First Kill (2)
The smell of mud hit me the moment I climbed down from the truck.
Hss… haah…
I breathed out another plume of white smoke.
The truck had stopped at an outpost a short distance from the trenches.
I looked around.
Even the air here is foul.
Still, for someone like me, it was a perfectly suitable place to live.
A voice came from behind me just then.
"…Private Chloe Winterland?"
I turned my head without moving the rest of my body.
A familiar voice…
Blue hair and a pale face came into view.
Misty Misty. Her rank insignia said sergeant.
For a while she said nothing, and neither did I.
Master Sergeant Müller was still standing beside me, reading through his documents.
"I am Sergeant Misty Misty, observer. As of today I have been assigned to provide observation and mobility support for Private Chloe Winterland."
"Sergeant Misty. Chloe Winterland is currently a private first class."
"…My apologies."
Misty corrected herself at once under Master Sergeant Müller's pointed reminder.
Her voice was calm, her expression unbroken. At a glance she looked like a pretty porcelain figure put back together again.
But it showed. The performance was clumsy. You could see the glue where the pieces had been slapped back into place.
A body that had already come to need more than this would never be satisfied!
"…It's been a while."
I greeted Sergeant Misty in a cracked voice.
Master Sergeant Müller stepped up behind me and casually set a hand on my shoulder. The gesture came out of nowhere.
"From here on you'll go with Sergeant Misty."
"…And you, sir?"
"Inspectorate barracks."
Ah. So we were parting ways.
Faster than I'd expected.
"Will I see you again?"
"If necessary."
"……."
"When I have time, I'll come by to look in on you."
An answer I rather liked.
Sergeant Misty edged closer to my side and took my hand. It felt oddly like she was sparring with Master Sergeant Müller for position.
"This way. We need to check the billet and the equipment."
"Yes."
I adjusted my grip on the cane. Master Sergeant Müller took his hand from my shoulder, picked up the bag full of papers, and walked off in the opposite direction.
I stayed where I was for a moment and watched his back for a long time.
Sergeant Misty kept her silence and forgave my rudeness.
And so we finally arrived at the Western Front.
There was no snow, no mountain of ice, but something similar was everywhere. Only the color resembled human excrement.
Mud. It was everywhere. On the ground, on the boots, on the wheels, in the trenches, even on the cuffs of the soldiers' sleeves.
The smell of it hung in the air as well; after breathing it long enough, you started to feel as if there were mud inside your nose.
Earth turned over by shellfire held the rain and squelched underfoot, and the ground soon became a swamp.
"I'll show you to the billet first."
"Yes."
"After that, equipment check."
BOOM!
Artillery thundered in the distance, and a few seconds later the ground shook.
The vibration ran through my right leg in a sharp, buzzing ache. It hurt quite a bit.
If the snow mountain had been unbearable for the cold, this place was unbearable for the damp.
I was beginning to suspect that battlefields were theme parks, each region carefully designed to torment people in a different way.
If a battlefield was a theme park, then the Western Front's theme was clearly mud, shells, and explosions.
Admission was paid in lives, and re-entry was impossible. A thoroughly rational business model.
"Watch your step."
Sergeant Misty warned me kindly, and it wasn't long before I understood what she meant.
Mud clung to the soles of my boots and dropped off again with every step, and my legs complained with every one of them.
Without the cane I might have fallen within three paces.
I had no desire to become a mud creature, so I was as careful as I could manage.
"…This is the Western Front."
Watching me struggle along, Sergeant Misty tossed out that single observation.
"I see."
"It's also the main front where the Empire and the Federation have clashed the longest and the hardest."
"……."
"You'll get used to it."
Her voice was still calm. A solid mask… no. A mask pretending to be solid.
She was desperately performing hardness, but a person once shattered always kept the cracks even after the pieces were fitted back together.
I could tell the difference with perfect clarity.
"I'll show you the billet first."
"Yes."
"It's a temporary observation-team billet. You and I will be living together."
I followed after her.
We walked along a narrow wooden boardwalk between the trenches.
Earthen walls rose high on both sides, topped with sandbags and iron plating.
There were mana lamps hung here and there, but the sky was so dark you could barely feel their light.
Smoke and cloud and the dust thrown up by shellfire only made the already dim front darker still.
Soldiers' curses and laughter passed by; medics passed by.
Not long after, a stretcher went past, the face of the person on it covered with a cloth.
I felt nothing in particular.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes."
Sergeant Misty asked a useless question.
Ugh. Zero nutritional value.
She had already fallen outside the range of my interest.
No matter how hard she thrashed, she would not be getting back in.
"On the front, even a small irregularity can mean your life. If anything feels wrong, tell me."
