Dismissed

"1st company reporting heavy losses, enemy steel plates are holding down the comms perimeter."

"2nd company is down to 30% capacity, requesting immediate assistance."

A bloodbath. The sheer quantity of a thousand steel plates was nowhere near enough to swiftly cut out the enemy communications with Warsaw – the current base of operation for the eastern front. Throughout the whole battalion there were reports of heavy losses; the outclassed imperial steel plates and the inexperience of new pilots has taken a heavy toll in this offensive: the rearguard was crumpling under the pressure of incoming enemy support of stormtrooper infantry and the supporting field cannons, the spearhead has been allowed to stretch itself thin to the point where it's completely isolated from the rest of the battalion, allowing the 1st and 2nd companies to be separated and dealt with. Quite literally, in between the ensuing massacre was the 4th company – supposed to assist wherever needed, now having no access to either of the battlegroups. The countless men sent to try and cut through to the 1st and 2nd companies were mown down in enemy territory. Any attempt to try and ease the pressure for the rearguard has failed as well; in the brink of confusion the enemy engineers have managed to accurately pinpoint the coordinates of each Imperial detachment and the artillery that fired from the safety of the backlines was completely decimating the Chaika steel plates – as though a birdshot dispersed to seal the trophy.

"1st company this is captain Scezny, requesting permission to break formation."

"…"

"1st company I repeat, this is captain Scezny, requesting permission to break formation."

"…"

"They're dead. Alright then, 4th company to proceed south, we'll rendezvous with the remainder of the 1st battalion."

"Affirmative!"

With the little men he had left with him, Scezny has left the ruined covers of Siedlice town center and proceeded to march towards the southern pinpoint – where the 1st battalion was responsible to secure control of the enemy command center. Since the enemy was still very well operative and capable of diverting troops throughout the battlefield, the 1st battalion has likely not taken nor threaten the control post. This served as a great excuse for Scezny to evacuate his men from the slaughter fields that was the Siedlice town center.

"Everyone, abort plan! Fall back to friendly territory! I repeat, everyone to abort the rendezvous order!"

It was too intense, as though the enemy expected every single move the Imperial troops have done today. Met with high casualties from the flanking Jaegers and the lethal piercings from the entrenched field cannons, the Chaika steel plates of the 4th company were being brought to extinction. Out of the 200 pilots that landed from the carrier, only 35 remained to see this onslaught. Out of these 35, not many would live to tell the tale of the lightshow that has ensued, with explosions and the eerie sound of layers of metal getting torn to shreds to act as a valid substitute to applause and awe.

"Kiril! I hereby promote you to the rank of Sergeant! Take on squad B and lead them out of here."

"Will be done."

Deploying the smoke rounds available to them, the remainder of the platoons have sought shelter from the precise enemy fire in the thickened artificial fog. It did not, however, shield them from the Deutsch blind firings which occasionally would strike a random pilot down. It also, managed to precisely hit through Scezny's right protective layer, having the armor piercing shell of the field cannon bolt its way across Scezny. What pursued that shot were streaming lakes of blood as the captain sustained a 65mm shell that whistled its way through his neck, leaving his arteries and veins pouring out rivers of blood. His hands remained on the grips, so his steel plate resumed its hurrying tempo. Yet his body was now lifeless. It was only a matter of time before his steel plate would crash into an obstacle or get hit by another blood-lusting shell. Nobody noticed nor realized of Scezny's departure. His cabin was now crimson red, his face pale and body paralyzed. His hands slipped from the grip from all the blood that has decreased the friction values to zero. His picture on the sideview, a lovely family: Him, his wife Mariya and their beautiful daughter Eva… There was nothing left of that photo, except the crimson red blots.

The battlefield grew silent as the midnight moon set in. The 3 carriers that dropped off the Imperial steel plates have been forced to fall back immediately due to the heavy fire and the consequentially sustained damage to their hulls and guns. There was no supportive fire to the 3 thousand pilots that were dropped off today. All but 150 of them have perished. Pyotr was lucky to be let off with a couple of scratches. Scezny proceeded to die on the battlefield; with nobody noticing his passing till the friendly trenches have been reached. Kiril, however, has been victim to the wrath of the enemy Jaeger; the proceeding duel of the escaping seabird and the Deutsch hunter resulted in Kiril trading his left eye for the safety of the Imperial frontline hospital. Laying on the bunk beds that were tilted in all sort of directions due to the lack of proper flooring – the boggy mud that took lives of thousands only a few months ago was now the ground for doctors trying to reap the death messenger's limbs so as to stop him from taking souls with him, and allowing these soldiers to live on. There was no wind on this particular night, the tent's cloth, however, was rattling intensely from the impulse sourcing from the nearby artillery that was shelling their vengeance onto the Deutsch troops in Siedlice. Screams of agony and countless prayers to the reaper to come take them to relief the pain was met with countless painkillers and bottles of alcohol to help nullify the pain in any way possible. This was the result of the 31st Imperial army's offensive onto Siedlice; one of the most prestigious armies in the empire having their orders taken directly from the Tsar. These primal conditions accurately reflected the army's current condition – countless offensives, from Krakow to central Poland – this army alone has lost more men than entire fronts combined, sent from one destination to another, such conditions were becoming the usual for its very few veterans… or what was left of them…

