Cannon Fire Arc

On July 12th, 917, in the camp of the Kazarlia First Front Army, the First Battalion of the Melania People's Army First Division.

Lieutenant Henry Scaritz of the Melianians is reading a newspaper.

"Any news?"

Master Sergeant Raskid lounges lazily on a makeshift sofa in the room, watching Henry.

"The Anteans launched a surprise attack across the marshlands. They're close to encircling the Northern Army Group of the Prosens between the sea and the swamps. The Prosens are massively shifting troops from the southern frontline to reinforce the north," said Henry.

"Indeed, just yesterday Charlie's infiltration recon squad caught a tongue," said Raskid, "The prisoner said troops are being heavily moved northwards."

Henry sets the newspaper down, stands up, and walks to the window.

The wooden hut they occupy has a window facing west. On clear days, they can see directly to the other side of the barbed wire-laden blockade line.

Henry: "Less than thirty kilometers to the west is the Melania border. We've been staying so close to our homeland for a full eight months! I thought we would have returned home after last winter's offensive!"

"Who didn't?" concurred Raskid, "But at that time, tanks broke down, we ran out of sufficient ammunition, and our troop numbers significantly diminished. We really had to stop."

No one understood the state of Marshal Rocossov's troops following last year's hundreds of kilometers of rapid advance better than junior officers and non-commissioned officers like Henry and Raskid.

Last year, the troops truly couldn't advance any further.

Raskid: "This time last year, I was all skin and bones. I was afraid to step on a scale; I bet I was only about sixty kilograms."

At one meter eighty-eight, sixty kilograms is severely underweight for Raskid.

Henry: "I was also awfully thin at that time, constantly advancing, eating and sleeping poorly, and I even caught malaria. To avoid the Military Chaplain discovering my illness and sending me back for rest, I would fasten a belt tightly around my stomach every day!"

Raskid: "I heard someone in the second platoon, also with malaria who didn't want to leave the frontlines, tried to plug his backside with a stopper. Can't believe he came up with that."

Henry forces a smile and continues to watch the western sky outside the window glass.

"But we're about to return to our native soil! When Marshal Rocossov returned to his homeland, he returned the soil from his ration tin to his hometown. And I, when I left my homeland, didn't even think to bring a bit of its soil!

"I've been thinking, when walking on Melanian soil, I want to kneel beside the troop, hold the earth in my hands, and kiss it."

Raskid: "Won't that give you diarrhea again?"

"Then I'll treat it and recover on the soil of the homeland!"

"Right, as long as we can return to the homeland, anything else is fine. So, when are we crossing the last thirty kilometers? Did you get any news from the divisional meeting you attended before?"

Lieutenant Henry Scaritz shakes his head: "No. I asked a staff officer I'm close with, and he vaguely said we'll attack when the enemy's strength is depleted.

"I don't know to what extent the enemy's forces need to be diminished before they're considered depleted."

Raskid: "Marshal Rocossov prefers neat and tidy exchanges to fighting. That's why we've been waiting. If Marshal Gorky were commanding us, the assault would have begun long ago."

The contrasting command styles of the two marshals is a popular topic of conversation among soldiers and officers alike.

At that moment, a messenger barges in and shouts: "The battalion commander's calling all company and platoon chiefs to a meeting at battalion headquarters!"

"Got it!" Henry becomes excited.

The messenger heads to the next hut, leaving the door wide open.

Lieutenant Henry neatly packs away the newspaper and all, and dashes towards the door, while Raskid calls out to his receding figure: "Let me know right away if it's good news!"

Lieutenant Henry is already far off.

————

Battalion Commander: "Just as you are thinking, the attack is about to start. To avoid leaking secrets, the exact date is still unknown, but according to past conventions, it should be this week."

The officers in the room cheer immediately.

Battalion Commander: "Don't be too quick to cheer. The Prosen Army facing us is still quite strong, possessing fortifications they've built over six months.

"The good news is that during last winter's campaign, we gained a starting position more suitable for attack, and the enemy's fortresses hardly have any natural barriers to exploit.

"The First Guards Heavy Breakthrough Tank Regiment and the Fifteenth Guards Self-Propelled Artillery Regiment will reinforce our division, and our battalion is expected to receive the support of three Rocossovsky-type heavy tanks and three Urban Assault Guns.

"These units will arrive later today. Who among you is willing to be 'armored cavalry' riding on the backs of tanks?"

Nowadays, the guards heavy breakthrough tank regiments normally do not organize their own accompanying infantry and instead, infantry from assigned units temporarily fill the role.

Henry raises his right hand: "Of course it's our company. We are the spearhead of the battalion; we want to charge into the enemy lines with the tanks right from the start."

"Does anyone else want this job?"

Someone immediately responds: "We want to measure our homeland with our own feet, Commander!"

Everyone laughs.

————

In the heart of the Empire of Prosen, the Eagle's Nest.

The Prosen Emperor, with his hands clasped behind his back, is studying the massive map in the war room.

"Damn Rocossov! I have a feeling that he's assuming a posture for an attack on the Southern Army Group, aiming to prevent us from continuing to divert troops from the Southern Army Group to the north."

At this moment, no other high-ranking officers are present, only two loyal Major Generals.