The bone-shaking rhythm of the artillery bombardment intensified as the morning sun struggled in vain to pierce the dense, chemical-laden storm clouds over Sector Four.
At 06:15 hours, the forward spotters for Baron Korgan Rask’s northern artillery batteries adjusted their targeting map points. They used high-zoom sight rangefinders mounted on the crest of Hill 88.
Instead of scattering their fire across the outer wire entanglements and backup comms trenches, the four heavy 240mm siege howitzers of Battery Alpha packed their firing arcs onto a single, critical objective: the heavy timber bunker of Dugout Seven.
SCREEEEEEECH!
The clear, high-pitched Doppler howl of incoming heavy ordnance tore through the freezing downpour.
Inside Dugout Seven, forty wounded commoner soldiers and convalescent beasts were packed shoulder-to-shoulder beneath the low timber-and-earth ceiling. Lanterns swung wildly on rusted iron chains. The underground walls shook with violent, sickening tremors. Fine gray dirt and crushed limestone powder sifted down continuously through the gaps in the ceiling stone retaining walls, dusting the bloody bandages and fevered brows of the men lying on canvas stretchers.
“Direct flight path!” Captain Varley screamed from the trench watching slit, throwing his arms over his head. The whistle rose to an ear-splitting shriek. “Four incoming heavy shells! They’re landing right on the bunker roof! Clear the dugout! Everyone out into the comms trenches!”
