TEXT: BattleCorps
  DOG SOLDIERS
  Jeff Kautz
  
  BattleCorps
  Dog Soldiers • Page 
  Camp Allard 
  Suburbs of Yang-ku 
  Nanking 
  4 February 3068
  The first few days of high alerts and pent up frustration dragged 
  on into weeks of bored complacency as the regiment settled back 
  into old routines. Tension hung in the air like a heavy fog as word of 
  the Word of Blake attacks spread. Rumors of the Lancers’ impend-
  ing redeployment compounded the problem as civilians, angry at 
  the prospect of being abandoned once again, began to protest in 
  the street. The protests grew increasingly angry and violent as the 
  weeks dragged on. 
  It was early February when Captain Jorgenson summoned Clay 
  to his office. Jorgenson’s office was small and sparsely decorated. 
  Located on the third floor of the Battalion Operations building, the 
  single large window gave a good view of the Company’s multi-
  storied barracks building and the parade grounds beyond. It was 
  early and Clay could see Sergeant Deemer leading Second Platoon 
  on their morning run. The platoon shuffled out the main gate past 
  a garbage truck that backed up to the service entrance at the rear 
  of the barracks. The troops would circle the base on the perim-
  eter road and return through the back gate, stopping at the parade 
  ground to cool down before marching off to chow. Clay hoped to 
  meet with Sergeant Markel in the mess hall to go over the day’s 
  training schedule.
  Jorgenson stood behind his desk, shuffling through a handful of 
  papers. His expression was grave.
  “How bad is it?”
  “It’s bad, Top.” Jorgenson scowled and rubbed his square jaw. 
  “The Blakists have hit Coventry and Donegal. At least we think it’s 
  the Blakists, but with Skye going crazy who can tell? Something’s 
  happening on Luthien, we don’t know what. Dracs are saying ev-
  erything’s fine but you know how they are.”
  Clay harrumphed as he picked up the latest stack of intel re-
  ports.
  “Deiron’s definitely been hit, and the rumors we’ve been hearing 
  about New Avalon…” Clay’s head snapped around at the mention 
  of the Federated Suns’ capital. Jorgenson merely nodded. 
  
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  “Bombarded?”
  “And occupied,” added Jorgenson.
  Clay dropped the file jacket. “We going?”
  Jorgenson sighed heavily. Thumbing through a stack of reports, 
  he pulled out a memo and handed it to Clay. 
  Clay skimmed the memo and slapped it back onto the top of the 
  pile. 
  “I can’t believe this,” he said disgustedly. “Hadnall? It doesn’t 
  make any sense! How can they go ahead with the redeployment 
  in light of what’s happened? Hasek’s moving us into position to at-
  tack the Confederation while our own house burns down around 
  us! Where’s the sense in it?”
  “Standard operational procedure, Dave.” Jorgenson’s dour ex-
  pression betrayed his true feelings about the planned move. 
  “Follow your last standing order. Doesn’t have to make sense.”
  “My ass! We should be kicking the Blakists off New Avalon, not 
  going on some adventure for the sake of some noble’s ego!” 
  “Some folks are of the opinion that the Cappies are working with 
  the Blakists, that they helped start this whole mess.”
  “Tell me you don’t really believe that!”
  Clay pushed up from the corner of the desk and paced circles 
  around the small room, wringing his hands in frustration. 
  The two had been friends for a number of years. Kurt Jorgenson 
  had started as a recruit when Clay was a drill instructor. Clay had 
  enjoyed watching the young man mold himself into a first rate 
  officer, and he took some satisfaction in knowing he had played 
  some role, however small, in his friend’s success. On the parade 
  ground they were all business but here it was a less formal envi-
  ronment where they could speak freely with each other. 
  “We don’t know what’s out there, we’re totally blind. We aban-
  don Nanking now and we leave the Sarna March wide open!”
  Jorgenson stood and moved around the desk. He poured two 
  cups of steaming coffee, offering one to Clay, and took a sip. 
  “You’re preaching to the choir, Top, but it’s a done deal. The first 
  of the ’Mech battalions boosted this morning. Took the ACAV with 
  them along with one of the fighter wings.” He opened another 
  
