TO THE GREEN FIELDS BEYOND

WAR 97, DAY 166-174, Drowned Vale --
Warfare is, in many ways, an extremely human endeavour. Conflict is not something to which we have exclusive claim, but that thing we call modern, industrial war, and all the complex subsystems is another matter. To integrate, from scrapyard to shell-burst, a singular picture of what it all drives towards; War.

The bloodletting of this war in particular has been remarkable, but in no other place has it been so static, so consistent, and so routine than in the Drowned Vale. War is said to serve an aim, to achieve some resolution, to mount some obstacles and allow a people, an idea, or an organization to triumph over another, but in this correspondent’s eyes. War no longer serves an aim.

Instead, in this place, where sunrise is muddled behind a fog of poisonous gas and gun smoke, and the night, nothing but the flashing, bursting roar of duelling artillery, the din of battle itself is aim enough. Here, where men in uniforms too stained with mud and blood to distinguish between green and blue throw themselves upon each other with every implement of death and destruction their human ingenuity can construct, war is all.

I did not understand this when I first came to the Vale. Now, I have looked into the abyss in lifeless soldier’s eyes and huddled in shell-holes as all creation seemed to fall whistling upon me. Nothing here remains but ash and I no longer know what I once believed.

Warden elements engaged in combat.

From the first week of the present conflict, the forces of Caoiva have suffered setbacks and reverses. Sometimes these have come suddenly, other times, a creeping, almost inertial in their nature, and so it behoved me, as a member of the Presscorps, to investigate one of the few stable sectors to try and understand what was different about the Vale. In most other places, Caoivan advances and counterattacks have obtained regional, temporary success, but have ultimately been beaten back. In the Sunken Vale however, I’ve noticed that Warden gains have been largely persistent, despite furious attempts by the Legionnaires facing them to reverse these predominantly early-war advances.

There were many preliminary explanations which were considered. Perhaps it was the quality of the fighting men, the venerable Dread Korps, or possibly the local superiority in numbers, or the terrain, or some failure on the part of the Legion. Unfortunately, a reporter cannot content themselves to speculate from the safety of an office about what constitutes a root cause. An approaching offensive by the Dread Korps seemed the perfect opportunity, and around the 166th day of the war, I reported on a chilly morning to the start point near Wisp’s Warning. The ground was already churned by the passage of vehicles by the dozen as the Korpsmen organized for the coming onslaught. Fieldartillery, rocket artillery, infantry support cannons, and all manner of mechanised vehicles rumbled, seemingly without end, across the humble bridge towards the preliminary start point north of Sprite’s Game.

Approximate Warden advances in Drowned Vale, Day ~166-174.

It seemed almost quaint at first, as the mass of fighting power organized itself, and then started with a horrid suddenness. Without so much as a single cry for battle or howl of excitement, the cannon fire commenced. Rushing forward, infantry forces intertwined as the opening bombardment shattered the light outer defences north of the Marshes which protected the Mesean lines from the north.

Within ten minutes, Caoivish infantry, now bolstered by an eclectic assortment of elements from other regiments, were fighting with bayonets at the ruins of the bunker core. Within five minutes more, construction equipment was already emplaced, and the artillery being rolled forward for a second, equally potent barrage to follow the attacking infantry, now advancing on the Wash proper.

There was a sense of inevitability in the air, a kind of naive optimism as with bayonet and shell, and the din of bursting infantry-cannon fire, Caoivan infantry overcame position after position. I was aware of the dire state of the war in my mind, yet as I watched the attack go in, it seemed as if they would not stop until they reached the Kalokai. I followed, carried away almost by the energy and emotion of triumph, such that I didn’t notice when the second barrage started.

I had been conversing with a Dread Korps officer, when a shell landed nearby. He remarked how comfortable they were advancing through their own barrage. I felt a tingle of paranoia and asked if he was certain that was their own guns. With a laugh, he assured me they were, and took a few steps to our right to call in a correction. I turned and was suddenly deafened. A crumpled, broken thing of blue cloth, golden epaulettes, and far too much blood sailed into my line of vision.

Colonial positions being shelled by Warden assets.

Caoivish Infantry engaging Colonial Legionnaires with rifles.

Remains of Warden troops

Seconds turned to hours as the tempo of the barrage went from isolated, single shells to a deluge. The Caoivans had reached the narrow isthmus leading to Eastmarch, intent on encircling the wash and carrying on to Umbral Wildwood. To better understand where this plan had gone horribly wrong, I consulted after the battle, through neutral correspondence, with one of the Mesean gun crews who had been on the scene.

Every time the artillery fire paused, Mesean armour and infantry rushed forward, and every time, drove the Caoivans further and further back. A shell burst behind a gun shield and wiped out the push-gun crew. For a few desperate minutes, both sides scrabbled with small arms and bayonets attempting to seize it before the barrage started again, and it was abandoned to Legionary forces in the Caoivish’s ragged retreat. Recognising the Warden forces had been badly shaken, Mesean armour punched into their flank, and in a series of desperate attacks, overran the positions so quickly won and fortified earlier. Alongside this, an unknown quantity of supplies and artillery now fell into their hands.

Three hours from operation start, Warden forces had been driven back to their start lines at Wisp’s Warning. “Eventually the 82nd Dread Korps set up some counter-battery which sighted in on us… We moved and then kept firing. Eventually, we ran out of shells but by that time we had basically routed them.” For any other people or force, this would have been a withering blow. Convinced of defeat, I retired to save my own skin, and sought rest for a few hours. It was with disbelief that I awoke to see, not only the Colonials halted, but the ground taken.

What sort of soldiers, behind those gas masks, can endure such a thing? Who can see bodies of their comrades churned by fire and shot, and a triumphant enemy overrun everything they had won with blood and suffering incalculable, and then, with a pragmatic sigh, fix bayonets, and go in again?

I no longer see humanity behind the gas masks of those defenders. I see only the void I recognised in the glassy, empty eyes of the dead, and the hungering fires of war. It is an emptiness that chills me more than the worst of our Caoivan winters. Other men, braver men, may report again on the Vale, on the subsequent reverses, on the ground taken or lost. I have seen too much already and seek only now what must come after the shelling stops.

Whoever triumphs in this drenched marsh, be it the children of Callahan, or the Legions of Maro, the colour of the flags which fly over these places no longer mean much to me. I have seen the mud, and the blood, and now I pray only… For the green fields beyond.

Written by: [PRESS] Edward Bloke

Edited by: [PRESS] Henry Stewart
Mapping by: [PRESS] Poe

Published on: 21/11/2022

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