If there is one thing that made him stick his finger up his nose, It would be to be assigned to a misfit battalion after receiving his commission. If there is something that made his heart skip a beat, it's to be the literal Feldwebel despite being a first lieutenant in his own platoon; he normally had to carry a baton to wack people in the head for being rowdy. If there's another that made his blood boil, it would be to be given the responsibility to babysit a foreigner under the auspices of a military attache. He can't help but really curse his own luck at this juncture. Not only is the additional complication of teaching the bastard the ropes a hassle but keeping him alive as well is worth a damn.

Military attaches aren't even supposed to go to war. They were meant to be sucking it up with the ambassador and participate in tours and inspections or even to only take part in an important event. But this year, it just made no sense! Not only were they assigned in a way that would've made a seven year old piss himself in the cold, but they were deployed in huge numbers that they were even using mothballed weapons that were barely used during basic training. He had to painstakingly teach the bugger how clean and disassemble the thing. Not only is it a hassle since the weapon was nearly two hundred years old and was over-engineered but the idea that he was the only person capable of improving the person's performance by acting as the spotter and even personal trainer truly pissed him off.

But one thing was in his mind. If they were given reservist weapons, does that mean that mean that they were sent in huge numbers to the point that the current industrial capacity could no longer accommodate that many troops? The entire Drester Army had a core army of up to one million men, add the conscripts and you have approximately a total of 20 million men every three years! But there never was a time when the Drestburg issued mothballed rifles to frontliners. For three hundred years, Drestburg managed to give enough weapons to satisfy the demand without compromise. But now, why is it?

As he sat there trying to write his woes underneath a deep blue sky while perched on a mountain top, his charge messed up the silencer whilst doing boring maintenance. He desperately need a way to rant right in front of the King of Frankrike, asking how this person managed get himself promoted in the first place. Though his way of conveying his annoyance was only through narrowing his eyebrows while staring at that person. Jean D'Seelowe's sharp jaw made it seem softer however that most who see him this way are bound to instead smile or outright robbed of their senses as it struck them as cute. Both a detriment and a blessing; especially to the ladies. Still, despite his tendencies to outright repress his tensions unless untenable, times like these are more likely the norm despite it being constantly misunderstood as himself trying to look cute.

Sitting on top of a mountain for nearly six weeks didn't really help. They were constantly undersupplied in this position. If not for the steep cliffs and jagged rocks that constantly cut him and the undead, he would've dug his base elsewhere. But this place is perfect for his mission. As long as they cut their daily rations in half, they're safe; they were sitting on their asses all day anyway. And the nearest firebase is only four kilometers away, giving them a good chance for an escape.

As he looked once more on his slightly better and bigger binoculars, he saw something he's only heard but never seen. Ever since he supervised the rescue of the downed pilot a while ago, he and another platoon was sent here to both monitor and repel any attempts at capturing this mountain that stared straight at the massive city in front of him. The other platoon had a commander who looked closely similar to him (the man even looked pretty much like him) but had a very loud mouth that nearly denied him his promotion despite his competence in the heat of battle. The man's platoon were akin to dogs as to Jean's wolves. Jean still exercises his own level of discipline, but his brand was better as he trusts more of his own than any can achieve. He made it clear that should he ever run into some sort of trouble, his command squad would take the reins it was more than just clear; they even carry out the artillery spotting as long as he gave the order beforehand. Those things were more alive than dead. And as expected, lead a number before staying in the same place that was bombarded to smithereens a few days ago. They are not very clever. Only, by that time he never saw one.

After Oskar helped the Frinker with his maintenance the young lieutenant sat closely near him and pulled his own binocular before gawking.

" So the rumours were true!" he asked calmly as Jean turned his head towards him.

" Yes, they are true." He stated in the same manner. If there's one thing that he could at the least be proud of, it would this Frinker's seemingly devout adoption of Drester officer deamenor. He once proudly said at a bar once that their instructors were less likely to smack him at the back of his head because of it. And this man happened to be exhibiting it, that at the least managed to hold him back from smacking this man as well.

" What would be your choice of action now commander? Would this be a good time to bring hell on them?"

" Can you see something weird going on today lieutenant?" Jean asked in his usual near aloof demeanor.

The lieutenant didn't open his mouth, he only stared at him as he stared back.

" We don't know the extent of their intelligence, those pack herders could be just as smart as a sogerman. We can't afford to blast them now as they're stumbling out the gate."

" So, it's far better to wait until they clump closely and move before sending the artillery?" he asked eagerly.

" Indeed. Hasty decisions had no place in a shifting battlefield. That one in the middle that carried that black box could be doing something. Who knows what it's...!" He cut his words short as the thing turned its head and looked straight at him. He saw the emptiness in those dark eyes. Despite being dead, he could tell that this one was fresh and indeed young; very young. The ordeal ended as he started to feel something weird crawl up his spine, that's when he heard the rockets fly straight into him.

Balls of streaming orange lights whizzed through the air and struck their position. If not for the trenches that he forced the platoon to dig, he would have truly died. It was only when he could truly tell the head from the tail that he and Pierre started jumping into the fortification of his creation. And just as the rockets started blowing that he crawled towards a nearby radio and asked for the artillery to strike. The cannons placed 20 kilometers away pounded at that gathered group that they showed their real colors. Unlike the cannons before which lobbed 100mm shells a while back, now it lobbed 200mm incindiary shells straight at his targets. The ground shook as the shells landed. And not only were potholes made, but the shells also dug holes the size of foxholes. Despite the amount of viscera being splattered, both sides lobbed their projectiles despite the ridiculous amount but still both kept it sending.

