Revolution: The Battle of Fifth Ridge

The thing I remember most about the Battle of Fifth Ridge was the men. It wasn't the fighting, our unit had been engaging the rebels for a couple of days already, so it would have to be the men.

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The roar was audible even over the volley of gunfire, the sound making a few of the troopers around me take a nervous step back. I glanced at the trooper to my right, an older woman called Martine, whilst cracking open my rifle, noting her worried expression.
"What was that?"
Martine fired off a quick shot, waving away the cloud of powder-smoke, and looked at me with an eye.
"That was a man. You've never seen one fight?"
I tried to imagine my father, a jolly giant often found wandering the fields of the family farm, being in a fight but failed and shook my head.
"A Scandinavian girl I knew said she had. Called them Berserkers."
Both I and Martine looked at the woman on my left.
"Is that your warrior-maiden friend? I suppose she would know." I glanced back at Martine, questions obviously written on my face. "They have bandit problems up north. As if having a clan-based society doesn't create enough problems already."
The conversation ended when a series of whistles sounded across the line and I hastily slid a round into my rifle, sealing it up again while putting the men from my mind.

The whistles were the signal to advance and we began picking our way down from the top of Fifth Ridge. There was still the occasional shot coming from the rebels, and answering fire naturally coming from our skirmishers, but for the most part the descent was peaceful.

It was as we started walking on flat ground that the rebels really attacked, a volley of shots ripping into our number. Being in the third rank I was protected by the troopers in front but I still felt more than one bullet whizz past. A second series of whistles had us spreading out, the line stretching to let the second and third ranks participate.

I bought my rifle up, pressing the stock into my shoulder, and scanned the ground ahead of us. The bodies of a few rebels lay scattered like dolls, the rest of their visible dead slumped among the closest trees on either side of the North-East Road. That was also where their living cowered, taking undisciplined potshots at us from their presumed safety. A final lone whistle had us all halting and I tightened my grip on my rifle.
"Pick targets!" There was a deep pause and I took aim at a rebel half-concealed behind a dead tree. "Fire!"
Ninety rifles went off in three great volleys in response to the shouted command, waves of bullets scything into the rebels and the trees they were using as shelter. Dozens went down, the amount of smoke meaning I couldn't see if I'd hit my target, and I reloaded, straining to see through the thick cloud.

That was when I heard the roar again and this time as the cloud drifted away I saw the men responsible for the sound. They were clad in armour so thick our bullets simply bounced off it but their speed was incredible, crossing the gap between the tree line and us in what seemed like seconds. They wielded an axe in each hand, sunlight glinting off wickedly-sharp blades, and when they reached us the men reaped a bloody toll.

There were only twenty men, less than a third of our number, but in the moment they reached us nearly the entire first rank was cut down, torn apart by wide swings that effortlessly sliced through flesh and bone alike. The second rank fared little better, some just disappearing beneath the men's armoured boots, and then they got to those of us in the third rank.

The terrifying ease in which the men had carved into us had me frozen and I was still just standing there when I was suddenly shoved to one side. I twisted as I fell and looked up at Martine when she slowly tipped towards me, her decapitated head dropping as her center of gravity changed. I stared aghast at her head in my lap and scrambled backwards, slowly becoming aware of an increasing number of gunshots.

Rebels were leaving the comforts of the trees, bold now that our unit was shattered, and I watched an injured trooper, her left leg missing from mid-thigh, cry out in defiance as a rebel ran ahead of the others to plunge a bayonet down between her breasts. Climbing to my hands and knees, trying not to get noticed, I collected my rifle from where it'd fallen and scuttled to the nearest end of the broken line, throwing myself back onto the ground as a man appeared atop the ridge.

Even from where I lay I could see the blood splattered across his armour. The sight terrified me and I was again frozen, scarcely breathing in case he noticed me, but a trooper trying to get to her feet grabbed his attention. I knew she would die, that there was nothing I could do for her, and I cursed myself for being thankful that she'd distracted the man. Shucking off the blue overcoat that marked me as a soldier of the Queen I waited until a group of rebels, apparently more cautious than the others, walked past before I rose into a crouch.

The number of soldiers was rapidly diminishing, either slaughtered by a man or executed by one of the rebels, but again there was nothing I could do, helplessness eating away at me. My corner of the battlefield was luckily ignored though, any rebel who saw me probably assuming I was one of them, and I used the opportunity to collect all the ammunition boxes I could.

Loud cheering made me look up from tending to one of my fallen comrades and I carefully watched the rebels celebrate the victory. I stayed in my crouch as they corralled their men, calming them back into normalcy, and then they all moved off, jubilantly walking towards territories only a few hours before they were abandoning. Not one of them looked back, so confident they were in success, and I quietly vowed that they'd pay for their arrogance even as I reflected on how many times I'd done the same.