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  packet of sugar and stirred the contents into his cup. “The other 
  units are on standby. We’d be gone by now too, if we had the 
  transports.” The unit was stripped of its JumpShips years earlier 
  after failing to openly support Katherine Steiner-Davion. They had 
  yet to recover their full complement of vessels.
  “At least that’s one good thing we have to thank the Ice Princess 
  for,” muttered Clay. “So when do we go?”
  “Don’t know yet. They’ll tell us at the last minute, you know that. 
  Just make sure they’re ready.”
  Clay placed his hands on the windowsill and stared out at noth-
  ing in particular. Just when things were starting to come together. 
  Now I have to get these people ready to abandon their homes and 
  families to the mercy of God knows what, just when we’re needed 
  here most. This is not going to be easy.
  Clay stood at the window trying to think of a way to break the 
  news to his troops. As his gaze swept over the barracks building 
  he sensed something was wrong. The garbage hauler was still 
  parked at the back of the building. They should have moved on by 
  now. Looking closer he noticed the driver’s door was slightly ajar 
  and the crew was nowhere in sight.
  Clay spun away from the window just as the blast ripped through 
  the morning air. The concussion knocked him to the floor and 
  flung Jorgenson across the room where he collided with a tall fil-
  ing cabinet before sprawling out across the desk. He shook off the 
  shards of glass that covered him and knelt to help his friend. Clay 
  was buried under a pile of broken glass and window debris, but 
  aside from numerous cuts and bruises, both men were okay.
  They made their way downstairs and out into the parking area 
  where they were greeted with a horrific sight. The garbage hauler 
  was gone, disintegrated by the explosion. The rear of the barracks 
  building had partially collapsed, upper stories crushing down on 
  the floors below.
  A huge cloud of smoke rose into the sky, providing a beacon for 
  the medic vehicles that were already streaming to the scene. One of 
  the first emergency techs to arrive approached Clay and Jorgenson 
  to administer aid but the two men refused treatment, instead climb-
  ing the rubble pile to assist in organizing a search for survivors.
  The damage could have been much worse. The barracks had 
  been mostly empty in the area most affected by the blast. Three 
  
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  soldiers who had come off perimeter guard duty only one hour 
  before died while asleep in their bunks. A civilian custodian was 
  also killed. The unfortunate man had walked to the rear of the 
  building to have a smoke. 
  Several soldiers had been wounded, some seriously. Most were 
  from Third Platoon, whose platoon sergeant had decided to cut 
  them a break and give them an extra hour of sleep. Despite the 
  low casualty count the attack had still accomplished its objective. 
  The unit morale suffered most, and that type of damage was al-
  ways hardest to repair.
  
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  Liaoning Province 
  Nanking 
  10 March 3068
  The bomb attack on their barracks was not the only strike at 
  Camp Allard. Early February saw three more bombings at the base, 
  and although casualties had been relatively light, the attacks had 
  exposed the vulnerabilities inherent in stationing large numbers 
  of troops at what was essentially an open post, with civilian work-
  ers coming and going pretty much as they pleased. The decision 
  was made to move most of the troops off base while new secu-
  rity measures were put into place, resulting in units being spread 
  throughout the countryside, far from their supporting elements.
  First MI had been shipped off to Liaoning Province, over four 
  hundred kilometers from Yang-ku, Nanking’s capital. Second 
  Battalion was billeted in and around the small city of Panjin in 
  the middle of a river valley dotted with small farming communi-
  ties. It was in one of these communities—Clay couldn’t remember 
  the name much less pronounce it—where Charlie Company took 
  residence.
  The village was really just a collection of about a dozen barns 
  and single-story dwellings arranged at an intersection of three 
  paved roads that wound through the surrounding farm fields.
  The climate this far south was temperate even in winter, allow-
  ing the locals to grow rice for most of the year. During the mild, 
  dry winter months they grew a myriad of tubers and grains as 
  well as a hardy lemongrass that they used for everything from 
  flavoring beer to thatching roofs. The homes in the valley were 
  modest but well kept, with sloping roofs designed to channel 
  and collect rainwater, since the area had never received the 
  benefit of a public utility system. The water was collected in 
  large decorative urns and fed through a series of cisterns into a 
  group of wells that the residents shared equally. During the four 
  month rainy season the wells would fill to overflowing, provid-
  ing the village with water for the rest of the year. It was an 
  ingenious system that relied on methods that had been in use 
  for centuries. 
  As he observed the villagers going about their daily routines, 
  Clay could not help but think back to his family farm on Brockton, 
  where engineers with scientific degrees had tried to use machin-
  ery to conquer nature rather than work in harmony with it. In the 
  
