The Objective (The Gentlemen’s War)

Iron.

Sulfur.

Ash.

Chalk.

The tastes swirled in Adney Burl’s mouth. His head spun while he tried to catch his breath. Concussive waves rolled over him, bending bone and flesh with each pass. Each shell that burst around him rained dirt, metal--and sometimes gore--in a fine cloud. Burl gasped another breath of hellish air. He let himself sink into the crater he had fallen in a little more. Best to stay out of the way until I’m ready. A cutting ring drowned everything out of his ears. A rub with the finger did nothing to alleviate it.

My rifle... Where is- His hand settled on the wooden stock of the weapon next to him. He hugged the firearm and rolled onto his back. Numb fingers trembled as Burl examined it. It took Burl’s anxious hands three tries to check the breach. It never gets easier. The breach didn’t matter; the barrel was twisted off near the end. Shrapnel must have bent it in that last volley.

Burl tossed the useless rifle away with a curse. He couldn’t very well fight without a weapon. And the monitors wouldn’t take too kindly to cowardice. A corpse lay on the other side of the Burl’s little crater. It was a younger boy who ended at the waist. Burl crawled over, desperate for a change of luck.

“Sorry, lad,” Burl muttered as he grabbed the dead soldier’s weapon. A pull on the bolt revealed it to be in working order. As an afterthought, he ripped open the pouch on the boy’s rifle belt. “You hardly fired a shot.” Burl snatched two handfuls from it, refilling his own roundabout with the unused ammunition clips. He eyed a dented canteen on the corpse’s hip. Lifting it up, he struggled with the cap.

“C’mon, c’mon... Get it together.” His hand slipped, refusing to obey, but relented despite Burl’s stress. The cap gave way. Tepid water splashed across his face as he tried to drink.

“You’re a mess, lad,” came a shout from behind him. He twisted around, reaching for his rifle. It was an older man, in similar garb to him. The Snyde’s Regiment patch confirmed his friendliness. A Sergeant rank pin on his collar betrayed his age. “Careful now,” the man called over the din. Helifted up a cautionary hand to Burl’s weapon. He slid down the dirt into the crater. “I’m with you.”

Burl nodded, switching the rifle for the canteen again. He offered it. “Water?”

The sergeant accepted it from Burl. “You’ll have to speak up, lad. My ears aren’t liking the mortar fire.” He took a long swig. “We should have brought planes.”

“We aren’t getting air support?” Burl searched the sky. The veteran spoke truth; nothing but smoke and cloud hung in the air.

“Not in this one. I heard Lord Snyde spent his coin on that new lot of cavalry we started out with.”

“Lord Vernon clearly spent his on artillery,” Burl picked up his new rifle. The man capped the canteen and passed it back. Empty. Burl dropped it next to the body.

“The Vernon Corps. always prefers to stay at a distance. Lord Snyde has to relearn that every time he plays against them.” The man motioned to the edge of the crater. “All right then, on we go.”

“Where are your boys?” Burl asked as they both steadied in prone. The sergeant, squinting at the battle before them, gave a disinterested nod behind them.

“That barrage just now took most of them. We’ve been ordered to charge up to that ridge and regroup. Where’s yours?”

“I think the same as you. I got thrown here during the blasts.” Burl winced as he felt his back. I probably broke something. “I can’t find anyone else.”

“Well, follow me then. Most of the rifles should be regrouping right about there, just before that wagon.” The sergeant picked himself up and broke into a run. Burl followed suit, leaving the corpse and crater without a second thought. A few other brown-jacketed Snydes left their respective covers and joined the run. A machine gun opened up from the portion of Vernon line not hidden by the hill. Burl gave an involuntary cry as the sonic cracks of bullets sounded past him. Someone yelped behind Burl, but he didn’t stop. It wasn’t until he was behind the overturned ox cart with the sergeant that he checked. Two other Snydes met up with them; a third writhed in the mud before the road, clutching his stomach.

“Alright, lads,” the sergeant rallied. “We’re scattered all to hell. I assume most of you can’t find your leaders, so I’ll just have to do. Monitors are saying we regroup here with the rest of the rifles,” the sergeant turned to peer over the cart. “So far, so good. The objective is just on that line over there. We’ll be out by the end of the day.”

“Those pipes are going to have no problem sighting in on us out here,” protested a young private.

“Aye, that may be. It’s not our problem, though. Ours is to follow orders.”

A deep rumble came from behind the Snyde territory, prompting tired rejoicing from everyone. The field quieted as whistles grew audible in the clouds above. Some watched the faux sky expectantly. Others wisely ducked under cover. Within a second, gouges of earth were thrown up in deafening explosions. All along the Vernon line shells fell with abandon.

A heartening warcry came from the Snydes as riflemen poured from their trenches. A few monitors flew above them, scanning men at random.

“Here we go, boys,” the sergeant yelled again as more Snydes surrounded them. The four riflemen became engulfed in a river of their peers. The monitors hummed overhead through hyperson speakers: ”...the objective! New orders: Take the objective! New orders: Take the objective!”

The crisp voice giving the order cut through the chaos and settled in Burl’s inner ear. Whispers directed him. New orders: Take the objective...

Burl raised his voice with the others, screaming it hoarse. The horde of soldiers ran unorganized up the small ridge that seperated them from the Vernon line. The artillery barrage cut short just as the Snydes teached the top. A few riflemen took a knee here and there and began to fire upon the Vernon defenses. Most, however, continued to run and flail their weapons.

Automatic fire began to spit from the Vernons. Burl watched as the men in front of him fell to the ground. He tried to duck down and find cover, but someone snagged Burl’s shirt collar and hoisted him back up.

