Dawn Cannonade and the Real Man Ban
You're permanently excluded from the Real Man Club roster. I'd chatted with the survivors from the first skirmish. "Yeah, it's fine. Just go. But you think those guys will let you off easy?"
"@#$%^&*!"
"Nah, they don't know that. Think about it. How'd you get captured and come back without a scratch? You think that's possible? Without spilling a single bit of intel?"
"@#$%^&*!"
"Really? You're okay with that? Betraying your own guys? Nah, forget it. Just go. You don't have to screw over your comrades. Here, get going."
"@#$%^&*!"
"Whoa, I'm kidding. Don't cry. Stop crying. Alright. How about starting with how many friends you've got?"
Thanks to their surprising kindness, I extracted the info quick. Japanese forces: 200 strong, just the vanguard. Main force landing in a few days. Silver lining? Half of those 200—fifty guys including the rowers—were non-combatants. First fight took out an estimated 30 to 40. Optimistically, that left about 120 fighters. Four shots per man, and we could win this.
I told the troops: if you're gonna die, make sure to take four with you first—confirm it with me before you go. Half-joking. Half not.
Anyway, after the Japanese commander came and went, it wasn't just prisoner interrogations on the agenda. Chug the ramune we'd gotten as rations—cool dessert style. Stuff the empty bottles with lighthouse oil and rags for Molotovs. Shut up the yapping Na Se-hyeong. Build barricades from junk for gate breach prep. Punch the now-delirious Na Se-hyeong. Backup plans for if we got outnumbered. Feed Na Se-hyeong 'cause I might've starved him... and so on.
"Ow, fuck, I'm dying. Fuck, I'm dying."
Not even twenty yet, and here I was wailing like an old man. Dragging my exhausted body into what was now my platoon commander's office.
Torch-bearing soldiers patrolled outside the window, so the night wasn't pitch black. In the flickering light, I spotted a makeshift cot. Calling it a cot was generous—just blankets over stacked crates. But in this mess, it was luxury.
"Ah, fuck, I'm dying. For real."
I stripped off my gear, chucked my helmet on the floor, and flopped onto the cot. Insane. Totally insane. Staring at the dim ceiling, a million stray thoughts swirled. Especially Eori—she'd be heartbroken if she knew I was like this...
BOOM!
"Gah?!"
A massive explosion rocked somewhere. My eyes snapped open—I must've dozed off without realizing. The ceiling now glowed with early dawn blue, not the pre-dawn murk from seconds ago. But that wasn't the point.
THUD!
"What the—?!"
I bolted up, forgetting boots, and yelled out the window. "Hey! What the hell! What's going on?!"
DONG-DONG-DONG! Finally, some asshole rings the bell!
THUD!
No time for bitching about the late bell. I saw soldiers scrambling atop the walls and shouted again. "Hey! What is it! Attack?!"
"Platoon leader!"
A soldier crouched behind the wall spotted me and yelled back. "C-cannon fire, sir!"
Cannon fire? Here? This fortress's strength was its hilltop perch, thirty meters above the sea. Front field was uphill—tough for infantry or cavalry charges. Flanks and rear: sheer cliffs, no angle for ships to lob shells.
But... cannons? BOOM! The blasts kept coming.
I grabbed my gear, snatched the helmet off the floor, and bolted from the office. Sprinted past HQ to the walls. Peering over the rampart, it hit me.
Flashes and booms pierced the faint sea mist ahead. Shells—tiny black specks—streaked in, slamming the walls. THUD!
"F-fuck."
Our cement walls wouldn't crumble from a few iron balls. Knew that, but feeling the stone shake underfoot? Instinctive cringe.
But those bastards... where'd they get cannons? Oh. Fuck. The ships.
When the enemy approached to bait us, I'd clocked the cannons on their warships. How'd I forget? Cursing myself, I pulled binoculars and scanned ahead.
