The thunderous roar of heavy artillery rings out overhead, shaking the walls around us, dust raining down from months of neglect. The tiny viewing ports are lit for a moment with a flash of fire that is quickly extinguished by the driving rain. A cloying, metallic smell that always accompanies an assault mixes with sweat—born of fear and weeks without adequate sanitation. We’re stewing in the bags of our uniforms, the material able to keep out stray bullets, but it keeps everything in as well. We all stink, but it’s the least of our worries.
One of the rookies—Mason, I recall—shrieks and then laughs at herself as a particularly loud boom shakes us harder. The enemy fire becoming more precise. Several more giggle at the reaction, but I know they’re all as scared as each other. My unit is i
