Tales from the Foxhole

Dragons

Private Damon was tired. So damn tired. For days, the Wardens have been bombarding his position with everything they had. Mortars, 120 mm guns, and even a Storm Cannon! Entire chunks of the concrete trenches and bunkers were obliterated by the bombardments. But it stopped this morning. Damon knew what this meant.

There was going to be an attack, and soon. He sat in his trench and waited. His knuckles wrapped around his rifle like it was the last lifeline he had. A soft hand squeezed his shoulder, he looked over to his friend, Private Prower. Prower nodded and gave him her signature soft smile. The kind that seemed to put anyone at ease no matter the situation.

Damon never understood how she did it.

Soft thumps could be heard in the distance. Mortars. They were shelling again. Perhaps the attack was called off or maybe they were waiting for shells. This might have been a trap to lure them out. He was about to duck into the shelter when something landed between him and Prower. A small canister. With yellow lines wrapping out it.

A green mist hissed from the nozzle.

"ASH!" Someone cried, Damon was certain it was Prower. On instinct, he reached into his mask bag and pulled out the lifesaving tool. In less than three seconds, his mask was on. He checked on Prower, she had her's on.

Hysterical coughing drew their attention. A young boy, a new recruit, had not put his mask on in time. He was surrounded by the deadly green cloud and inhaling his own demise. Everyone around him watched his body spasm for a few seconds before going still. His face was frozen in terror.

Damon mourned for only a moment, then turned his attention back to the front. Nothing. No yells for a charge. No praises of Callahan. Nothing. It was silent. Damon hated it with every fiber of his being. The green mist covered everything.

Then came little lights flashing through the gas. Little sprays of flames, like a blowtorch. Did Damon inhale some of the gas? No, if he did, he'd be just like that corpse on the floor of the trench.

Prower must have been seeing them too because she wrapped her finger around her rifle's trigger. Damon did the same.

The small lights became streams of flame that burned away the barbed wire. Damon tensed up and prepared to fire. Suddenly, his vision was filled with fire. His comrades to his left were engulfed in flames. They screamed as they tried to jump away from the fire being thrown at them. More flames gushed into the trench to his right, dousing more of his friends. Prower fired and hit something as the flames died out and a body fell onto the ground.

Wardens wielding long poles attached to pipes and a gas tank on their backs jumped on top of the trenches and poured gallons of burning liquid into the troops within, like dragons scorching the walls of a castle. He aimed at a nearby Warden and squeezed. His round connects and ends the flamethrower's life.

Then came the cries for Callahan. Then came the Wardens armed with grenades and machine guns. They rushed toward the trench with reckless abandon, pushing past their dragons and into the Colonial trench. Damon could only fire another shot before they were upon him.

With his bayonet, he impaled one as he jumped in. But he could not pull it out in time. His kill's friend jumped in after him and tackled Damon to the ground. Damon could feel his throat being squeezed until his airflow was cut off.

"Die, you greenback fucker." came the muffled growl. The Warden's back explodes as a bullet hits his spine. He drops down with only a grunt. Damon nearly drowns from the air rushing into his lungs. A familiar hand reaches down for him. Prower. An Angel on the battlefield with her soft smile.

Damon reached out for her. A dragon appeared above her; its nozzle pointed right at them. Before he could cry out, that soft smile disappeared into a cloud of fire and black smoke. Damon rolled away to avoid meeting the same fate. He rolled over a rifle and aimed at the Warden Flame Trooper. He fires and manages to hit the trooper's gas tank, igniting the flammable liquid within. The Warden cried out as his uniform and flesh burned away.

All around him, Wardens and Colonials beat each other to death with whatever they could find. Bayonets, clubs, knives, even their bare hands. The flame troopers backed away and ran to their own trenches. Damon liked to believe they simply lost their nerve rather than ran out of fuel.

To his left was a bayonet without a rifle. A perfect weapon for this situation. It sat right next to Prower's charred remains. He stared at it for a few moments. Then, he steeled himself, he would mourn later. He stood tall and jumped into the fray.