“No turning back now!” The sergeant roared in his ear. “Attack! Attack!”

“You blasted fool,” cursed Burl as he was forced back into the fray. Three battles in and I’m still not ready for this. He could see the helmets of Vernon riflemen frantically preparing behind their parapets. Rifles began barking lead at the offending Snydes. Some readied bayonets. The line of men between Burl and the Vernons thinned. He leapt over a headless Snyde and charged onwards. Another was thrown into Burl in recoil to a well-aimed shot. Burl merely threw the body aside as he and his comrades raced the last few meters to the Vernons. The warcries crescendoed into a harried scream as the two armies clashed.

Burl jumped down into the trench, wincing as his knees took the impact. Beside him landed other Snydes. To his right, a young Vernon unsteadily came at him with a knife. Burl batted away the attacker’s arm with his rifle, and followed through with a blow to the jaw. Burl couldn’t hear in the discord around him. Gun fire, explosions, screams; noises enveloped Burl as he continued to strike again and again. Eventually, his opponent ceased to struggle. Blood stained the man’s gray cloak and his face had contorted enough to fail recognition. Burl heaved a weary breath, but checked around him. Bodies had toppled over into the bottom of the trench. That blasted sergeant was in a grapple with a crazed Vernon. A Snyde crouched down near a wounded compatriot, trying to stop blood from gushing out of a gouge. A scan over the trench head revealed more Vernons running to their brothers’ aid. Burl lifted his rifle, sighted in, and spent three rounds to halt their advance. Satisfied, he bent down and rushed past the wounded Snyde. Beyond them, the sergeant continued his melee. Burl waited for the Vernon’s back and then dug his bayonet deep into the man’s back. The wriggling body fell away. The sergeant and Burl exchanged meaningless looks. Both turned away to rejoin the brawl.

“Can you help me?” Burl looked down at the voice calling to him. The Snyde rifleman rendering aid to the wounded pleaded with watering eyes. I was that lad just a month ago.

Burl joined the two. “Listen, tie it off and get back up.”

“I tried,” wailed the boy “but it’s still bleeding. I can’t s-stop it.”

“Here,” Burl took the tourniquet from the novice. “Take your rifle and be useful.” He pointed to the Vernon side of the trench. Burl tightened the tourniquet as much as he could. Dirt trickled down on the two as bullets landed in the trench wall above. He’s as good as dead now, unless this ends soon. Burl resigned from the effort. He half-heartedly tied off the ribbon. Before he could leave, the wounded man feebly grabbed Burl’s sleeve. His lips moved, but the words couldn’t travel through the chaos. Damn this ringing. The tinnitus continued to be one of a myriad of frustrations.

“Water?” Asked Burl. The man couldn’t even open his eyes. Lips moved. The head twisted from side to side. Frustrated, Burl shook off the cripple. Vernons were reaching the edge of the trench. The young Snyde at the trench wall held his bayonet up against the coming assault. He glanced back at Burl, panic boiling in his eyes.

“Turn, you fool!” Burl ran to the ledge. “Turn-” The zip of a bullet passed through the Snyde’s head. His helmet flew back. His corpse followed it into the bottom of the trench.

Burl replaced the boy. A charging Vernon angled his bayonetted rifle toward Burl. Burl ducked as the soldier met the trench, letting him fall inside.

Burl struck the man’s lower back. Just like camp. Burl grimaced as he repeated the motions his trainers had drilled into him so many times before. His opponent fell after the fourth blow. Burl retrieved his rifle and hurried a shot into the Vernon. He spun around for his next target when a horn interrupted him.

Not a war horn.

Not a truck horn or instrument.

It was the End Game. Everyone halted. Rifles in mid-aim, knives in mid-swing, men in mid-charge. Only the squirming of the wounded animated the playing field. The monitors flew around humming. “Victory for Lord Snyde! Victory for Lord Snyde! Victory for...”

Vernons and Snydes shook hands. Quiet congratulations and dirty looks were shared. Burl took a few steps towards his side. Before climbing out of the trench, he searched around. Where’s that crazy bastard so I can- Burl’s hunt for the sergeant was halted by a bearded Vernon offering a hand.

“Good game,” the Vernon tried.

“You too. Didn’t feel like we were here for five minutes.”

“You weren’t.” The Vernon pointed to the dome. Printed in the cloudscape was the declaration: Victory by Secession. The Vernon began walking down the trench. He called over his shoulder. “I guess Lord Vernon would rather nurse our wounds than hire fresh faces out of the slums.”

“Must be nice.” Burl climbed up the trench wall. It was a long, slow walk back to the locker rooms. He crossed through cratered fields. The impacts of each shell singed the wheat that had once grown there. Small brush fires meandered through what rows of crop remained. Monitors slowed their frenzy. Drones took time to scan the bodies cooling on the earth. They were carrion fleas hopping from victim to victim. Others hovered over open flame and spritzed the area with foam extinguisher. The atmosphere lulled to a graveyard hush.

Burl passed flaming wagons. Bodies scattered around them as crumbs do around a cake. The butt of his rifle drug in the dirt as he climbed over buttresses and through ravines. He reached the first field, where the corpses of an entire cavalry company rotted under the dome’s sun. Poor bastards didn’t last much longer than the very start. Vernon did his homework; Snyde is too predictable. Burl paused by the body of a short rider. The one arm still attached to the rider remained outstretched with saber in hand. The clean blade’s steel juxtaposed the body’s grime and gore. Burl kicked the sword out of the rigored hand absentmindedly and followed the other wandering souls towards the Regiment’s locker room. The double doors set within the dome’s walls invited all to exit the gates of hell.