The North PacificBoard

The warm Moisian evening air was still and silent. The sunset in the west was golden, but in the east the distant rumble of thunder could be heard over the ocean, where a violent storm had gathered.

“The wrath of God,” said a middle-aged man, nodding glumly toward the towering black clouds on the eastern horizon. He was one of the 1,600 Lapathiyan volunteers smuggled secretly out of the country in an oil tanker. Now he was gathered along with all his comrades in a trench, waiting for the Illumination to attack. With them was a larger army of government forces, all determined to hold the fascists back from the capital.

“God,” muttered a younger recruit. “Does he exist?” “I suppose we’ll all find out tomorrow when the bloody Nazis attack,” said a third. There was a general murmur of glum agreement among the Lapathiyan volunteers.

“Cheer up, brothers,” remonstrated a fourth man. “Think of what we’ll be doing a month from now. The fascists will be crushed, and we’ll be relaxing in Moisen, drinking the best vodka and meeting loose women. Then we’ll go home and live to tell our grandchildren about it all.”

“Wistful thinking,” sighed the younger recruit. “I just wish I hadn’t volunteered. This whole trip has been nothing but trouble. First sweltering in an oil tank, then sailing all the way to Yakuvony, and now cowering in this trench waiting to have our brains blown out by fanatics—“

He was interrupted by a shot. Not from the north, but from behind. It was quickly followed by several more shots and explosions, and scattered shouts in the Moisian ranks further up the trench.

“What’s happening?” said the older volunteer, fingering his beard nervously. Nobody answered. There were bright flashes of light in the trees, more sharp *bangs*, and several more shouted orders.

“They’ve come around!” shouted a Moisian officer, running the length of the trench above ground. “They’re attacking from the south! Fire, fire!” Even those Lapathiyans who knew no words in the Moisian language understood what he said. Slapping their rifles onto their shoulders, they turned to face the enemy.

“Fire, comrades, fire!” shouted the fourth man, the one who prophesied drink and women awaiting the victorious armies. He took aim and fired a shot into the scattered trees. There was a scream, and an enemy soldier fell dead. Many more soon followed.

The brave defenders were just becoming sure of triumph when the young recruit who wished he had never volunteered, was shot through the neck from behind. His head snapped back, and, emitting a weak cry, he fell forward, into a tangle of roots. The optimistic fourth man looked at him. “That didn’t come from the south,” he said softly. He turned and gasped.

Hundreds more wild-eyed fascists were charging forward from the north. This was the real attack.

“Fire, lads! Turn and fire!” shouted the man. Pulling a pin, he threw one of his two hand grenades, picking off an enemy corporal. Turning to the enemy, many men followed his example. A shower of grenades forced the Illumination forces back temporarily, with great loss.

However, caught in a crossfire, the men in the trench were also sustaining heavy losses. Due to their inferior numbers, the brave defenders were soon whittled down to only a few valiant resisters.

The older, bearded, religious man saw his optimistic comrade’s last second alive. He was shot through the head and fell groaning in agony. “God help us,” he muttered, lowering his rifle and staring in helpless shock. Suddenly, crash! His gun was knocked from his hands. He was left staring into the fierce black eyes of a young enemy soldier. “Hands up,” he barked. The man, whose name was Fyodor, nodded and raised his hands. “Please don’t kill me,” he babbled. “I have a wife and four daughters at home.” The younger man laughed. “Kill you? No, we won’t kill you, filthy commie. You’ll be needed as a hostage,” he said. He spat and made a menacing movement with his gun. Fyodor nodded, and climbed out of the trench. Turning to look back as his hands were tied behind his back, he saw that the last few soldiers had all suffered his same fate. The trench was captured, and the army of Democracy was broken.

The warm Moisian evening air was still and silent. The sunset in the west was golden, but in the east the distant rumble of thunder could be heard over the ocean, where a violent storm had gathered.

“The wrath of God,” said a middle-aged man, nodding glumly toward the towering black clouds on the eastern horizon. He was one of the 1,600 Lapathiyan volunteers smuggled secretly out of the country in an oil tanker. Now he was gathered along with all his comrades in a trench, waiting for the Illumination to attack. With them was a larger army of government forces, all determined to hold the fascists back from the capital.

“God,” muttered a younger recruit. “Does he exist?” “I suppose we’ll all find out tomorrow when the bloody Nazis attack,” said a third. There was a general murmur of glum agreement among the Lapathiyan volunteers.

“Cheer up, brothers,” remonstrated a fourth man. “Think of what we’ll be doing a month from now. The fascists will be crushed, and we’ll be relaxing in Moisen, drinking the best vodka and meeting loose women. Then we’ll go home and live to tell our grandchildren about it all.”

“Wistful thinking,” sighed the younger recruit. “I just wish I hadn’t volunteered. This whole trip has been nothing but trouble. First sweltering in an oil tank, then sailing all the way to Yakuvony, and now cowering in this trench waiting to have our brains blown out by fanatics—“

He was interrupted by a shot. Not from the north, but from behind. It was quickly followed by several more shots and explosions, and scattered shouts in the Moisian ranks further up the trench.

“What’s happening?” said the older volunteer, fingering his beard nervously. Nobody answered. There were bright flashes of light in the trees, more sharp *bangs*, and several more shouted orders.

“They’ve come around!” shouted a Moisian officer, running the length of the trench above ground. “They’re attacking from the south! Fire, fire!” Even those Lapathiyans who knew no words in the Moisian language understood what he said. Slapping their rifles onto their shoulders, they turned to face the enemy.

“Fire, comrades, fire!” shouted the fourth man, the one who prophesied drink and women awaiting the victorious armies. He took aim and fired a shot into the scattered trees. There was a scream, and an enemy soldier fell dead. Many more soon followed.

The brave defenders were just becoming sure of triumph when the young recruit who wished he had never volunteered, was shot through the neck from behind. His head snapped back, and, emitting a weak cry, he fell forward, into a tangle of roots. The optimistic fourth man looked at him. “That didn’t come from the south,” he said softly. He turned and gasped.

Hundreds more wild-eyed fascists were charging forward from the north. This was the real attack.

“Fire, lads! Turn and fire!” shouted the man. Pulling a pin, he threw one of his two hand grenades, picking off an enemy corporal. Turning to the enemy, many men followed his example. A shower of grenades forced the Illumination forces back temporarily, with great loss.

However, caught in a crossfire, the men in the trench were also sustaining heavy losses. Due to their inferior numbers, the brave defenders were soon whittled down to only a few valiant resisters.

The older, bearded, religious man saw his optimistic comrade’s last second alive. He was shot through the head and fell groaning in agony. “God help us,” he muttered, lowering his rifle and staring in helpless shock. Suddenly, crash! His gun was knocked from his hands. He was left staring into the fierce black eyes of a young enemy soldier. “Hands up,” he barked. The man, whose name was Fyodor, nodded and raised his hands. “Please don’t kill me,” he babbled. “I have a wife and four daughters at home.” The younger man laughed. “Kill you? No, we won’t kill you, filthy commie. You’ll be needed as a hostage,” he said. He spat and made a menacing movement with his gun. Fyodor nodded, and climbed out of the trench. Turning to look back as his hands were tied behind his back, he saw that the last few soldiers had all suffered his same fate. The trench was captured, and the army of Democracy was broken.