”Plus de morgue, plus d'arrogance
Fuyez barbares et laquais
C'est ici la porte de Aquila
Et vous ne passerez jamais!”
-A chorus from ‘Vilain on ne passe pas’, formerly known as ‘Ouestgarde on ne passe pas’, a popular Aquileian marching song written after Aquileian secession from the Empire in 972

July 8th, 1012
18th Régiment d’infanterie, 37ème Division d'infanterie, 8th Corps, 1st Armée
Vilein, District of Rila, Aquileia

The city of Vilein had almost ceased to exist. Before the war, Vilein and the towns around it had been home to nearly half a million. Sitting on the border with Fezera had allowed the city to enjoy some small amount of trade and profit from travelers passing through, and even grow a little off of it. When the Second Revolution came and the Republique was there for good, Vilein managed to avoid the worst of the fighting. Even when the Armee de Terre marched over the border to conquer the Peripherie, Vilein had sent their drakes and formels off with a smile, and then graciously welcomed them back after the inevitable victory.

Then the War. This war.

Now, after several back and forths the past year, being conquered by the Kaiserreich, then retaken by the Republique before being pushed back again, Vilein wasn’t a functioning city. It was a series of shattered buildings, a rat’s nest of mazes and a monument to broken dreams. The civilian population had, for the most part, abandoned the area. They had fled either to the city of Rila or even further south when that had proved to not be far enough away. The only inhabitants of Vilein these days were the soldiers. Fusiliers and Landsers, Knights and Republican Guard. Wrecks of destroyed armor, trucks, planes, armored cars and artillery dotted the landscape. No drake’s land was an ever contested, barely shifting wasteland that had mostly stabilized into its current configuration. The Republique offensive into Fezera to the east back in June had threatened the Vilein pocket, though that had been steadily beaten back once again. Now, the stalemate dragged on and on and on, having already sucked up thousands of lives to keep a piece of muddy ground, rendered useless by rampant flooding, shell bombardments, tank tracks and clouds of gas munitions. No drake's land was a muddy desert, a paradox of chemical and heat baked wet earth that resulted in large pools of filthy, chemically contaminated water surrounded by acres of crater covered crust, under which the slurry of floodlands lay concealed until a soldier tried to walk across it and sunk knee deep. Vehicles bogged down, corpses slipped into invisibility and the ability to move became even more difficult for all. In just a few months, the landscape of Vilein had been transformed from green hills and rolling plains to a bare nightmare expanse where death waited around every corner. What had once been a pleasant town holding thousands of creatures had been reduced to shattered foundations, rotting wood and mass graves.

Fantassin de deuxième Joane Tremblay clutched her bolt-action MS-36 closer, resisting the urge to check the magazine for the ninth time that night. Her wings fluttered in anticipation as she listened to distant machine gun fire, the rumbling of cannons and the buzz of aircraft. Rocket trails streaked from Imperial lines as she stares, their arcs lighting up the night even from kilometers away. It sounded like Tartarus had opened its doors in the next zone over. Just because the sun had set didn't mean the fighting was over in Vilein. Both the Empire and Republique had methods to light the way before them, and the boches’ superior radios helped them coordinate the titanic amount of artillery they possessed onto the Aquileian lines, even in near pitch blackness. Tremblay shivered as she peered out from under her blue-gray helmet again at the dark stretch before her, barely able to discern the Imperial lines beyond. Black outlines silhouetted by fires and moonlight were all she could see of barbed razorwire, sandbag trenches and machine gun bunkers. Hidden behind those redoubts, she knew, were thousands of Imperial Landsers, Knights, specialists of every stripe and even panzers waiting to deploy up onto special ramps. Behind those assorted ranks were battery after battery of guns, all calibers and types ready to rain fire from above. And, amazingly, those lines were no more than a kilometer away.

The sky filled with light, and she started as she glanced back, realizing no less than six anti-air turrets were spewing flak into the night’s sky. Up above, amongst the flak bursts, she spied the ghostly shape of Imperial Habicht fighters and K-14 Raubvogel medium bombers dueling Republique Faucon and Vipere fighters, dodging between the deadly black clouds of flak. The fact they were this far over, and the heavier Rabe had yet to be seen indicated these craft were specifically targeting the troops and trenches far below. She prayed the Republique’s pilots were skilled enough to hold the Kaiser’s bombardiers.