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  end, all the advanced technology in the universe had not been 
  enough to save them.
  The troops spent their first week in the village assisting a compa-
  ny of engineers with the construction of a temporary barracks and 
  mess facility. Once the pre-fab buildings were set up and secured, 
  they set about improving their defenses, scarring the otherwise 
  idyllic countryside with bunkers and trench lines. 
  Once settled in, the regular military routine began again. The 
  soldiers woke early for physical training, taking long runs along 
  the paddy dikes that crisscrossed the rice fields, before spend-
  ing the majority of their days practicing patrolling techniques and 
  squad tactics. They set up a firing range to keep up their marks-
  manship skills. They also dug fighting positions along the roads 
  entering the village, concealing them with camouflage netting and 
  grass mats knitted for them by the villagers. 
  The troops were free to spend their evenings as they wished as 
  long as they stayed within the boundaries of the village. Aside 
  from a small local pub, the village did not offer much in the way of 
  entertainment. Clay knew that soldiers, when deprived of leisure 
  activities, would quickly become bored and that was when trouble 
  usually started. Bored troops would create their own entertainment, 
  usually at the expense of the civilian population. In an attempt to 
  head off the situation before it started, Clay requested and received 
  permission to lead some evening excursions into Panjin. He also 
  requisitioned some exercise equipment from Camp Allard and the 
  troops built a small workout room, which eventually expanded to 
  include a lounge equipped with tri-vids and holo-games. Life in the 
  village, though mundane, was at least comfortable. For a time.
  v v v
  “Think they’ll come?”
  Hannan smirked. He was doing it again. Ask a question, get her 
  to talk. Make her spend her wind. He did it every night around 
  this time, right before they eased into the final turn before the 
  last half klick sprint back to the barracks. The difference was, to-
  night she was ready for it. The long midnight runs in the crisp air 
  had strengthened her lungs, and she’d been holding back all night. 
  Tonight was the night she would beat him for sure. 
  She huffed out a breath of vapor, pacing herself before answer-
  ing. “Wouldn’t you?”
  
