Return to the front line

The first light of dawn broke over the horizon as the military camp came into view. The air was thick with the acrid stench of gunpowder, mingling with the sharp bite of oil and sweat. Even at this early hour, the camp was far from quiet.

Sunny stepped out of the transport vehicle, his boots hitting the packed dirt with a dull thud. He inhaled deeply, the familiar mix of chaos and discipline settling over him like a heavy cloak. War didn't sleep. The battlefield never truly rested.

All around him, the camp pulsed with activity. Soldiers moved in hurried strides, some carrying crates of ammunition, others hauling heavy machine guns to reinforce defensive positions. Their faces were tight with exhaustion, their uniforms stained with sweat and dust. The distant sound of hammering echoed as engineers worked on repairing damaged structures, while the rhythmic clanking of metal signaled the maintenance crews tuning up armored vehicles.

Medics rushed between makeshift tents, some supporting wounded men barely able to walk, others carrying stretchers with bodies covered in bloodstained sheets. The sharp scent of antiseptic filled the air near the medical station, where rows of cots were lined up under a large tent, many already occupied.

Sunny stood still, taking it all in. Nothing had changed. The battlefield was still merciless. The war had not waited for him.

His eyes scanned the horizon, past the barricades where the frontline loomed in the distance. Smoke curled upward from where artillery had struck not long ago, dark and ominous against the pale morning sky. The gunfire had died down for now, but it was only temporary—like the quiet before a storm.

He adjusted the strap of his duffel bag and started walking. He wasn't just another returning soldier—he had men waiting for him.

Or rather, what was left of them.

The noise from outside faded as Sunny stepped into their makeshift camp. The tented space was dimly lit, the glow from a few hanging lanterns casting long shadows over the rugged terrain. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, the scent mingling with sweat, dirt, and the ever-present metallic tang of gun oil.

He took a moment to observe his men. Some sat cross-legged on crates, a worn-out deck of playing cards spread between them as they muttered bets and curses under their breath. Others leaned back against whatever they could find, cigarette embers glowing faintly in the dimness as they exhaled slow streams of smoke. A few were sprawled out, using their rucksacks as pillows, catching whatever rest they could before duty called again.

They looked... exhausted. And he couldn't blame them.

When he had left for his short break, there had been seven of them. Now, as he swept his gaze across the group, he noticed something different—an unfamiliar face among them. A new recruit? A replacement? He didn't dwell on it. Not yet.

No one had noticed his arrival. They were too absorbed in their small moments of relief, too accustomed to the war's relentless grind to expect anything different.

Then a voice rang out, cutting through the thick air.

"Captain Wilson!"

Sunny turned toward the source. Sergeant Thompson stood at attention, his posture straight and firm despite the exhaustion evident in his eyes.

At the call, the rest of the men snapped out of their distractions. Cigarettes were snuffed out, cards hastily gathered, and one by one, they rose to their feet. The scrape of boots against the dirt followed as they stood at attention, saluting him.

The weight of command settled on Sunny's shoulders once more.

Back to Command

Sunny returned their salutes with a crisp motion, his gaze sweeping across the gathered men. His sharp eyes took in every detail—the exhaustion etched into their faces, the tension in their shoulders, the faint stiffness in their movements. They had been through something, that much was clear. But they were still standing, still carrying on.

With a quiet sigh, he forced himself to slip back into the role of their commanding officer. He had to harden his expression again, had to carry himself with the disciplined air of a leader. It was tiring, constantly wearing the mask of a serious soldier, but it was necessary.

"At ease," he ordered, his voice even and steady.

The men immediately relaxed, shifting into more comfortable stances. Some loosened their shoulders, while others took the opportunity to stretch their sore limbs. The air around them grew less rigid, but a sense of respect and alertness remained.

Sunny turned his attention to Sergeant Thompson, who had been watching him closely. Unlike the others, Thompson looked almost eager—an unusual sight in a place like this. The man practically radiated energy, his posture straighter than usual, his eyes glinting with something close to enthusiasm.

"Give me a debriefing," Sunny said, his tone firm. "What happened while I was gone?"

Sergeant Thompson's expression grew serious as he cleared his throat, straightening his shoulders.

"Sir, while you were away, we were assigned to reinforce the northern defense line," he began, his voice carrying the weight of experience. "Intel came in that enemy forces were testing the perimeter, probing for weaknesses. High command wanted us to hold the line in case they launched a full-scale assault."

Sunny listened without interruption, nodding slightly as he absorbed the information.

"We were sent out two days ago," Thompson continued. "The area was already in bad shape by the time we got there. Trenches had taken heavy damage, barbed wire defenses were half torn apart, and the men stationed there looked like they hadn't slept in weeks. It was a mess."

He paused, his expression darkening slightly before he went on.

"First order of business was shoring up defenses. We patched up whatever we could—sandbags, barricades, anything to keep them from breaking through. Some of us got assigned to weapons maintenance, making sure the machine guns and mortars were still functional. Ammo was running low, so we had to ration it carefully."

Sunny took a slow breath, already picturing the situation in his head. It sounded like the kind of mission that drained soldiers more than any firefight—the constant tension, the waiting, the knowledge that the enemy could strike at any moment.

"Did they attack?" he asked, his voice calm but firm.

Thompson nodded. "Not at first. The first night was quiet. Too quiet. We knew they were watching, waiting for an opening. The second night, they hit us. Small probing attacks at first—just a handful of them trying to sneak through the perimeter. We took them out easily, but they were testing us, seeing how we reacted.

Then, last night, they came in force."

A heavy silence settled over the men at those words. Sunny noticed some of them shift slightly, their gazes growing distant as if remembering something they'd rather forget.

"Go on," Sunny said.

"It was just after midnight," Thompson continued. "They came hard and fast. Mortar shells started raining down first—nothing major, just enough to keep our heads down. Then they moved in with infantry. We were outnumbered, but we held the line. We had to."

Sunny nodded again, his mind processing the details.

"We took losses," Thompson admitted, his voice quieter now. "Two squads from another unit got wiped out. We lost Harris."

Sunny's gaze hardened at that name. Harris had been one of his men. One of the original seven.

"How?" he asked.

"Sniper," Thompson replied. "Bastard got him while he was patching up one of the machine guns. One shot. Clean."

A slow exhale left Sunny's lips, but his expression remained unreadable.

"He didn't suffer," Thompson added, as if that was supposed to make it better. It didn't.

Sunny let the silence stretch for a moment before speaking.

"And the new guy?" He gestured slightly toward the unfamiliar face in the group.

Thompson glanced in the man's direction. "Replacement. Sent in after Harris went down. Name's Carter. Fresh out of training."

Sunny's eyes flicked over to Carter, taking in his posture, his expression. The young soldier stood stiffly, clearly aware of the conversation but pretending not to be listening. He had that look—new blood, not yet hardened by war.

"That all?" Sunny asked, bringing his focus back to Thompson.

"For now," Thompson said. "Enemy pulled back before dawn, but I doubt this is over."

Sunny nodded slowly, his mind already working through the implications.

It never was.