Amidst the chaos of the hospital, with doctors and nurses running from one corner to another despite the time nearing 2am was Kiril, and opposite of him lay Petrov. Kiril's olive-shaded uniform was still on him, holes and burn marks from the recent duel were complimenting his messy, rugged hair and face. Ash stains marking his face with some of his hair being burnt through his protective leather mask. All these elements directly conflicted the clean, snow-white bandage stretched across his forehead and closing his left eye; an eye he will never open again. The contrary could be said about Pyotr, who sat in his bunk bed opposite to Kiril's. His olive-shaded uniform still clean, as though the man had just joined the army. His collar neatly intact as was his shirt. Everything was tucked in, his shirt in his trousers and his trousers in his boots. Nothing more than a couple of scratches was visible on Pyotr's face. Kiril was eagling him down. The cleanliness of Pyotr meant that he either aced the day's massacre and somehow miraculously got out without injuries, or he failed to perform at all and sat in the middle of the pack, praying for a shell not to pass anywhere near him. Rightly so, once back to friendly territory, only Pyotr's steel plate didn't need any ammo replenishment – not a single shot was fired by him. Noticing Kiril's eye on him, Pyotr failed to look up. He was no less disappointed and embarrassed. He felt the guilt for the captain's death as he was the only one who didn't sacrifice anything. Both of them couldn't sleep that night. Even with the lights off in the tent and the screams of the wounded dying down, Kiril would not stop staring at Pyotr who could not bring himself to lay down in bed. Dawn pursued this Mexican standoff. And with the coming of dawn, the standoff would be broken.

"Pyotr."

"Y-yes."

A flinching reply to a stone-cold request. Normally, Kiril would tell him off for addressing him as a superior, yet now Kiril was a sergeant."

"Boy, I'm your sergeant. Is that how you treat your higher ups?"

"N-no sir, apologies sir."

"Where were you 3 years ago."

"K-Krakow."

"After Krakow."

"Kielce."

"What were you doing there."

"I was part of the recon brigade."

"Under captain Ilyukov?"

"That is correct sir."

"How many pilots were in the brigade."

"4 including me, sir."

"How many survived."

"Only me, sir."

"You've been in combat 2 times Pyotr. Both times you came out unscathed. Your steel plate and your body being very well intact... not needing any maintenance nor medical treatment… While your comrades died."

"Y-yes…"

Standing up from his bunk bed, trying not to lose balance as he hasn't moved at all since coming back from the offensive. Kiril carefully got on his feet, the dark military boots slowly sinking in the boggy floor, trying not to wake up the person laying on the top bunk. Slowly, in heavy but soft steps. In a fast but calm pace. With a merciless but an organized expression on his face. With an eye raging with fear but allured tranquility. He slowly approached Pyotr. Pyotr sat there, looking at Kiril make his way. Kiril was now standing less than a breathing distance away, looking down, he could see fear and confusion on Pyotr's face.

"Stand up!"

A frustrating tone and somewhat of a half shout – it was enough to make Pyotr flinch and get up, all while having to lean back due to Kiril being so close and effectively trapping the young pilot between himself and the bunkbed. Both men were breathing rather loudly, each hearing the other's heartbeat. One felt fear and anxiousness in the hyperventilated breath pattern of the other. While the terrified Pyotr could not help but be reminded of that raging wolf 3 years ago, the wolf that took down his whole brigade in a matter of minutes. The sheer anger being projected in each exhale and the primal sense of hunger with each heartbeat felt. Pyotr, a young pilot having lived through Krakow and now the Siedlice massacre. Kiril, a battle-hardened pilot who lost his father figure less than 24 hours ago. Both men stood, facing each other down. One stared in anger, the other in fear. Kiril's stone-cold order for Pyotr to get up was loud enough to wake some of the injured up, their bunks creaking from their movement towards the noise. Noticing what was going on, all of them, in telepathic fashion, agreed to act as though they're still sleeping and let the disciplinary action be committed.

"As your sergeant, I refuse to trust in someone like you in my squad."

Raising his hands on Pyotr's chest level, Kiril proceeded to rip off his badge. Pyotr was no longer a pilot. Throwing the badge, which was now nothing more than a piece of cloth, on the boggy mud floor of this field hospital.

"You're a coward. You let them all down today. They died because of you. Is that understood, private?"

"Y-yes sir."

Kiril raised his right hand and reached for Pyotr's dog tag. Ripping it off as well, the little metal chains went mute as they got sunken into the ever-devouring bog. Pyotr was no longer the member of the 4th company of the 2nd battalion of the 31st Imperial army.

"Join anyone who'll accept. The 2nd battalion will not have you. And know, wherever you go, you'll carry your uselessness and the proceeding death of your comrades with you. Is that understood, private?"

"ye-yes."

"Louder private. I can't hear you."

"Y-ye-yes."

Now, Kiril's raging aura has calmed down. He proceeded to make one last moment of eye contact with Pyotr, once again – mercilessly eagling him down with his right eye. Pyotr couldn't help but stand there, trying his best to hide his fear and stand there emotionless. Once Kiril turned his back to him. Pyotr proceeded to sit back in his bunkbed. The adrenaline would not let him lay down. Kiril, on the other hand, seemed as calm as ever, he got to his bunkbed, unbuttoned any buttons that were still intact on his shirt and proceeded to swiftly fall asleep. The time was nearing 5am, at 0600 hours exactly, all the soldiers would be woken up and those who were still fit for combat would proceed to follow given orders while others would be taken back into the country – where proper hospitals could treat them. With the coming of sunrise, it would be a full day since the commencing of the Siedlice major offensive, later to be known as the Siedlice mass burial.