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  Chen kept a good pace beside her. She ventured a glance in his 
  direction. He wasn’t even winded. 
  “I dunno,” he said, squeezing the words out between breaths. 
  “We’re not much of a threat.”
  “Aren’t we?” Hannan scoffed, feet pounding a hard rhythm on the 
  blacktop. “Look at the facts. We’re one of a handful of RCTs that 
  weren’t completely devastated in the war. That fact alone makes 
  us a threat…and a target.” After a few more heady breaths she 
  continued, “Add in the fact that we’re sitting on a ’Mech factory 
  and I’d say it’s not so much a question of if…” she lengthened her 
  stride, cruising through the final turn, “…but when!” 
  A sudden burst of speed propelled her out in front of Chen. She 
  felt her second wind kick in, lungs cycling the cool air, legs moving 
  freely, separate from conscious thought. She was well out ahead. 
  So far out she could no longer hear Chen’s footfalls beside hers. 
  The barracks were in sight up ahead. She was winning! And it was 
  easy. Too easy. Something was wrong.
  Hannan turned and was surprised to see Chen far behind, stand-
  ing in the middle of the road looking up at the stars. A trick? He 
  wants me to look up, lose my concentration so he can sucker me? 
  No, he was too far back, he would never catch her. 
  “What is it?” Chen did not reply. Hannan gazed skyward, search-
  ing the night sky for some sign of whatever it was…there! Tiny 
  pinpricks of light. Not stars, these were closer, brighter. 
  Dropship flares. Four, five at least. Diamond formation. Military.
  Hannan turned and found Chen returning her stare. “We’d better 
  wake First Sergeant Clay!”
   v v v
  Aroused from his light slumber, Clay received the news he had 
  been dreading for months. Nanking was under attack. 
  Jorgenson confirmed it. Unidentified JumpShips had appeared 
  at several pirate points in the system, disgorging several military 
  DropShips that were already on a high-speed burn toward the planet, 
  with the lead elements only hours away. The Regiment was on full 
  alert. Sirens in the cities and throughout the countryside sent resi-
  dents scurrying to underground shelters, fearing a holocaust similar 
  to the ones that had been unleashed on Outreach and Tharkad. 
  
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  At their modest base camp, the troops of Charlie Company 
  huddled in their bunkers and waited, watching the night sky and 
  silently praying. It was all they could do.
  
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  Liaoning Province 
  Nanking 
  15 March 3068
  The battle for Nanking, now into its fourth day, had thus far 
  remained conventional. The first targets attacked were commu-
  nication and command facilities. The dispersion of the Lancer’s 
  elements lessened the effects of these attacks but the unit still 
  suffered long blackout periods as command struggled to repair 
  damaged communications assets. 
  Intelligence was spotty at best. All Captain Jorgenson had been 
  able to find out was that the enemy, identified by their markings 
  and organization as Word of Blake, had combat-dropped ’Mechs 
  onto the plains west of Yang-ku and immediately marched on the 
  capital. An armored battalion had delayed their advance until the 
  Regiment’s own ’Mechs could be brought in and a furious battle 
  now raged outside the city, threatening to spill into the streets. 
  Several smaller enemy detachments had been spotted in outly-
  ing areas but their strength and objectives were unclear. It was 
  suspected that these small units would be used to delay the Lancer 
  forces on their way to reinforce those troops that were engaged 
  near the capital. Jorgenson’s orders had remained “hold in place 
  and await further instructions.”
  The troops of Second Platoon were filing into the tiny mess hall 
  for evening chow when the intercom crackled with the news that 
  they were on full alert and ordered to their fighting positions im-
  mediately. The troops let out a collective groan. These types of 
  alerts had happened numerous times since the fighting began 
  and seemingly always during chow, thus far producing no results 
  other than wasted food and hungry, grumbling soldiers. Still, the 
  hall cleared out in minutes, plates and glasses left on the tables to 
  be cleaned up later. 
  Night was swiftly overtaking the landscape as the soldiers hur-
  ried to their fighting positions, stopping by the arms lockers to 
  grab weapons and draw ammunition. They had practiced quick 
  deployments many times since the alerts began and the troops 
  easily found their way to their assigned positions, even in the low 
  light conditions. 
  The night was chilly and a light frost had begun to form along 
  the tops of the paddy dikes. The sky was moonless and darkening, 
  
