Flying Over

Once they truly entered the battle for the trenches—especially in mobile combat—Gao Fei's true colors were laid bare. He understood next to no tactics and had zero tactical reflexes. Even though everyone was running along the trench with rifle in hand, one glance was enough to tell Gao Fei was a total novice. Tactical maneuvers were conditioned habits honed through years of relentless drills. No matter how many videos Gao Fei had watched, none of it helped now. His brain and his body simply were not operating on the same frequency. There were twelve of them, but they still operated out of habit as three four-man fireteams. Within their team, Sokholov kept his rifle raised; even with comrades ahead of him, his muzzle stayed pointed forward, ready to fire at a moment's notice. Glaski came second, carrying the machine gun. Rather than shouldering it, he had the sling looped around his neck, right hand on the pistol grip and left hand on the foregrip, the barrel naturally angling forward and to the left. Gao Fei was supposed to cover the right-front sector, so that if anyone suddenly popped up along the trench lip, he could fire in time. Yet Gao Fei could only focus on running. He had no awareness of his position, nor what he was supposed to be doing in it. Bringing up the rear, Samir took over Gao Fei's responsibilities. The moment he noticed Gao Fei glancing all about and blindly sprinting along with his rifle, Samir shifted his focus to the right-front side of the trench. Samir should have been covering their rear, but with other men behind him, that wasn't necessary. Still, as the fireteam advanced in search formation, Gao Fei was clearly the weak link. Samir noticed, but said nothing. The trench twisted ahead, marked by branches and littered with corpses. Gunfire sounded extremely close now, its direction unmistakable, so the 1st Squad leader didn't alter his course. He led his squad straight toward where the shooting was thickest. At a bend in the trench, the squad leader halted and screamed at the top of his lungs, "Ocean!" An ancient yet practical method of friend-or-foe identification: the challenge and password. Though the gunfire was dense, someone heard the squad leader's shout, and a voice rang back: "White!" God knew which staff officer had dreamed up the countersign on a whim—two simple, completely unrelated words. Shout "ocean," answer "white"; shout "white," answer "ocean." In such intense, chaotic combat, rushing out blindly was suicide. And even if the men ahead were comrades, charging in without warning was a recipe for friendly fire. With the challenge verified, the squad leader roared, "We're coming in!" "Get in here!" The squad leader ducked inside. A moment later, Gao Fei entered this section of trench engulfed in fierce fighting. This was a fully outfitted living area and firing position. A dozen meters further in, a stretch of trench was covered overhead with wooden planks, earth, and camouflage netting—useless against artillery, but enough to deflect drone-dropped munitions. Beyond that was a trench corner. Several men were hunkered there, periodically sticking their rifles out to fire down the trench. Stray rounds snapped back along the ditch, thudding into the timber revetments with sharp cracks. The formation was crammed too tightly to tell at a glance how many men there were. At least twenty corpses lay strewn about the trench. Some had been dragged aside from other spots, while others had fallen right where they fought. Both sides were represented, though enemy bodies were few and fallen comrades were many. The fighting here had been brutal. The sense of urgency instantly ratcheted to the absolute limit. The penal battalion soldiers were clustered closely together because they were preparing to launch another assault. The squad leader rushed to the front, taking up a position at the rear of the penal battalion's cluster, and shouted, "Who's in command here?" "Me!" "What's the situation?" "This is the only communication trench around, and the far end is blocked by the enemy! We either leave the trench and push across open ground, or charge down the trench itself. But we took heavy casualties just taking this spot and don't have the strength to push again! Watch out for enemy drones—they keep dropping bombs on us!" The squad leader asked, "The only communication trench? Are we about to break through their main position?" "Not even close! This is just the buffer zone outside the main position. We haven't even secured their first defensive line." The main position had multiple layers, like an onion that had to be peeled back one layer at a time. "How long is the communication trench?" "Forty meters!" "How many defenders?" "Judging by the volume of fire, about ten." The so-called buffer zone was a deliberate gap left between trench lines, anticipating that sections might fall to the enemy. In that gap, no trenches were dug; instead, the surface was densely seeded with anti-tank and anti-personnel