Motive (3)
We took a trench and logged a small victory.
So of course we had to celebrate.
People dying is fine. We gained ground, after all.
A young man with most of his future still ahead of him got buried in the mud. But that's fine. We widened the border.
Cough, cough…
I hate war.
By the time the sun had fully set, the celebratory supplies arrived from company headquarters.
One bottle of liquor, a few packs of cigarettes, damp bread, and canned rations.
…Ugh.
All of it was useless to me. My body couldn't handle liquor or tobacco at all, so what remained was the nauseating bread and the cans.
How was anyone supposed to enjoy the same food they ate every single day?
Just then, someone approached and set a faintly warm cup down in front of me.
"How about this?"
"…?"
"Coffee. Coffee. I managed to set a little aside."
"Thank you, Sergeant Kern."
"Right. Rest up."
Sergeant Kern, whose Hitler mustache was his most striking feature, turned away without ceremony.
This face and this age really did help. Kindness that asked for nothing in return kept finding me. Being pretty had its uses after all.
Heh.
Praise me a little more.
Looking over the platoon, I saw that most of them didn't even have proper cups.
Everyone poured a little liquor into empty ration tins; the lucky ones had scavenged cups off enemy corpses.
"To the bastards who made it this far!"
"And if we can, let's still be alive tomorrow."
"Pfft. That's asking a bit much."
Second Lieutenant Hess and Sergeant Kern traded jokes. Forced laughter broke out here and there.
Sergeant Misty seemed to find the sight pleasing; a faint smile touched her lips.
They could still laugh right after people had died. Or maybe they were forcing the laughter precisely because people had died.
I blew on the hot coffee and took a sip.
Bitter and lukewarm. Even smelled of dirt. The quality was garbage.
An empty tin that looked like it had been set aside for Ralph rolled across the mud.
The modest funeral ended like a banquet.
That modest funeral didn't last long either.
A sentry shouted, and the curtain came down.
The men who had been laughing and talking only moments before rose as one.
"Enemy movement! Coming up from the support trench!"
Tins of liquor toppled; damp bread mixed into the mud until you couldn't tell them apart.
The empty tin that had been Ralph's share got kicked by someone's boot, rolled, and finally stopped against my boot.
"Everyone to positions!"
Second Lieutenant Hess's orders began.
"Vogel, left bend. Roth, turn that captured machine gun around. Bremer, report to company."
"Yes, sir!"
"Josefine, wounded and ammunition!"
"Understood."
"Sergeant Misty and Corporal Winterland—take the communication trench."
"Yes."
The breastworks and firing ports of the captured trench still faced the Imperial lines; the work of reversing the trench wasn't finished yet.
Toward the Union support trench there wasn't even proper cover in place.
Sergeant Vogel started hauling sandbags and ammo crates into a pile while Sergeant Kern kicked other soldiers to their feet.
The celebration was over.
Boom!
Union artillery opened up.
That strange sensation returned.
The right earthen wall.
I ducked at once and yanked Sergeant Misty's arm.
"Get down!"
Boom!
The right wall collapsed. Dirt and splinters of wood poured over the spot where we had been standing.
Sergeant Misty, pinned beneath me, looked up.
"…How did you know?"
"I don't really know myself."
"……."
Misty studied me with an odd look in her eyes.
Not that kind of look.
Something seemed to have clicked for her.
Well, maybe I'd ask later. This didn't feel like a situation where we could chat at leisure.
Da-da-dak!
The machine gun Corporal Roth had turned around spat fire, and that ended the conversation.
Union soldiers coming up the communication trench took machine-gun rounds and dropped one by one, but the men behind them kept advancing, trampling their comrades' bodies.
Moving scenery. Was this Union brotherhood?
Second Lieutenant Hess, blood streaming from his nose, sealed the mouth of the communication trench with B Magic.
Every time a bullet struck the barrier, the surface rippled; it was thinner and less stable than before.
His mana was running dry.
The shield stood maybe five meters high. What if a grown man threw a grenade with everything he had, straight up?
Whoosh.
Beyond the barrier, someone lofted a grenade over the top.
I tried to change its course before it could fall into the trench.
Held my breath. Aimed. Saw the target. Squeezed the trigger.
Bang!
The bullet clipped the grenade and spun it in midair.