If there's one thing that Jean could at the least be happy about, it would be three things. First would be the terrain, they weren't digging trenches and fox holes in a flat hill. They were digging them in the most dangerous area of the mountain where various lumps and even sharp pointed ferrite rocks were not just littered but defined the place giving the enemy artillery problems when trying to achieve a good amount of splash damage; Second is the trenches they dug were almost two meters deep, making the chances of suffering casualties utterly low. Not to mention that they used the very rare vibrating drills to break the rough rocks. Despite the fact that those things were near silent for a forgotten reason, Jean was educated enough to know that the vibrations could possibly attact the undead. So he decided keep his men and women alert an to take potshot whenever they find something within 300-400m from the base; The third reason would be his current equipment. During his tenure at the wall, he usually wore a soft cap with neck flaps for cold weather and the usual Drester gloomy but spiffy grey uniform. Now he wore Light weight steel armor covering his chest to the borders of his crotch, a crested helmet which bore a very similar appearance to the ancient Genoese open sallet, Polymer Pteruges worn on the shoulders, arms, thighs and legs. In other words, he's just as well armored as a knight on horseback and not just him everybody wore it. Even the foreigners discarded their inferior helmets and armors for these new gear. The only problem was a lack of true pauldrons and the degree of customization when wearing the pteruges. It takes a lot of time just to optimize that portion of the armor if not for the modular nature of its design. But still, wearing something that could save your life is better than facing the threats with a loin cloth as your underwear.

Huddling underneath the trench, Pierre could hear rocks, splinters and even earth bouncing on top of his helmet alongside shockwaves that made continually disorented him. He was clearly not ready for such a bombardment compared to his commanding officer who unbelievably was even writing calmly the current event in his book! Despite the current chaos that lasted for nearly half an hour, the first lieutenant calmly wrote the latest entry before glancing at him. His eyes was barely focused on the frinker as he thought of something else to write.

Just as the crossfire stopped, Jean immediately jumped out of his trench like a cat and tried to observed the situation below shocking Pierre with his hasty decision and action. If there's something that he noticed, its that the place where once hundreds gathered currently resembled spilled ketchup. All bodies literally disentigrated that even at the highest setting, his binocular could barely catch a glimpse of even a single body part in the midst of all the viscera.

Turning his head towards the trenches he screamed!!!

" 2ND PLATOON!!! REPORT!!!"

One by one, Sergeants replied:

" First squad fine and dining!"

" Second squad! Still Kicking!

" Third squad! Better than ever!"

' These bastards just can't stop mucking around can't they! I thought I told them not to get way overboard months ago!' He thought as the snickered while the fourth and fifth squad leaders squealed some random nonsense.

" Sixth squad! Ready for orders sir!"

Jean noticed a string of silence before hearing someone shout!

" Command squad! One member down! Send a medic!"

" WHO'S HIT!!!" Jean screamed as he ran near panicked towards the portion where his own command squad took position.

" It's Jill! Send the medic! She's bleeding badly!!!!"

Two men with encirled red crosses raced towards the place reaching it before the Lieutenant. Admittedly she should've been dead with all the blood that's spilled but Oscar and Grigory managed to buy her some time with rudementary first aid that made the medics puke.

" What the hell happened here?"

" She went back to the bunker to get some ammo for Grigory here sir! But the last thing I knew, she flew face first into our trench with a back that looked like an echidna's ass. We did what we could, though we could hear clearly even now sir!"

This unfortunately pissed him off. If there's anything that a D'Seelow is known for, then it's a near nonexistent casualty rate while they're in command. This could've been a stain in his name. His face deteriorated into a scornful expression that when he asked Pierre for the long range radio, Pierre's face seemed to jump out of his line of sight.

" Armata, this is Foxhole 3. Requesting fire mission in gridsquare 3537, over?"

" Roger that Foxhole 3, sending shells to position."

Still with eyes filled with fury, he looked at his recovering men and screamed:

" 2nd Platoon! Pack up your bags and move to 352371! Do you understand!!!" His scream nearly echoed the entire valley to their side as the shells started pouring down into the city en masse. The men collectively replied: " Sir yes sir!!!"

' If only I commanded a normal outfit, I wouldn't be in this position. Damn to bloody slow you misfits' His thoughts crammed his mind as he looked back at the burning city, only this time multiple mushroom clouds erupted. There must've been some sort of fossil fuel or some devastating form of munition that they have never faced before. But to his mind it doesn't really mattered that much. The other platoon must've observed what had happened, they should be able to report it quicker than him who is now burdened by a bunch of soldier who are currently struggling with making an organized retreat. Still, now that they had forced his hand they shouldn't expect anything. Grid Square 352371 was only 400 meters away from them, and its an interconnected series of bunkers carved on the mountain.

This time, he wouldn't be directing artillery strikes. He already told the other commander of his intentions to hole up in case the undead would start scaling the mountain. And of course the loud mouth disagreed, only to be rebuked when he instead suggested that they switch positions instead. They might be First lieutenants in charge of a single platoon each, but they were given autonomy in this theater as the General seemed to genuinely trust them both; a D'Seelow and a Madras.

Looking at the wounded Jill, his eyes calmed as he pressed the button. Collapsing the entire trench network that they painfully made for a week. Denying their enemy some needed cover.

As of now, the enemy would have to fight them in the open. If only they knew how to properly use cover.