mines. Only a few communication trenches were kept open, allowing friendly troops to reposition quickly while enabling a small force to seal them off and halt any swift enemy breakthrough. Going over the top across open ground was even more out of the question. Anyone moving in the open would be shredded by machine-gun fire, not to mention having to watch every step for mines. A forty-meter communication trench in a dead-straight line offered practically nowhere to take cover. Worse, forty meters was an awkward distance—it was impossible to lob grenades accurately into the enemy trench, and most men couldn't even throw one that far to begin with. The 1st Squad leader lowered his head in thought for a brief moment. Turning around to his men, he said, "Brothers, I'll take point. Get ready to charge with me." No grand, stirring speech. Just "charge with me." With that, he stepped toward the entrance of the sole communication trench, pausing just at the bend. The standard trench was relatively wide, yet still only permitted two men walking shoulder-to-shoulder. The communication trench was even narrower—wide enough for a single man to pass comfortably, but two men meant one having to squeeze by sideways. It was terrain that forced them into single file to march to their deaths. Standing at the entrance of the communication trench as bullets struck the dirt beside him, the squad leader gave an expressionless order: "Prep grenades." Gao Fei was positioned toward the rear, somewhere in the middle-back of the twelve-man column. Gao Fei silently unclipped a hand grenade from his chest rig and gripped it in his hand. Samir tugged Gao Fei from behind. Gao Fei looked back, and Samir gestured for him to move aside. "What is it?" "Get behind me." "No need." "You're not ready." Without another word, Samir yanked Gao Fei aside and pushed ahead of him. Everyone was prepping grenades, but no one could pull the pins yet; getting hit while advancing would leave them unable to throw an armed grenade in time. The squad leader was about to give the order when someone suddenly called out loudly, "Are you from 3rd Company? Do you know where 2nd Squad of 2nd Platoon is?" Several penal battalion soldiers exchanged glances before one replied, "We're from 3rd Company. This is 1st Platoon's position. Where is 2nd Platoon?" "2nd Platoon is off to the left." Andrey spat furiously, "Suka blyat!" He turned to leave, intent on finding his own unit. But the man who had pointed left abruptly added, "2nd Platoon is wiped out. The position your 2nd Platoon captured was retaken by the enemy." A captured position lost back to the enemy—needless to say, wiped out meant not a single survivor. Andrey froze, visibly at a loss. Gao Fei didn't understand Russian well enough to catch what they were saying; all he could see was the utter daze on Andrey's face. The 1st Squad leader waved Andrey over, pointing to a camera clipped to his chest. "Kid! If you want combat merits, follow me." Gao Fei hadn't noticed before that the squad leader had an action camera pinned to his chest—a tiny one meant for recording video. Gao Fei couldn't help asking out of curiosity, "What does that mean?" "It's easier to earn merits in a fight like this, and the squad leader can record them," Glaski answered. Looking back and seeing Gao Fei had fallen behind Samir, he added in a low voice, "Stay sharp." Regardless of whether Andrey joined, the squad leader stepped forward again, took a deep breath, and shouted, "Ready!" Hearing the command, Glaski spun around at once, raising his machine gun. Gao Fei steadied his rifle with his left hand and clutched the grenade in his right. "Ura!" The squad leader didn't shout "Charge!" or "Attack!" He just let out a sudden, roaring "Ura!" and burst forward. The squad leader charged into the communication trench. A spray of blood erupted backward. He fell on his back right at the corner of the trench. He hadn't managed to advance a single step down the ditch. A round struck his helmet, penetrating the armor and obliterating half his skull. "Ura!" Team 1's leader, Nevin, charged out. The instant the squad leader dropped, Nevin roared as he threw himself into the communication trench, hunched over and firing frantically ahead, charging while shooting. Gao Fei saw the squad leader fall and saw Team 1's leader turn and rush into the trench. He heard the gunfire and watched all four men of Team 1 plunge in. "Ura!" Sokholov bellowed as he followed. "Ura!" Then came Glaski. Samir shouted nothing at all. Gao Fei watched man after man disappear before him, plunging into that narrow trench thick with the stench of death. When it was Gao Fei's turn, he didn't yell "Ura" either. It wasn't natural to him. Gao Fei dashed into the communication trench. Five or six paces in, he had to lift his boot and step over Nevin's corpse. Two steps further, another comrade, shot through the waist, lay slumped against the trench wall—the very man who had fought him and smacked him with an entrenching