“Arcturius above, bestow the quickness of lightning to their claws…” she muttered quietly.

“They’re doing okay so far,” said a voice nearby. Tremblay jumped, wings flaring sharply a heartbeat before she realized the griffon in her dugout with her was Sergent Legrand, her squad leader. While the space was cramped, two griffons could fit into it, at least snugly. Over his shoulder, he had his MS-39 rifle slung, the more modern semi-automatic battle rifle that was startingly hard to find in Aquileian claws these days, where at the start they had far more. Or so she’d been told. Tremblay had joined up when the war was young, and had just turned on the Republique. While many in her home province of Griefwald didn’t agree with the Republique or the Entente, she saw it as their best chance to hold back and maybe even defeat the Empire.

Now, her home was occupied by the enemy, and she had been pushed into foreign, if friendly, land. The word coming down from the memos of General Gerard Simon de Berger, the Republicaine Armee commander who led the defense of the northernmost front, had said the liberation was due any day now. While it was true he had held admirably, and even orchestrated the offensive into Fezera, Tremblay had not yet seen what new plans the hero of the Miracle on La Matrona could pull to break this poisonous impasse.

Legrand reached a muddy claw out, clutching a cloth-wrapped bundle as he did so.

“Kitchen made soupe de poissons. It’s okay, and I knew you were out on watch tonight. I saved you some.”

That was heartening, even if dinner had been hours ago. Legrand had likely gotten this to her as soon as he could, and he had likely delivered to all of their squad on watch tonight as he checked in with each of them.

“Merci beaucoup, Sergent,” Tremblay thanked him, tugging out her mess kit as she did so. The tin he had given her opened to delight her nose with a delectable scent, even if the soup was little more than lukewarm. Still, she felt her beak salivating at the prospect. In the muddy trenches, surrounded by the stench of shit, mud, panic, gunpowder and death, a good hot meal was a rare and welcome sight. She absolutely was not going to pass this up. Papa Gerard, as many in the Republique’s ranks called him, had sustained a good logistics network, assuring that at least the food they ate in these miserable climes was decent and not like the slop many other divisions to the east had to make do with.

“All quiet tonight?” Legrand asked, tugging out his own field glasses to scan the dark horizon himself. A flash lit up the horizon, a flaming shape spiraling down behind the Empire’s lines. Neither of them could tell who it belonged to. Tremblay hoped it hit an Imp ammo dump.

“Aside from that,” she said, already tucking into her food with the fury of the starved, helping herself to some of the dry biscuits her squad leader had also brought. “There’s a mess going on to the east. It’s getting harder to hear if something is happening in no drake’s.”

Legrand grunted, clearly not fazed. If he had been checking in on the sentries all night, he likely already knew of the offensive. The prospect that there might be infiltrators and scouts moving up on their position while the noise of distraction was covering up quite a lot of noise and movement left them all ill at ease. It was a clever tactic both sides had used before, after all.

“They’re making a go for Vanguardigo, I hear,” Legrand muttered, practically one with the wall of the dugout by now. “Now they have Westkeep, they’re going to try to beeline for the capital. Since they can’t get through here, after all.”

“We’re not moving either,” Tremblay grumbled around a spoon of soup. She didn’t mean to sound seditious or defeatist, but she was tired godsdammit. As well as being up all night jumping at scrapes and shadows, she was tired of being stuck in the hellish soup that was Vilein. Even when (or if) they won this war, the region would never be back to its peaceful splendor. That town wouldn’t pull itself from the toxic mud, and anyone that wanted to come back was likely already settled elsewhere. Vilein would remain a destroyed monument to the devastation of this battle, there was little doubt.

“Have faith, Fantassin,” Legrand quietly chided her, peering back out into the dark. “So long as we keep the damned boche from moving forward, we’re doing our job. Just have to trust the other divisions to do theirs, nes pas? Even if not a one of them has as many beautiful creatures as we do.”