"Yes."
"…Don't just answer."
"Understood."
I had the feeling I'd heard something similar before.
Don't overdo it. That kind of thing, wasn't it?
Why did people keep saying the same things to me? Because I kept making the same mistakes?
Hmm.
Hard to argue with that.
Anyway, the temporary observation-team billet was a half-buried tent behind the trench line.
Inside were two cots, a low desk, an equipment locker, an observation map board, and a mana device for communications.
It was a wretched place—narrow, damp, and thick with the smell of old mud.
"Here we are."
"Will you be living here as well, Sergeant?"
"Yes. Observer and sniper always need to stay close, so we'll be sharing quarters."
Still using formal speech, I noticed.
Awkward as ever.
I leaned my cane against the wall and sat on the cot to give my leg a moment's rest.
In the meantime Sergeant Misty opened the equipment locker and began checking the gear.
Sniper rifle and ammunition, camouflage netting, spotting scope, reticle plate… a few thin maps. Everything looked as if it already had an owner.
…The problem being that the owner of these things doesn't seem to be Sergeant Misty.
The way she handled the check was somehow off.
Like someone touching another person's belongings.
Hard to put into words more precisely than that.
The sniper or spotter who originally used this tent had probably been killed in action.
I'd been sent here to fill that empty seat, and Misty's circumstances were likely much the same.
"Our role on this front is simple. I identify targets and measure the range. I calculate the wind as well. We prioritize enemy observers, officers, and signalers, and I give the fire authorization. I will report impact and issue correction orders. Withdrawal decisions are also mine."
From start to finish it sounded as if she intended to do everything herself.
"…And what do I do?"
"You shoot."
Hmm.
Simple enough.
Still… I never imagined this was how I'd commit my first kill.
Sergeant Misty continued her briefing.
"Maintain your camouflage and control your breathing and the trigger properly. Engage targets according to my instructions, and we'll keep relocating to avoid exposing our position. Independent judgment is prohibited."
"Understood."
Independent judgment prohibited.
Ah. I don't like that.
"We've seen the living quarters, so next we'll check the fighting positions."
"Right now?"
"We're not going out into no-man's-land, so it should be fine. We'll inspect the prepared observation posts and sniper positions."
"So they're already set up."
"This sector is an old front. Some of the positions are older than my entire military career."
I rather liked that turn of phrase.
The fighting position was at the end of a narrow side passage branching off the forward trench.
From the outside it looked like nothing more than a collapsed section of trench, but the camouflage was remarkably well done.
Heaps of dirt, broken planks, and torn sandbags had been piled in deliberate disorder, with a small firing port hidden among them… a stranger would have walked right past it.
"The fake earth mound beside the trench connects to a camouflaged firing port, so it's almost invisible from the enemy trench."
"…'Almost' invisible."
"There is no such thing as a perfectly camouflaged position. Carve that into your mind."
"Yes."
I dropped prone in front of the firing port as I was.
Cold mud seeped into my uniform. The sensation was thoroughly unpleasant.
A frail, sickly beauty sprawled face-down in the mud made for a decent picture, but the feeling of something actually touching my own body was not to my taste.
"Keep the barrel low and tight against the shoulder. Ease the force in your right hand and take a long breath."
"Yes."
"You're still not using the scope."
"That's right."
"Understood."
I looked out through the firing port with my naked eyes.
Beyond a landscape that turned the stomach, the Federation trenches revealed themselves in a thin glimpse.
"Third iron plate from the left. Do you see it?"
"I think so."
"The interior of the enemy trench is open. The angle is narrow, but…"
"Confirmed."
"We only came to check the position, but… since it's like this, let's prepare to fire."
Just like that?
A clear view into an enemy trench wasn't common, true enough, but I hadn't even finished steeling myself yet.
"There's a soldier inside moving with a communications line."
"I can see him, faintly."
A blurred human shape came into view.
A boy who looked about my age was walking along with something in his hands.
I narrowed my eyes a little.
…He was so small.
His uniform didn't fit; the shoulders hung loose, and the sleeves had been folded back twice.
Suddenly I remembered the first time I had put on a uniform.
I folded the sleeves twice too.
I spoke briefly.
"I'll take the leg."
"…Pardon?"
"If I hit the leg, he'll scream. People will come from nearby—medics, signalers, and if we're lucky, a junior officer."
"……."
Sergeant Misty listened, then held her silence for a long time.
Mm. You're a truly good person.
And at the same time, a fragile one.
I like good people, but I dislike fragile ones.
Let me make this clear, here and now: you're out, Sergeant Misty.
All that's left for you to do is frown that pathetic little frown of yours and give the fire authorization.
Hurry up.