"Holy crap. So who committed this massacre in the end — us or the Kuznetskozhyans? Damn it, this isn't useful intelligence. What I need are the bodies of working civilians. These are all aristocrats."
"But aren't they civilians too?" someone asked.
"No. If these were the bodies of working people, we'd have more leverage over them. The populace would lose faith in the other side and we could capture public sentiment. Or we could have simply rounded up some homeless people, shot them, and framed the Kuznetskozhyans as the culprits."
We returned to camp and reported what we had found at that cursed place. Contrary to our expectations, the senior commanders didn't seem very concerned — they only wanted to know how many people had died and their identities. They intended to use those bodies as pawns to manipulate Kuznetskozhyan morale.
Perhaps, in the eyes of those officers, human life was worth no more than filth. Even we, who had come from the invading nation, felt pity for the Altirustzkan civilians. I stood there, fists clenched at the disgusting callousness of it all. Just as I was about to storm forward and punch those bastards, Ilaina held me back. Besides, I had no authority to deal with them; I would only make matters worse.
Stepping out of the command tent, Mikhail ground his teeth; his displeasure was plain on his face.
"Goddamn it. How can they be so indifferent? They should be grieving or enraged, yet they act like nothing happened. It's infuriating."
Victor sighed and spoke in a bitter tone.
"In the end, Kuznetskozhyans or Altirustzkans — they're all screwed the same. The ones who suffer the most are the civilians. They kill each other for money. What a joke."
Later, our unit pulled back to the city's edge where no sentries were posted. At night we were sent to dig fortifications at the frontline, but by day, there was nothing for us to do. Pressed together, elbows locked, we spent our time waiting for nightfall.
Daylight filtered through endless cracks in this land, slanting into our individual pits. The pale northern light, the narrow slice of sky stained with mud and smoke, felt heavy with soot and factory fumes.
In that wan light, the odd garments of those in this last refuge looked odd and threadbare against the vast, hopeless poverty that produced them. But just as the steady rat-tat of rifles and the boom of artillery, the grand drama we were part of had gone on so long that no one reacted with surprise to each other's shabby outfits — the makeshift clothes everyone had invented to keep rain off above, mud below, and the implacable cold at bay.
Furs, bundles of blankets, coarse fabrics, mountain hats, wool caps, fur hats, thick scarves wrapped or slung over heads, bulky layers of utility clothing, rubberized caps, hair lacquered, rubberized, black or patched in ugly colors — all of that covered people, hiding uniforms beneath.
I sat in a corner of the trench and rebandaged the scratch on my left hand from a previous patrol. Luckily, the command had sent some first-aid supplies; otherwise I would've been done for. A pain struck me so sharp it felt as if someone were gouging my eye out. Ilaina rushed over and anxiously checked me.
"Klaus! Are you okay? What happened? You look wrecked."
"It's nothing serious, just a scratch. Don't fuss. I'll be fine."
Ilaina pinched my cheek and tugged me over to her spot.
"No. Augusta, give me the disinfectant — I need to clean him up before Klaus keels over and starts foaming at the mouth here."
Augusta teased us.
"Take care of your husband properly now, all right?"
Ilaina carefully cleaned and even stitched my wound. It stung, but seeing Ilaina's face made the pain bearable, and I kept staring at her, lost in thought.
"Is there something on my face, Klaus?" she asked, pulling me back to reality. I realized I'd been staring at her the whole time she worked. Clearing my throat, I teased:
"Your beauty, of course. Don't you know how you look?"
I noticed the flush spreading across Ilaina's cheeks; she threw a couple of candy boxes at me. Those small boxes were a rare find.
"Klaus! Since when did you start saying cheesy lines like that? Save them for your future wife."
I took the candies and grinned. Ilaina was embarrassingly easy to tease.
Captain Dimitri, for no reason I could tell, cut in: "No need — you're already Klaus's wife.""Yeah. If we ever hold a wedding, remember to invite the rest of us," someone added.
I was about to answer when suddenly thousands of explosions thundered from the battlefront. We snapped into combat readiness. It seemed the enemy had begun shelling in response to our air strikes. The air thickened with gunpowder smoke and mist; you could taste the bitterness of it on your tongue.
The gunfire shook our fort; sounds rolled and everything trembled. Our faces changed; danger was close. The enemy wouldn't launch an all-out charge like before — instead the Kuznetskozhyans would try to pin us down as long as possible. A full-scale assault plan was being put together.
Even though the world outside was aflame, no one in the squad showed fear. Those who had been to the frontline as often as we had grew numb. Only the new recruits panicked.
Victor instructed them: "The shells are 125mm. When you hear them fired, get down — they're hitting now."
But the explosions weren't reaching us clearly; they were swallowed by the distant thunder of the front.
I listened. "Tonight it's going to be a hell of a fight. Don't know if the Marleyont tanks can take those bombs."
Everyone was listening. The front was restless.
Augusta said, "The artillery's firing."
We heard the shots clearly. Those were Kuznetskozhyan batteries positioned to our right. They had opened up an hour earlier. At our sector, they usually only started at ten p.m.
"Why would they do this now?" Mikhail cried.
"Maybe their clocks are fast. Blame the corrupt officials," Ilaina sneered.
I told them, "I said it'd be a brutal fight tonight — I feel it in my bones."