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  with only the purplish glow of the sun’s last rays on the horizon 
  providing any warmth or illumination. Soon even this was gone, 
  leaving the troopers to shiver in their dirt holes under a black-
  ened sky. They waited for hours in nervous anticipation, staring 
  down the barrels of their rifles, palms sweating despite the chill 
  air, bodies growing restless, tired and cold. Eventually, they began 
  to relax. 
  At around twenty-one hundred hours, the kitchen orderlies 
  came by and passed out meal packets, a nice gesture but one that 
  hardly took the place of the hot food that had been denied them. 
  Travis expressed disgust at no one in particular when he opened 
  his packet to find he had received a breakfast meal consisting of 
  dry, greenish eggs in a clump, shot through with greasy sausage 
  links. It was the most dreaded concoction in the AFFC inventory. 
  Reichel snickered, but took pity on Travis and handed him a brick 
  of freeze dried fruit from his own meal. 
  Kelley knelt down in her foxhole and pressed a button on her 
  watch, illuminating the face. She swept a stray strand of blonde 
  hair from her face and tucked it up under the lip of her helmet. Four 
  hours they had spent in the damp holes. She was cold, the knees 
  and butt of her uniform pants soaked through with moisture from 
  the ground. Surely, the alert would be called off soon and they 
  would be allowed to go back to the barracks and get some sleep. 
  At that moment, the radio crackled to life. Sergeant Deemer 
  moved from trooper to trooper, passing the word that an enemy 
  recon element had been spotted on the east side of the village, the 
  sector guarded by First Platoon. Already, the sounds of firing were 
  drifting over Second Platoon’s positions. The troops grew silent 
  and pulled their weapons in tightly to their shoulders. The only 
  sound aside from the quiet squelching of the radio was the loud 
  beating of their hearts.
  The radio crackled again as the forward observation team broke 
  squelch to report movement on the road that Clay had detected 
  an instant before. Four vehicles with blacked out headlights were 
  crawling toward Second Platoon’s line. They were traveling slowly, 
  and as they grew closer, Clay made them out to be a Chevalier light 
  tank in the lead, followed by a light SRM carrier and two wheeled 
  APCs. No hovers, that’s good, he thought. That meant the enemy 
  vehicles were confined to the narrow road unless they wanted to 
  take the chance on becoming mired in the sticky mud of the paddy 
  field. That SRM carrier could be trouble though. We can’t afford to 
  let it get a shot off.
  
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  Armed with a brace of short-range missile launchers, the SRM 
  carrier could blanket a wide area with deadly high explosives. 
  They would have to take it out quickly. Clay passed the word down 
  the line to hold fire until the order was given, and then to concen-
  trate on the carrier. He trusted Benton to do the same on his side 
  of the line. 
  Benton’s anti-armor weapons were deployed in a concave semi-
  circle that spanned the road at the entrance to the village. The village 
  was elevated slightly to prevent flooding during the rainy season, and 
  the soldiers had taken advantage of the terrain, positioning them-
  selves along the rise in the ground. The exceptions were Chen, who 
  had chosen a spot in the loft of a barn, and two members of Benton’s 
  squad who waited in flood ditches on either side of the road. Armed 
  with mines to which they had attached thin steel cables, their job 
  was to stop or at least delay the first vehicle in the column, hopefully 
  blocking the enemy’s advance along the road. 
  Clay watched as the column crept closer and closer, turrets track-
  ing from side to side. The enemy was now within one hundred fifty 
  meters of their positions. He knew that although the cold, damp 
  ground would help to mask their heat signatures, they could not 
  hope to remain undetected for much longer. He was about to give 
  the order to fire when the lead vehicle exploded in a blinding flash. 
  The miners had done their work remarkably well and as the night 
  lit up with flashes of gunfire, he could make out the two crouching 
  soldiers running toward the safety of their lines. 
  At once the night sky lit up, crisscrossed with burning tracer and 
  smoke contrails. Smoke billowed from the Chevalier’s hatches. 
  The crew leapt from the vehicle only to be cut down in a hail of fire. 
  The APCs had stopped only long enough to disgorge their comple-
  ment of infantry, and were backing away down the road. Benton’s 
  gunners tried to target the SRM carrier with their machine guns 
  and heavy gyrojet rifles but the vehicle had pulled up close behind 
  the burning Chevalier and become lost in the smoke. 
  A round from a VLAW, no doubt meant for the carrier, instead 
  overshot and impacted against the front glacis plate of the lead 
  APC. The lightly armored vehicle shuddered under the impact and 
  stopped. Another round, this time precisely aimed, finished it off, 
  penetrating the vulnerable side armor and igniting its stored fuel. 
  Fire quickly consumed the vehicle, bathing the road and surround-
  ing fields in an orange glow. 
  The Blakist infantry fanned out and took cover behind the paddy 
  dikes. They tried to advance but were met with a fusillade of fire 
  