shovel. There was no fear, no sorrow, no excitement, and no rage. Gao Fei's mind went completely blank. He saw everything, but none of it held meaning. He could hear sounds, yet right now, everything in his ears felt eerily quiet. Less than twenty meters in, Team 1 had lost three men. Only at this distance could grenades finally be thrown. Gao Fei hurled his grenade with all his might—and only then clearly realized he hadn't pulled the safety ring. No matter. Throwing grenades on the run wasn't his strong suit; he didn't even know how to put power into a throw while sprinting. Gao Fei raised his rifle, but Samir was weaving right ahead of him, making it impossible to aim. He could see the bobbing helmets ahead, see the lead man laying down automatic fire, and see Sokholov hurling grenade after grenade. Grenades erupted ahead: enemy frags detonated in front of their column, while Sokholov's burst inside the enemy's perimeter position. Team 1's sacrifice hadn't been in vain. Somehow, the machine gun that had been pinning down the trench with direct fire had gone silent. That was the only reason the last member of Team 1 was still alive. It was also the only reason Gao Fei was still able to keep charging forward. The lead soldier emptied his magazine and flattened himself sideways against the trench wall, allowing Sokholov to squeeze past. Sokholov didn't give way; he raised his rifle and sprinted forward while firing. Enemy in sight or not, he kept shooting without pause. The stream of bullets couldn't stop for a second—suppressive fire, and it was vital. Thirty rounds emptied in just a few seconds on full auto. Sokholov's magazine went dry. In any other situation, he would have swapped magazines on the run and resumed firing, but right now, suppression could not cease for an instant. He pressed his back to the wall, clearing the firing lane and the route forward. Glaski squeezed past Sokholov, tucking the machine gun tight against his hip, firing as he ran. Rounds ricocheted wildly, tearing into the dirt walls on both sides of the communication trench, but most streamed straight down the corridor. Now only Glaski and Samir remained ahead of Gao Fei. Gao Fei pushed past Sokholov as well. Entering the communication trench had cost them dearly: four dead in the first ten meters. Through the middle stretch, they had suppressed the enemy, and the advance went relatively smoothly—crossing thirty meters without a single casualty. Yet breaking into the position the enemy held would cost who knew how many more lives. Sokholov reloaded with incredible speed, snapping in a fresh magazine, but now he was stuck behind Gao Fei. Team 1's sole surviving soldier was a beat slower, but once he finished reloading, he wasted no time and fell in right behind Sokholov as the latter squeezed past him. They were just about to burst out of the communication trench when Glaski suddenly halted. At the exact same moment, without waiting for an order from Sokholov, grenades whizzed right over Gao Fei's head and crashed into the enemy position. A rapid barrage of explosions kicked up clouds of dust and smoke across the enemy position. The moment the blasts detonated, Glaski surged forward again. Gao Fei was terrified that Glaski would die the moment he charged in, just like the squad leader and Team 1's leader. He wanted to be out front, wanted to kill every enemy in sight with his rifle. Gao Fei wanted to fire, but two men blocked his way. Panic surged through him, but he couldn't fly over them. Glaski had reached the exit of the communication trench, but instead of charging out, he dropped flat to the ground and swung his machine gun outward, spraying broad sweeps of suppressive fire. Samir didn't rush out either. Hugging the right wall of the trench, he reached his gun around with his left hand on the trigger and laid down blind horizontal fire. All right, the Russians weren't just brainless brawlers after all; they actually had tactics. Fire even if you can't see the enemy—suppression was non-negotiable. Even without scoring hits, disrupting their aim kept their fire from being accurate. Now Gao Fei was at the front. Yet Gao Fei had no idea what to do next. He was just a military enthusiast who had only watched videos. His mind was blank. He didn't know whether to stop and toss a grenade or thrust his rifle out sideways for blind faith-based shooting. At this moment, Gao Fei could only rely on instinct. Two men blocked the path, leaving no way to just sprint out. Samir stood on the right, cutting off passage, but Glaski lay prone on the left, leaving a sliver of space above him. So Gao Fei planted a boot firmly on Glaski's backside and leaped. And Gao Fei went flying. To be precise, he jumped. But in Gao Fei's eyes, the world seemed to slow to a crawl; he felt as though he hung suspended in the air for an eternity, so he truly flew across. He flew out of the communication trench. Midair, he fired a shot. He flew into the enemy's blocking position. And kept firing.