The artillery bombardment shifted from heavy siege shells to nonstop salvos of eighty-tiny high-explosive mortar rounds.
Baron Rask’s forward gunners had realized that Dugout Seven’s central bunker was impervious to direct hits. So they began scattering air-burst fragmentation shells across the open comms trenches and fire-steps of Sector Three.
CRACK-BOOM! CRACK-BOOM!
Jagged steel shrapnel whined through the freezing rain like swarming hornets, shredding the sandbag low roof walls, piercing timber stone retaining walls, and ricocheting wildly off corrugated iron wooden walkway planks.
In the mud-filled comms trench directly behind Dugout Seven, casualties were mounting with alarming speed.
“Stretcher team! Incoming critical casualty!” Sergeant Corvo shouted, his combat boots sliding through the red sludge as he and a commoner infantryman hauled a wounded soldier down the cross on a blood-spattered canvas litter. “Corporal Briggs! Fragment caught him in the right medial thigh! Heavy blood bleeding, tourniquet is slipping!”
Arthur Vance wiped the stinging rainwater and gunpowder soot from his eyes. He stepped out onto the slippery wooden walkway planks.
The mud in the medical trench was six inches deep, contaminated with sulfuric runoff, burning lime powder slurry, and stale water. There was no clean, sterile running table within three miles. The underground triage dugout was packed to maximum capacity with recovering Blue Lung patients and liberated commoner beasts.
