Hells Bells

The 3rd Battle for Fort 3

July 15th, 2025. Gods Dimension. Fort 3 Siege Lines.

WYTE: Well General Hux, I could see you've been busy.

The commander looks out from the observation tower at the row upon row of trenches and artillery emplacements. The general stands over a map with another officer passed out in the corner.

HUX: Well, I have studied your ways of war that your world has conducted nearly a century ago. Since I was short on manpower and capable officers, I went with a strategy that has been tested in both our worlds.

WYTE: Those tactics made World War 1 drag on for 4 years, but against a foe that doesn't have any tanks or fortifications of their own it can be proven deadly. But hey, that way of thinking has been proven wrong countless of times, 169 and the Russo-Ukraine war proved that.

The air is filled with fumes and smells of the obliterating bombardment the fort has been sustaining. Wyte grabs a pair of field glasses near him, and ganders out at the battlefield. He scans the field, devoid of grass due to the artillery, a line of horses stand at attention along with their riders in front of the fort.

WYTE: Those bastards aren't thinking of charging your trench line, are they?

The general looks at the commander in confusion. He moves beside him, grabbing the glasses from him. Staring out at the mess in front of him gives him a grin across his face.

HUX: It appears so, my American comrade.

Hux passes the glasses back to Wyte, he moves back over to the table, lifting up a radio onto the table. He spins a lever on the side. The artillery emplacements adjust their aim. Jeeps with trailers full of ordnance, pull up behind the lines. The shells are pulled to the emplacements with sleds. The loaders slam the shells into their breaches, and stand at attention. Wyte looks out at the calvary line. The artillery commander exits the radio tent, he makes his way to an elevated position. He looks at the line with his field glasses, raising his left hand. A sense of foreboding doom falls upon the trenches. The commander slams his hand down, and the guns open fire. The line becomes obscured with smoke and fire. The rocket artillery follows next and further obscures the line. Wyte sighs, throwing the field glasses on the table. He starts reaching into his Arragonian officers jacket.

WYTE: I'm going to go get a front row view, as we know those roaches are hard to kill.

Wyte whips out his portal gun and opens a portal in the foremost trench, startling the soldiers on the other end. He walks through and closes it. Walking through the trenches gives Wyte a familiar feeling of when he was fighting the Chinese in 169. He scurries his way up a ladder onto the parapet of the trench. The smoke has cleared a little, but not enough to reveal whether the line has been broken or not. 203mm tracked howitzers open fire, letting the 105mm howitzers cooldown. Wyte pulls out a small thermal scope. He pears out again at the line, only to be flash banged by the amount of white figures coming towards him. A bark of orders startle the soldiers to their posts as the commander remains on the parapet. The artillery starts to pound closer and closer to the forward trench. Further orders cause the soldiers to level their rifles and machine guns at the line. The artillery stops firing once the line passes the halfway point. The trench line comes alive with a hail of rifle and machine gun fire. The cultist calvary breaks through the fog with their flag leading the charge. Their numbers quickly dwindle at the hail of bullets. The charge breaks down and falls into chaos with only the flagbearer keeping their charge toward the commander. Arragonian tanks drive over the trenches, forcing what little remnants there were into a suicide charge. Wyte smirks at the lead horsemen keeping on their path, he steps aside to reveal a soldier with a semi-auto anti tank rifle. The flag bearer rears their horse to escape the volley, but to no avail. The rifle tears apart the rider and horse, the flag of the once proud cult falls to the ground. The tanks continue their push further breaking their will. The ancient ones try to break around the tanks and attack the rear. This charge is broken by an unseen tank column breaking through the forest. A whistle breaks out of the sounds of battle, the trenches become an ant hill as soldiers pour from them. Wyte walks with the charge keeping a slow pace. This wave of autumn and green flecktarn, collapses the defenders once and for all. The battle still rages on as the soldiers begin assaulting the fort itself. Wyte stares at the carnage in front of him noticing many of the riders are still alive. He feels something grab his ankle, looking down he sees the flag bearer strangling his leg. The rider is missing both legs and has a hole through their chest, Wyte pulls out his sidearm to put them out of their misery. He pulls the trigger and the luger clicks, he ejects the round and tries again with the same result. A few soldiers walk up behind as he ejects the magazine. Looking closely at the rounds in the magazine causes the commander to grind his teeth.

WYTE: It's Hel 9mm not Arragonian... God dammit why can't you guys keep your millimeters the same.

He motions to a soldier with a rifle.

WYTE: Come put this bastard out of their misery. don't waste ammunition, use your bayonet it should still be sharp enough to pierce their skull.

Wyte rips his leg from the bearer's death grip. The bearer crawls forward, once again reaching for Wyte's leg. The soldier stabs through their skull with little difficulty. The crisp white uniform the bearer was wearing becomes a further dark red. Wyte takes off his helmet, whipping his brow with a mixture of sweat and dirt staining his sleeve.

WYTE: Alright, let's look for prisoners... If there are any.

( Though the plague is losing momentum and vaccines are being tested, trains and ships required for troop and supply shipments are being used to ferry medical supplies to undeveloped parts of the republic or to states which are not connected to the mainland.)