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  from the dug-in rifle squads. Benton’s mortar teams, positioned 
  behind the row of buildings that bordered the rice fields, began 
  dropping round after round onto the heads of the enemy. 
  Whether in retaliation or perhaps just firing blindly, the SRM car-
  rier let off a full barrage which sailed into the village, demolishing 
  a small equipment shed and sending geysers of earth skyward. 
  Clay knew it would not take long for the crew to find the range and 
  begin wreaking havoc and death on his troops. They had to take 
  out that carrier!
  v v v
  A stray round punched through the thin wall of the barn and 
  tore into the rafters, showering Chen with dust and wood chips. 
  Undaunted, he trained his sniper rifle on an enemy trooper and 
  fired. The man pitched over backward and did not rise. He set his 
  crosshairs on another enemy; this one looked to be issuing orders. 
  The man turned his head as Chen pulled the trigger, causing the 
  heavy round to smash through the side of his helmet. The soldier 
  jerked upright, then fell limp and collapsed across the paddy dike. 
  The barn in which Chen had chosen to position himself had no 
  openings on the side that faced out over the rice paddies. He had 
  knocked a few small holes in the wall that gave him good fields 
  of fire but would be difficult to detect from outside, especially at 
  night. He spent hours hefting sandbags one by one up the rickety 
  ladder until he had enough to create a throne-like revetment out 
  of which he could fire. It was placed back some distance from his 
  firing ports and this, coupled with the weapon’s large flash sup-
  pressor should make it virtually impossible for the enemy to spot 
  the source of his fire. Still, it would not be long before the Blakists 
  figured out that they were being sniped, and the barn, being the 
  tallest building in the village, was far too obvious for them to over-
  look. Chen would soon be forced to abandon his position, but not 
  just yet. 
  Sighting along the dike behind which most of the enemy troops 
  were pinned, Chen noticed the swaying of a radio antenna. He 
  fired a shot into the dike in an attempt to spook the operator into 
  moving, but to no avail. Further down the enemy line, he noticed 
  a pair of troopers struggling to set up a tripod mounted machine 
  gun. He picked off the gunner, the light from the burning vehicles 
  revealing a spray of blood issuing from the man’s throat. He next 
  targeted the gun itself, drilling a round into the receiver that ren-
  
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  dered it useless. The second crewman gave up the weapon and 
  dove behind the dike wall. 
  Tracking left to cover the road, Chen saw a sight that made his 
  blood run cold. The SRM carrier had traversed its turret and aimed 
  its missile tubes straight at his hiding place. The thin walls of the 
  barn would offer no protection against the deadly rain of high 
  explosive rockets and there was no time to run. Chen hunkered 
  down and silently prayed.
  Suddenly, the carrier rocked backward and skewed to the right as 
  Benton’s gunners finally acquired their target. Round after round 
  of armor piercing shaped charge blasted the carrier, their rocket 
  motors trailing white ribbons of smoke. A massive explosion en-
  gulfed the carrier as its stored ammunition detonated, gutting the 
  vehicle and sending its turret sailing out into the muddy field.
  Their vehicles decimated, the enemy infantry chose to withdraw 
  rather than take further punishment. Benton’s mortars continued 
  to pound them until they were out of sight.
  The battle was over. The untested troops of Second Platoon, 
  many of whom had graduated recruit training just months ear-
  lier, had met the enemy and prevailed. Clay was thankful for the 
  dark night, which he was sure had contributed to their victory. 
  Darkness helped to dehumanize the enemy. Firing at shadows 
  was easy. Seeing your enemy face to face in the cold, unforgiving 
  light of day was another matter entirely. Clay hoped his soldiers 
  would never have to learn the difference.
  After remaining in their positions for some time to guard against 
  the possibility of a counterattack, First and Second squads moved 
  out to search for enemy survivors with Benton’s people providing 
  security. As Private Reichel moved past the smoldering vehicles, 
  he came upon an enemy soldier, a tank crewman, who was crawl-
  ing along the road, obviously wounded.
  “Medic! Hey, we got a live one here!” Reichel approached the 
  man and began to call out to him when the Blakist rolled onto his 
  back and leveled a blazer pistol at him. The pistol whined and a 
  double whip of fiery energy stabbed into Reichel’s chest, burning 
  clean through and spraying the road behind him with droplets of 
  scorched blood and tissue. 
  Every Lancer in range poured fire into the Blakist, ripping him to 
  shreds, but it came too late for Reichel. The ceramic mesh body 
  armor worn by all Federated Suns regular infantry was effective 
  