Legrand chuckled, and Tremblay rolled her eyes. Yes, he was hitting on her again, but the comment was also bragging about his own good looks. It wasn’t a stretch to say Legrand was good looking, but the problem was that the drake was fully aware of it and believed himself to be Eyr’s gift to formels and mares alike. But his ego was so swollen, it was a wonder some boche scharfschütze hadn’t shot him as he crawled along the trenches. One could hardly miss such a massive target.

Just as she was about to slip a response, Legrand froze. Tremblay choked on her joke about his attitude, listening and peering out as she tried to figure out what had him spooked. Her mind began reeling over every little sound she could hear in the darkness, every scrap of an outline visible from her hiding post. Was that shape out there an Imperial scout about to come toss a few satchel charges into the trenchline or an engineer there to cut some wire? Was that quiet rumble a light panzer creeping up on the trenches through the mud?

“Flare,” Legrand muttered, reaching a claw back. Tremblay didn’t hesitate, taking the wide tube of her flare gun from the holster on her belt (she wasn’t important enough for a pistol) and passed it forward to the sergent. Legrand pulled back slightly, checking the chamber and reaching up high, field glasses still watching the point just ahead of them, thumbing back the hammer. With a dull *thump* the flare gun fired in his claw, a ghastly white light streaking up high overhead. No drake’s land all the way back to the Imperial lines was suddenly bathed in daytime glow, exposing rusty strands of barbed wire, the forgotten hulks of panzers half sunk in the poisoned mud, shell craters and rotting corpses scattered all over.

And, no more than fifteen meters away, what had to be a full platoon of Imperial soldiers clad in dark blue trench coats, muddy camouflage cloaks that broke up their outlines, dulled helmets decorated in a particular kind of ‘smash’ camouflage pattern and vicious black rubbery gasmasks, which made them seem more geist than griffon, dog or pony. The soldiers froze, only a few glancing up in startled amazement. Most of the others began hurriedly pushing their cloaks to the side, pulling rifles, submachine guns, pistols, shotguns and long knives or heavy clubs out. A few of them readied grenades. A few others tugged cloth off of what were revealed to be crystal rifles, the glowing blue core exposed now the jig was up.

Stormtroopers.

“ALARM!” Tremblay and Legrand both shouted at the same time. Tremblay was about to reach for her rifle when Legrand simply tackled her. Feathers and fish soup went flying a split second before their dugout was abruptly assailed by a hail of hard rounds and coherent magical light, ripping the dugout apart. The scream of alert rang out up and down the line. But it was too late.

Claw grenades flew over the trench lip, detonating a split second later in amongst the dugouts. Republique soldiers screamed in pain and panic. Dark shapes were surging towards the trench. The Republique machine guns opened up, chattering and roaring as brass shell casings spat from their actions. Tracer rounds lit up the darkness as the gunners showed their mastery of the two inch tap, circling points where movement was sighted. Return fire thickened as well. One of those Stormtroopers must have had a machine gun as well. The Imperial trenches came alive, spotlights carving through the night air to lance across no drake’s land and trace the Republique trenches. Machine guns weren’t long after. The new bullet hose MG 12s were death machines, spitting out tracers with the clatter of jackhammers, followed by the slower staccato of older MG 08s. Mortars coughed and began dropping payloads both smoke and explosive, light howitzers booming in what was clearly a very well choreographed dance. How long had the crews been lurking in the dark, waiting for the Stormtroopers to creep across the poisoned mud for an entire kilometer?

“Stand! Stand and fight with me! Soldiers of Aquileia, por le Republique! Ils ne passeront pas!”

“IL NE PASSERONT PAS!”

