that they were only seconds, if not minutes, away from the whistle. Something about Middleton's sternness and aggressive commanding tone made it even more stressful on his end. Those who held machine guns were obviously out of the question for orders like these as bayonets weren't designed for their heavier weapons. But what made Jean even more uncomfortable was that some of the more veteran individuals started to unsheathe other strange tools. Some had clubs, others planks of wood with barbed wire wrapped around tightly on one end. These were tools they'd picked up and crafted over their time spent on the frontline, and none of the [i]greenhorns[/i] like Jean were aware of such strange tools. He didn't know what they were used for, but he had a good idea.[/color] [color=0AB100][b]"Hold for the signal!"[/b][/color]

[color=Silver]	Middleton looked down at his hand, in which a small bronze stopwatch was sat ticking away. It was all part of waiting for the perfect moment. Jean could feel his heart pump and thrash his rib cage with violent worry but he remained as tall and strong as his body could manage. He was a Lance Corporal. Olivia would have been proud to see him come this far. She was the reason he was here, right now, doing one terrible thing for her name. The men and women under his command wouldn't want to see him panic, so why should he? This was his time to prove himself and make a glorious example out of what people said the war was like. For a moment, Jean thought about what the Imperials were doing. Some say they were already bombed out into oblivion from the previous day's bombardments but whether or not that was true was up for debate. It was almost impossible for them to expect this sort of plan, wasn't it? He looked around to those he'd met previously and announced in a semi-quiet tone to ensure they were discreetly ready.[/color]

[color=Aqua][b]"Just stay by me, lads and lasses. We'll get through this together, like the stories back home say."[/b][/color] [color=Silver]When the response came forward, silently to not disturb the command waiting by the nature of their watches, he closed his eyes and thought only of nothing, only of victory, the beauties of the potential friends around him, the wonders of the world and many many more delicacies. And that was when it sounded.

	In that moment, Middleton looked up from his bronze watch and quickly raised a whistle towards his mouth. He began to blow into it, screeching its high pitch loudly all the way down the trenches. The hundreds of soldiers, both men and women, who were within them could have heard it clearly, and he quickly shouted the dreaded phrase that some were scared to utter.[/color]

[color=0AB100][b]"Charge!"[/b][/color] [color=Silver]With the rain dribbling down onto them, those all around them suddenly exploded into an uproar of war-cries, everyone shouting in one long cheer to encourage them and to let everyone know of their presence. The first lines began to start ascending the large wooden ladders all over the front trench, getting closer and closer towards the top. The cheers kept on going as everyone tried to move forward towards the ladder, and that was when it happened.

	Just to the right, on the front row, the first few men and women who showed their heads and bodies above the trenches saw something hit them, sharply within the chests and heads of them. Gunfire suddenly erupted in the near-distance and those who were unlucky saw themselves drop. Directly in front of Michael was that of a young girl, just only the minimal age of enlistment, who as soon as she showed herself to the battlements above, fell down in a sporadic jolt of blood almost on top of him. Jean tried his hardest not to look as he began to ascend the ladder himself. Left and right, there were a few who were still unlucky to even leave the trench before being struck with a bullet. The balance of gunfire, automatic and singular, from before them blended almost hellishly with one another. Before long, Jean's head poked over the top and prayed that none of the bullets struck him. Life seemingly slowed down as he looked in horrific awe at the mess humanity had made before him. Trees were no longer in sight, at least ones that had life in them and weren't uprooted, and the land was scaled with nothing more than a muddy tomb. Craters dug a few metres into the ground littered the landscape whilst hundreds of bodies were already in sight. Some were new, being created by the flickers of lights at the top of the hill, whilst others seemed to have been there for days, even weeks. The smell was apparent, and Jean froze in position, standing at the top of the trench with his eyes in wide fear. Those running forward were either dropping to the floor somewhere a few metres before him or continuing to run through the mud and gore before them. It was an unnatural sight, one that seemed like it could only be out of the horror books he jokingly wrote as a child. Nothing like this was anything like he could imagine. A hand came onto his back, one of a random male soldier, forcing him to run forward.

	Jean moved in a very light jog, watching as only seconds later that same man dropped dead onto the floor, his face falling into a deep puddle located in one of the craters. Jean was scared, panicked by the sights, and began to run, hoping his friends were behind him. He began to talk to himself, almost feeling tears dribble through his eyelids.[/color]

[color=Aqua][b]"Head...head...Head right. Move J-Jean! Move!"[/b][/color]

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