Attrition

There was no need to pity the desperadoes of the penal battalion, but there was no sense in offending them either. Four men in total. The oldest looked to be in his forties or fifties, his beard flecked with gray, while the youngest could only be in his twenties—a stark difference in age. One thing was certain, though: all four were serious felons, the sort sentenced to at least ten years or more. The one who had asked for water was the youngest. He wore a helmet, half his face smeared with blood, his neck soaked in it as well, though it was impossible to tell where he was wounded. Sokholov handed over his canteen. The young man didn't drink directly from it; instead, he unhitched the canteen at his own waist, unscrewed the cap, and poured half of Sokholov's water into it. Gao Fei figured that if someone really wanted water, there was bound to be plenty on the corpses scattered through the trench. Handing the canteen back to Sokholov, the young man offered no reaction whatsoever—not even a word of thanks. Well, so be it. They were a bunch of scumbag convicts anyway; no point lowering yourself to their level. The atmosphere was somewhat heavy, though that was only natural. It was impossible to feel at ease around men from the penal battalion. "Got a smoke?" The oldest man suddenly spoke up, asking for a cigarette. This time, however, Sokholov shook his head. "None. Been out for days." He wouldn't have given them any even if he had some. Whether Sokholov couldn't bear to part with them or simply refused out of principle was anyone's guess. The oldest wounded soldier gave a chuckle, said nothing, shifted his position, and then said, "You guys are in for bad luck." Sokholov froze for a moment. "What?" "I said your luck's rotten. We can't break through up ahead." Sokholov's expression grew even graver. He paused in silence, then asked, "What's the situation up front?" The old scumbag stopped talking and just grinned at Sokholov. Without hesitation, Sokholov pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He took one out and handed it to the old scumbag, who accepted it and lit up, yet still said nothing. With a dark face, Sokholov handed a cigarette to each of the four men. Only then did the old scumbag speak up: "Artillery isn't doing much. The trench system ahead is thoroughly fortified. No matter how long the artillery preparation lasts, in the end someone has to go into the trenches and clear them section by section." Sokholov exhaled and muttered under his breath, "Suka blyat." The two had been conversing in Russian the whole time. Gao Fei couldn't follow what was being said toward the end, but looking at Sokholov's face, he knew things weren't good. He just didn't know what had happened. The old scumbag chuckled again. "The guys on the other side are mercenaries too. They speak English, well-equipped, tough fighters. Our casualties are near a third. You know what that means?" Sokholov's brow furrowed tightly. The old scumbag took a deep drag on his cigarette and said with a solemn air, "And the few of us are the luckiest. We're not going to die, and we don't have to take part in the rest of the fight." There was no deeper motive behind it—he was purely gloating. Sokholov understood how men like him thought. Deadpan, he said, "Yeah, your luck's decent. How many battles have you been in?" The old scumbag grinned. "This is my second tour." A second tour meant this old scumbag had either served in the penal battalion for over six months, completed his contract, and received a clean record, or he had pulled off two major combat feats to complete his contract early. Either way, the old scumbag was formidable. But considering the timeframe, it was likely the second. And the second made him all the more terrifying. Sokholov let out a breath. "Any advice?" The old scumbag licked his lips. "No advice. All I'm saying is, if we can't take the enemy's main position, you lot will have to fill the gap. That means you'll have to ditch all this extra crap you're hauling. And if the fight up front goes south, the enemy's going to push back, and you'll still have to drop your gear. Since that's the case, why not just hand it over to us right now?" With that, the old scumbag nodded and added, "I don't care to eat, but I smell vodka. Hand it over." "It's gone." Sokholov refused the old scumbag without hesitation, but he didn't treat the man's warning as idle chatter. "Sort your gear. Ditch any excess weight. Take extra hand grenades. You can cut down on ammo—keep it light enough so it doesn't hamper your movement. We're likely being thrown into the assault." Sokholov was in a foul mood and looked it. He couldn't tell for sure if the old scumbag was telling the truth, but preparing in advance was never a bad idea. An assault on fortifications had turned into a war of attrition, and a war of attrition meant deaths—lots of them. Once attrition reached a certain point, the supply of cannon fodder couldn't keep pace, and meat-grinder battles meant for cannon fodder would have to be filled by the regulars and elites. Wasting veteran troops on mass assaults that required little tactical finesse was an unavoidable grim reality. Hearing Sokholov's orders, Gao Fei hesitated. Two rifles, but he could only carry one. It was broad daylight now, so the rifle equipped with the thermal optic was useless. The only solution was to discard his standard-issue rifle, switch to the captured, customized AK-74, and strip off the thermal optic to stow in his pack. That was the only way to ensure he still had night-fighting capability once darkness fell. Leaving a rifle behind in the trench meant it was as good as gone. Even though rifles weren't in short supply, having to ditch his own gun left Gao Fei feeling utterly sickened and depressed. He clearly had too much ammunition as well. Dozens of jin of dead weight severely hindered his agility, and frankly, you didn't need that much ammo during an assault. In trench warfare, hand grenades were far more useful than rifles. In other words, the modest stash Gao Fei had only just managed to scrape together since arriving here had to be tossed out. Just then, Sokholov's walkie-talkie crackled. A rapid stream of Russian blared through, and Sokholov couldn't help swearing, "Fuck!" "What is it?" "We're assembling. Going into the fight by squad and platoon." Sokholov spat out the words almost one by one. Glancing at the old scumbag, he commanded, "Gear up quickly! Make it suitable for trench fighting. Throw away anything useless!" It was a pity, but survival mattered more. Right then, Glaski spoke up: "Good thing we drank all that vodka. I'll take a rifle." "Yeah, good thing we finished it off. Take the rifle then." The old scumbag waved a hand dismissively. "No, no. The enemy's body armor is top-notch—far better than ours. The 5.45 rifle doesn't pack enough punch. You'd better bring a machine gun." Sokholov and Glaski exchanged a glance, both sighing in resignation once more. Whatever had to be dropped would be dropped. The orders were down; there was truly no way around it this time. Having adjusted their loadouts, they prepared to move along the trench toward the assembly point. Just as Gao Fei and the others were about to step out, the young man who had asked for water stood up. Sokholov asked, puzzled, "What are you doing?" The young man said with a cold face, "I'm heading back to fight." Sokholov was taken aback. "Can you manage?" "I'm just heading the same way. I'm not asking for your permission. Move." The young man had no intention of bothering with Sokholov. Snatching up his rifle, he walked right to the front with an arrogant look on his face. Sokholov was somewhat annoyed, but the old scumbag chuckled from the side. "The kid's eager to earn some combat merit so he can go home sooner. Don't mess with him—he's vicious. See ya, Andrey! Good luck!"