She didn’t know which officer let out the battlecry, but it spurred the other defenders to their stations, their weapons banging away into the darkness as they chased targets. MS-36 rifles for the most part, but occasionally a sergent’s MS–39 or a clawful of MAC-40/2 submachine guns would begin chattering off short bursts. However, the Stormtroopers still came on. Several dark shapes dropped into their trenchline, more standing on the lip. An Imperial Krahe machine pistol chattered, the fire never slacking. This trooper had the new updated 9mm version of the vaunted assault weapon, and the drum magazine he had locked in meant he could sustain his bullet hose habit for some time. The soldiers who dropped into the trench were a blur of motion. A Grummond-8 trench gun boomed, blowing another Aquileian soldier in half before an Republique fusilier tackled them, the bayonet mounted on her MS-36 spearing down, trying to catch the Stormtrooper past the enchanted breastplate they wore. Another boche soldier fired a trio of burning crystal bolts from their weapon, dropping figures in blue-gray nearby, while two more Stormtroopers went to butcher’s work with their long bladed combat knives. In a flurry of slaughter, ten Republique troopers were dead before the weight of numbers finally swung the trench fight back. A Republique fusilier leapt onto the crystal gunner from behind, an entrenching tool swinging down to bury in the vulnerable nape of the neck between helmet and enchanted half-plate, sinking in with a *thok* that sounded more like a cleaver preparing a thick cut of meat. The submachine gunner on the lip dropped as a Republique trooper fired a shot point blank that went in through the eye and exited in a spray of crimson gore, and the last Imperial soldiers were overwhelmed as fusiliers pinned them in from both sides before stabbing and firing pistols and revolvers.

“Panzers!” rang out a call nearby, even as shells and mortars began landing on the trenches around them. A sickly sweet smell came to Tremblay’s nose as she hurried to the firing step, and she felt a flicker of panic go through her as she wondered if the enemy was drop chemical munitions on them. Other Stormtroopers had clearly survived breaching other parts of the line, as she could hear the snap and vicious struggle of close-quarters trench battle nearby. An infernal glow, like a dragon’s breath except ten times more dreadful, told of Imperial flammenwerfers in amongst the assault group, and more grenades detonated. If the enemy could hold their infiltration beachhead as the panzers moved up, the Aquileians had the choice to either give these trenches and fall back to the next line or stand and fight and try to hold long enough for the reserves to move up and join them.

The clatter of tracks and the rumble of engines came to her ear in full as Tremblay peered over the firing step and out into no drake’s land, her heart sinking. Sure enough, here came ten Herzland light panzers. Their small cannons may have been popguns compared to heavier armor, but against infantry in cover the 4 cm was a lethal killer. Machine guns in the defense line still chattered, bullets sending sparks up the hulls of the advancing armor. In response, cannons boomed and enemy machine guns spat lead back. Some of the Republique pillboxes and strongpoints fell silent, but more kept fighting on. A few of them held anti-tank guns, which cracked and spoke as they felled two Herzlands immediately, spurring the other eight on to plow through the poisoned mud to either engage or evade.

“FUR DEN KAISER!” came a massed cry, and as she watched, Tremblay saw that familiar defense line suddenly devolve as a hundred more forms suddenly appeared over the sandbags of the Imperial trench. They came in a variety of shapes and sizes, though most were clearly griffons. Some were dogs, perpetually upright, and a few were ponies on all four, equine as opposed to avian. Some took to wing, trying to close the distance before they were cut down, grenades and bullets raining from their satchels and weapons. Plenty of the fliers were cut down with little ceremony, enough that the majority of the Imperial assault wave took their chances on foot, galloping or sprinting across no drake’s land.

Another volley of shells lit up the night, and Tremblay ducked down again, having only fired a few shots. The artillery and mortars were blanketing the trenches, keeping the defenders pinned down and distracted. Even as the Stormtroopers battled for their lives in enemy territory, they had to worry about friendly fire dropping on their heads, though they had to know all of that.

“See? Just a light rain!” Legrand hollered, laughing as he stood up, firing a quick doubleshot that knocked a boche in green-gray back. “On your feet, Tremblay! Ils ne passeront pas!”

However, as Tremblay took her sergent’s claw to stand back up and fight, neither of them noticed the next Landser, an Imperial Bronze dog with a flammenwerfer as well, liquid dribbling from the open maw as he crested the lip of the trench.

And by the time they did notice, he was the last thing either of them saw.

When the report passed the desk of one General Gerard Simon de Berger back in the city of Rila, it was simple and to the point.

”Imperial night raid repulsed in Section K, Vilein battlezone. Moderate casualties. Situation otherwise unchanged.”

Author's Note

This one came to me just today, in a fit of inspiration. Novels like "All Quiet on the Western Front" and "Storm of Steel" carry such quiet marvel to me, both in their spectacle and the horror they contain within.