June 7, 1916 — Fort Vaux

The air reeked of decay as Lieutenant Barnacles crouched in a waterlogged trench. The French are mounting a desperate counterattack to retake ground lost to the German 5th Army. Barnacles’ squad, a mix of Sargents, Cadets, and Medics huddled behind sandbags, clutching rifles.

“Hold fast, lads.” Barnacles growled, his claws dug into the mud as he peered over the side of the parapet, across no man’s land. He could hardly see beyond the smoke.

And yet he made something out. Something was coming.

A loud, shrill whistle could be heard. The Lieutenant's eyes widened.

“Incoming!”

He yelled. His soldiers, well trained to respond, immediately reacted. Lifting rifles to their attackers as they fired from the trenches. It was hell. Bloody hell.

Barnacles moved to attack, noticing a particularly close enemy running across no man’s land. He lifted his Mauser Gewehr 98 rifle, eyes carefully observed the incoming threat, and as the French soldier pranced over the wires, a bullet whizzed straight into his flesh. The soldier was thrown back by the force of the bullet, collapsing onto the muddied surface.

He reloaded his bolt with practiced ease, a movement he hardly had to think about doing these days, he merely had to keep his head on and survive.

He looked back at his men, one of them thrown back into the trenches by a bullet. It had hit the man in the shoulder.

“God damnit someone call the medic!”

Barnacles barked, he pushed his way through his men to the collapsed man, kneeling down as he rested his gun on the mud wall.

“Damn it. Did it exit?”

The Lieutenant gently placed a fuzzied paw on the cadet’s shoulder - careful not to injure - he turned the man to examine the wound.

“It didn’t—get the medic! Someone help me move him!”