They'd really planned to smoke us out. At 250 meters: a gun position. Not just cannons—stacks of greenish cylinders like low walls. Different from ours, but definitely rice sacks.
Rice sacks stopped bullets cold, like sandbags against small arms. Our matchlocks? No problem. Even Neuller rounds out to 500 meters? Same story.
Clever fucks. So that's what they meant by "gate breached."
That position: just 250 meters—200 paces—from the fort. Normally, we'd shred them with interlocking fire before they stacked a single sack. But they did it in the pre-dawn hours. In the goddamn night.
These psychos. Strutting like real men with foot combat yesterday, now sneaking sandbags at night? You're permanently banned from the Real Man Club. Not just crossed off—X'd out, shredded to bits, you piece of shit.
BOOM!
"Platoon leader! What do we do?!"
No time to grind teeth. Shells kept pounding while I fumed. Hit the gate a few times, and it'd give.
"Grab ten top marksmen—suppress that fire as best you can! Tell 'em no coming down till they bag three hits! And the watchtower!"
The tower was wood—sandbags inside stopped arrows and balls, but against shells? Paper.
"Evac everyone from the tower!"
CRACK!
My words barely out, an ominous snap from below. Gate took a direct hit.
"Tell any squad leader you see! You handle the tower evac yourself!"
I didn't wait for a reply—down from the wall. THUD! Shells hammered as I descended. The gate: as expected, one hit. Rear bulging, splintered enough to show innards. Front? Wrecked, no doubt.
Now what? Open it? Less surface to hit. But if they charge during? Fuck, insane.
Couldn't let the gate break. Even if it did, we could shoot 'em before they arrived—but it wasn't that simple. Iron-plated wood gate did more than block: morale booster. Sturdy walls and unyielding gate? Huge comfort. Shatter it with shells? Just paranoia left—no security.
Morale tanks, fortress falls. CRUNCH! Another hit! Fuck! Insane! "Platoon leader! Here you are!"
"What now, sir?!"
"Orders, platoon leader!"
Troops and NCOs swarmed me like bees. Sting the hive, not the queen, idiots. Fuck. Real army bullshit. Fuck.
"Hey! Second Squad!"
Swallowing rage, I called an NCO. Gave him the same orders as before. He nodded and ran to the still-clanging tower.
To the mob: hug cover below walls—avoid blind shells. Then back up top.
Troops firing from loopholes as ordered. One sprawled at my table—the one where I'd sniped their officer.
"Hey! You! My spot! Snipe! Trouble!"
"Y-yes?"
"My spot! Move!"
"S-sorry!"
No handshake requests or virgin clerk notes in the chaos. I flopped onto the warmed table, sniped.
Sighted to 200 paces like yesterday, calmed pounding heart, shouldered the stock.
"Haa, fuuu...!"
Deep breaths, peered through loophole. Mist cleared from running—position crystal. Cannon crew reloading amid sacks.
Light pull. Light. Real light... BANG!
White smoke bloomed with the crack, heavy recoil thumped my shoulder. Yesterday, I'd wait for clearance to check hit. No time now.
"Hey! You! Yeah! You!"
Called the guy firing next loophole—the table squatter.
"Your gun! You fire it?"
"G-gun, sir?"
"Did you fire or not?!"
"N-no, sir!"
"Gimme it! You reload this!"
"Y-yes!"
Swapped rifles, re-aimed. This fucker! "Hey, you moron! No zeroing the sights?!"
Scoped for 400 paces, and he'd fired without even unfolding it.
But not the time. "You! Hey! You! No—why can't you fucks hear once?! Get over here!"
Yelled at a passing soldier: spread zeroing info to others.
Cursing flew as I commanded, but results? Dismal. Gate I'd guarded crumbled after a few shells. Rampart railings shattered like broken pottery. Four light wounds, some barracks hit.
Our win? Blasted one position. Probably a soldier hit ammo—details unknown.
All we knew? We were fucked.