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  against slug weapons and some lasers but offered no protection 
  against a weapon as lethal as a blazer at such close range. 
  Reichel collapsed to his knees, face frozen in wide-eyed disbelief, 
  flames licking from the vicious wound, before pitching forward in 
  a smoldering heap. 
  Medic Travis was on the scene quickly but there was nothing he 
  could do. Beam weapons did horrible things to the inside of the 
  human body. Even a glancing shot to a vital area could boil the 
  blood and cause superheated organs to explode, resulting in mas-
  sive internal trauma that was beyond anyone’s ability to heal. 
  The members of the squad gathered around the grisly scene. 
  Some, like Travis wept outright while others wore hardened looks, 
  their faced carved out of stone. Kelley, choking on bile, knelt by 
  the side of the road and heaved. Hannan turned away and moved 
  along the road, firing into the bodies of fallen enemy soldiers. 
  Chen’s face was outwardly impassive, death was nothing new to 
  him, but looking closely, Clay noticed his smoldering eyes and 
  knew the fire behind them had grown several degrees hotter.
  The squad gathered up Reichel’s body in a poncho and carried 
  him back to the encampment. He had been their first casualty of 
  this war. Clay doubted he would be the last.
  v v v
  The platoon remained in position for the remainder of the night, 
  expecting more Blakist attacks, though none came. They emerged 
  after dawn, and it was only when the sun had risen fully that they 
  surveyed the devastation wrought by the previous night’s battle. 
  Burnt out vehicle hulks littered the road, metal pinging as it 
  cooled. Corpses of dead enemy soldiers were scattered in the 
  fields and among the charred vehicles. Mortar and rocket rounds 
  had dug great furrows into the paddy fields, blowing down the 
  dikes and tearing up large swatches of carefully cultivated vegeta-
  tion. The buildings on the edge of the village showed the scars left 
  by hundreds of rounds that had pockmarked their walls. The air 
  was poisoned with the sickening smell of death. 
  Clay was greatly saddened by the destruction and the effect it 
  would have on the villagers. They would rebuild, he knew, but the 
  village would never again be the place of tranquil innocence it 
  once was.
  
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  Later that afternoon, a platoon of heavy tanks rolled into the vil-
  lage, their treads gouging jagged ruts in the cobblestone streets, 
  adding to the previous night’s destruction. Their commander, a 
  Leftenant Perry, met with Jorgenson, explaining that his unit was 
  part of an armored battalion that was taking over the defense of 
  Liaoning Province. 
  The First MI was needed elsewhere, and the troops of Charlie 
  Company waved goodbye to the villagers and mounted the tracked 
  APCs that would ferry them to a military airfield where they would 
  spend the next few days waiting for transport to the front lines. 
  The battle at Liaoning had been a mere skirmish. The real war was 
  yet to come.
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/BattleTech [multi]/EXTRA/Novels/Battlecorps Novels/Dog Soldiers Pt3 - Jeff Kautz.pdf