Hold The Line

“HOLD YOUR GROUND!”

Cracks sounded overhead as the raw recruits ducked out of instinct. Their enemy was closing in slowly, full of confidence. They outnumbered the wavering line, and they knew it. They moved at a deliberate pace to make sure that their soldiers were covered by supporting artillery and machine gun fire at all times, the suppressing fire pinning the defenders down and minimizing return fire. They took the time to ensure their advance’s flanks were covered so that they would not be taken by surprise and crushed by a relieving force.

A force that was not coming.

The voices grew louder as their adversaries drew closer. They were only a stone’s throw away now, moving in neat and organized. One recruit, a boy scarcely sixteen, couldn’t take the pressure anymore and leapt to his feet, turning to run. He didn’t take more than a step before another crack was heard, a hole punched through his throat by a rifle round from less than thirty yards away, smacking clean through the back of his neck and blowing his windpipe out.

More rounds zipped overhead, joined now with small canisters that were thrown over the concrete barricades that were the defenders’ only defense.

A few men looked at the canisters in confusion, others in horror, before the detonations started. The lucky ones died from the initial blast and shrapnel, others didn’t get hit cleanly and fell to the ground, screaming.

The sounds of agony seemed to spur the attackers on, sensing the outnumbered defenders were on the verge of breaking. A human wave washed over the top of the wall, and while some of the men in the trench below desperately returned fire and bodies fell, it was too little too late, and there were too few of them to repel the advance.

It was over in just a few minutes from the point that top was taken, men who were crawling away or coughing up blood simply shot at near point-blank range, as were those who threw their weapons down and raised their arms high in an unmistakable sign of surrender.

The men who pulled the triggers didn’t care.

Word was passed down the line that the high ground was theirs. Within an hour, the rest of the division that had borne down on the two hundred men were looking out over the forested countryside as their commanders planned the next stage of the assault. The defenses they had encountered had crumbled away, an enemy that was inferior in numbers, training, and equipment no match for the army that had been secretly preparing for war for the better part of a decade.

One of the soldiers who had taken the ridge brought the assembled commanders a bloody piece of paper: A message that was found in the pocket of the defenders’ dead captain.

It was unfolded and examined by the assault’s commanding general, a smirk coming to the man’s lips as he showed his subordinates the writing, barely decipherable through the blood it had been soaked in.

Hold your position, no matter what.

It drew a hearty chuckle from those around. After all, the dead men at their feet had failed in that regard. Victory had never been possible, and in fact, the dead had caused only a few dozen casualties. For all intents and purposes, they had seemed to be simply sacrificial pawns, left to die, their only purpose to slightly delay the advancing divisions.

To be fair, the victors on the hill were mostly correct.

Victory for the two hundred hadn’t been possible in any world.

They had only caused minimal casualties, most having died without firing a shot.

They had been sacrificial pawns.

But they hadn’t been left, forgotten.

And they had done what the battle doctrine dictated for them to do: Hold the line, draw the enemy in, and lure them to complacency on top of the clearest high ground for forty miles instead of breaking and running, leading the enemy in a chase across the countryside.

Low booms caused the officers to look up in confusion. Their artillery was still being transported up the hill, and the other divisions that were taking part in the invasion were too far away to be heard so clearly.

Horrified realization crossed all of their faces moments before the world around them exploded, the off-guard divisions scrambling to find cover as the batteries that had been carefully concealed in the forest below opened up.

The defending country had an army that was far inferior to the invaders, it was true. Their artillery was less accurate and had a greatly reduced range, built for a war that had ended two decades prior. They were cumbersome, slow, and even in full retreat, the artillery crews would have been caught up to in less than two days. Even in their dug-in positions, they would have inflicted minimal casualties on the advancing foes in normal conditions, and if the men had broken and run like many had wanted to, the hidden batteries would have been discovered nearly immediately.

But the two hundred volunteers had held the line to draw the enemy into the perfect trap. Even the accuracy of the artillery was an advantage in this instance, the rounds from even one gun falling all over the vast hill that their enemy was now perched on, and dozens of these batteries were now thundering away, spitting rounds as fast as their vengeful crews could load them.

But it wouldn’t be enough.

The pile of shells were rapidly dwindling, signaled by the slowly-decreasing rate of fire that caused the invaders to start pulling themselves up upon hearing. As the impacts died, they climbed out of craters and from behind shattered stumps, their eardrums still thundering, though the falling shells had stopped.

At least, that’s what they had assumed.

The thundering grew louder, making the dazed soldiers look at each other in muted confusion. As they had crested the hill less than two hours prior, a wave of bodies thundered into view right in front of them. This time, however, there were two key differences.

First: Most of the invaders’ weapons were not at hand, lost in the confusion of the shelled hell they had just lived through.

Second: The defending country’s army was, again, quite inferior. They didn’t possess modern artillery, tanks, and most of the divisions didn’t even have more than a few trucks on hand.

They were so inferior, they still had cavalry.

The first man to his feet was shot into the ground by a spear thrust from on top of a mountain of a horse, born and bred for war, the wave of cavalry washing over the hill and trampling, skewering, or even just knocking the recovering troops over.

Hot on the horses’ hooves was a screaming wave of men. They brandished nearly-empty rifles like clubs as they leapt down upon their foes with a primal fury, beating the grey-green uniforms into the mud and blood to exact vengeance for their country and fallen friends. Many snatched up discarded weapons and turned them upon the men who had dared set foot into their forests and set their nation on fire, and they repaid the debt of death in full.

It was only the beginning of a long war that would see much of the world shattered, but it was still a victory, and was the moment of relief they desperately needed to organize, retreat, regroup, and one day return to take their homeland back.

All because some handfuls of men held the line.

A/N: This is a fictitious event that never actually occurred. However, it was heavily influenced by the stand of the Chasseurs Ardennais in WWII against Nazi Germany, best known from Sabaton’s song “Resist And Bite,” which is the music that was listened to in order to help inspire the story and cause the writing to flow.

The following is an excerpt from Sabaton’s website about the song:

“The story of the Chasseurs Ardennais, whose emblem is the wild boar. A small Belgian unit of soldiers who were supposed to defend the borders and hold their ground along the K-W Line in May 1940. When the German armies, which included Rommel’s Ghost Division, approached the unit, they were supposed to retreat, but due to communication failure, the order never reached them. Instead, they honored their original orders, which were to defend the border at all costs. They fought so bravely and on such a large front that they tricked the axis into believing that they were facing a force much larger than 40 rifles strong. When finally they were captured and their captors asked them, ”Where are the others?” they simply laughed and answered. - ”There are no others; we are all!”. The song gets its title from their motto Resiste Et Mords, or, in English, Resist and Bite.”