and spreading the man’s intestines around the hole like some macabre bunting.
The smashed chest rose and fell rapidly, the exposed heart and lungs damaged but still functioning.
The soft sound that emerged from the dying body was hideous, its animal-like tone leaving no doubt that what used to be a man was in the extremes of suffering.
Without a thought, Hamuda slotted his Katana into the man’s chest, spearing the heart with a single thrust, turning his wrist immediately to open the wound.
The heart stilled instantly, and the man, such as he was, knew no more pain.
Hamuda rose and continued his walk amongst the misery.
A handful of men walked dazed, most zombie-like, their minds melted in a maelstrom of explosions, some moving with no purpose other than to move for movement’s sake, others to reassure themselves that they still retained the ability.
One or two moved with purpose, seeking the living to offer assistance.
One such man found his Captain.
Yamagiri was quiet, his head bleeding from mouth and nostrils, injuries caused by blast concealed within his almost intact tunic jacket.
The sleeves hang tattily, absent material from the elbow down… absent flesh from the elbow down.
He sat on the stumps where once his legs had been, surprisingly little blood spilling from his wounds, the swollen ends partially sealing the awful wounds, twin tourniquets fashioned from webbing doing the rest of the life-saving work.
Hamuda squatted beside the destroyed man and held his shoulder.
Yamagiri smiled, the small act allowing a renewed surge of blood and detritus from his mouth.
“So, Major Hamuda… this is the end eh?”
Both listeners were incredulous that the man could speak at all, let alone coherently, and almost without any indication that he had been mortally wounded.
The young private wiped his captain’s mouth clear of blood.
“Thank you, Saisho.”
The soldier bowed his head respectfully.
Yamagiri made a study of examining himself, his eyes flitting from wound to wound.
“Major, it would appear that I’ll not be making the last charge with you. So sorry.”
“Rest, Hideyo, rest now.”
The dying man laughed, clearly and crisply.
“No, I think not, Major. It’s time to meet my ancestors.”
Yamagiri looked at the bloody stumps of his arms, and turned his gaze back to Hamuda.
No words were needed, his mute request well understood.
Hamuda’s silent reflection was interrupted by the sounds of approaching vehicles, the screech of tank tracks mixing with the revving of heavy engines, as Pershings and half-tracks moved towards the river crossing.
He stood and bowed deeply to the dead Yamagiri, using a piece of paper to wipe the remaining blood from his sword.
A number of survivors, nine in total, had gravitated towards their leader, arming themselves with whatever they could find, ready to offer a final act of resistance.
Two of the men were so wounded as to be unable to support a weapon of any kind, but they were determined to be in the charge.
The men organised themselves with the help of a Corporal, himself wounded and dripping blood as he walked the line.
Hamuda looked upon them; the last of the Rainbow Brigade.
The corporal brought the group to some semblance of attention, saluted Hamuda, and adopted the very best ‘attention’ position he could manage.
Something changed in his mind.
He would not die this day, nor would his men die in some grand gesture of fealty to the Emperor.
‘Enough… we have all done enough.’
“Men… we have done our duty to the Emperor and our country… we have always done our duty… and done it well.”
Hamuda turned and levelled his sword at the advancing armada of power.
“Our duty is clear…”
The sword swept savagely through the air as he turned back to his waiting soldiers.
“Our Emperor has today informed us of it, and you have all heard it.”
The katana slid back in its scabbard. With additional drama, Hamuda extracted
The smashed chest rose and fell rapidly, the exposed heart and lungs damaged but still functioning.
The soft sound that emerged from the dying body was hideous, its animal-like tone leaving no doubt that what used to be a man was in the extremes of suffering.
Without a thought, Hamuda slotted his Katana into the man’s chest, spearing the heart with a single thrust, turning his wrist immediately to open the wound.
The heart stilled instantly, and the man, such as he was, knew no more pain.
Hamuda rose and continued his walk amongst the misery.
A handful of men walked dazed, most zombie-like, their minds melted in a maelstrom of explosions, some moving with no purpose other than to move for movement’s sake, others to reassure themselves that they still retained the ability.
One or two moved with purpose, seeking the living to offer assistance.
One such man found his Captain.
Yamagiri was quiet, his head bleeding from mouth and nostrils, injuries caused by blast concealed within his almost intact tunic jacket.
The sleeves hang tattily, absent material from the elbow down… absent flesh from the elbow down.
He sat on the stumps where once his legs had been, surprisingly little blood spilling from his wounds, the swollen ends partially sealing the awful wounds, twin tourniquets fashioned from webbing doing the rest of the life-saving work.
Hamuda squatted beside the destroyed man and held his shoulder.
Yamagiri smiled, the small act allowing a renewed surge of blood and detritus from his mouth.
“So, Major Hamuda… this is the end eh?”
Both listeners were incredulous that the man could speak at all, let alone coherently, and almost without any indication that he had been mortally wounded.
The young private wiped his captain’s mouth clear of blood.
“Thank you, Saisho.”
The soldier bowed his head respectfully.
Yamagiri made a study of examining himself, his eyes flitting from wound to wound.
“Major, it would appear that I’ll not be making the last charge with you. So sorry.”
“Rest, Hideyo, rest now.”
The dying man laughed, clearly and crisply.
“No, I think not, Major. It’s time to meet my ancestors.”
Yamagiri looked at the bloody stumps of his arms, and turned his gaze back to Hamuda.
No words were needed, his mute request well understood.
Hamuda’s silent reflection was interrupted by the sounds of approaching vehicles, the screech of tank tracks mixing with the revving of heavy engines, as Pershings and half-tracks moved towards the river crossing.
He stood and bowed deeply to the dead Yamagiri, using a piece of paper to wipe the remaining blood from his sword.
A number of survivors, nine in total, had gravitated towards their leader, arming themselves with whatever they could find, ready to offer a final act of resistance.
Two of the men were so wounded as to be unable to support a weapon of any kind, but they were determined to be in the charge.
The men organised themselves with the help of a Corporal, himself wounded and dripping blood as he walked the line.
Hamuda looked upon them; the last of the Rainbow Brigade.
The corporal brought the group to some semblance of attention, saluted Hamuda, and adopted the very best ‘attention’ position he could manage.
Something changed in his mind.
He would not die this day, nor would his men die in some grand gesture of fealty to the Emperor.
‘Enough… we have all done enough.’
“Men… we have done our duty to the Emperor and our country… we have always done our duty… and done it well.”
Hamuda turned and levelled his sword at the advancing armada of power.
“Our duty is clear…”
The sword swept savagely through the air as he turned back to his waiting soldiers.
“Our Emperor has today informed us of it, and you have all heard it.”
The katana slid back in its scabbard. With additional drama, Hamuda extracted
Similar Books