That bought Second Lieutenant Hess the barest fraction of a second; he tilted the barrier upward and caught the grenade.
"Nice shot!"
"Thank you."
Click.
I ejected the casing and waited for Sergeant Misty's call.
I scanned the surroundings.
Above the communication trench, out in the open, a Union officer stood fully exposed, directing his men.
He looked ready to gather the survivors on one side and charge.
"…Range one-seventy. Cleared."
"Yes."
I pulled the trigger at once.
Bang!
The officer threw up a barrier and stopped the round.
Damn. Position compromised.
Magic belongs to everyone.
That's what a famous mage used to say, long ago.
And he was right. Magic was never the exclusive property of the Imperial Army.
Do you understand how terrible a world is when everyone can work ordinary miracles?
To kill people more efficiently, humanity reduced tens of thousands of spells down to five.
Because mana grew scarce and mages grew weaker, they say?
Is that really so?
Most magic simply went extinct. Only the efficient kinds survived.
What we used wasn't even magic, not truly.
How can you call a simple discharge of mana a spell?
I slipped past death more times than I could count.
I wanted to live. I wanted it desperately.
I didn't want to die now. I couldn't fall in a place where no one would mourn me.
If I died here, I wouldn't get the winter gift Master Sergeant Müller had promised me.
He'd said that if I survived until winter, he'd prepare a present.
I didn't know what it would be, but I had to stay alive to receive it!
If I die here, what face will he make?
That hard mask of his would crack, and he'd curse himself for having no choice but to send me to the front.
It would be a magnificent expression—but if I were dead… I wouldn't get to see it!
I hated that! Dying for a pleasure I couldn't even witness? No thank you!
So I'm going to live.
I kept shooting. One man down, two men down.
Clang.
Second Lieutenant Hess's barrier shattered.
Sergeant Kern led the riflemen in a rush to the mouth of the communication trench; Sergeant Vogel hurled grenades.
I fired again. Again and again and again.
Click, bang, click, bang.
Too loud. Shut up.
.
.
.
A little later, the gunfire stopped.
The surviving Union soldiers began falling back toward the support trench. Second Lieutenant Hess raised a hand and halted any pursuit.
Silence settled in.
The groans of the wounded and the distant thud of artillery still came at intervals, but compared to moments before it was almost quiet.
"…We held them."
"Yes. Two wins in one day."
Second Lieutenant Hess slid down with his back against the earthen wall. No one was smiling.
While they counted the dead and the injured, victory was converted into numbers.
One of the soldiers who had been drinking only a short while earlier added his name to the casualty list.
Hiss.
A call came through on the field telephone.
"Company headquarters speaking. The inspectorate has dispatched someone to your trench."
"…The inspectorate? In the middle of this mess they want to check the books?"
"Purpose is to deliver an urgent dispatch in person."
An uneasy feeling stirred.
Looking back, it's a little suspicious.
Why did you come yourself? You could have sent someone else, and it wasn't even the inspectorate's job to begin with.
Cough, cough.
Of course… you just wanted to see me, so you came in person!
Not long after, a familiar figure appeared from the direction of the communication trench.
Master Sergeant Klaus Müller.
His coat and boots were caked with mud; a sealed document was clutched in one hand.
Master Sergeant Müller's gaze flicked, just for an instant, across my face and uniform. He must have seen the blood on me, yet he said nothing.
He didn't come to see me, did he?
My mood sank a little.
The first person he spoke to was Sergeant Misty.
"Sergeant Misty Misty. Important news."
"…Yes?"
"Check the document."
Sergeant Misty tore open the envelope and began to read. The moment she saw the first line, the color drained from her face.
"That can't be…"
"It is fact."
"Impossible. Flowing Snow Mountain isn't a place an army can cross…"
"It is now. The Union's Eighth Star stopped the mountain's flow."
"……."
"One of the Union's main forces has crossed the northern range. The front has widened."
The papers slipped from Misty's hand.
"What in the world is this…"
"The Void Step Star, Lieutenant Anke Mauer, who had been fighting a delaying action alone, was wounded and forced off the line."
"……."
"That is all, Sergeant Misty."
Flowing Snow Mountain.
The Union's Eighth Star.
The Void Step Star's withdrawal from the front.
…And the war spreading wider.
I flinched.
That strange sensation wrapped around my entire body once more.
