Night did not fall at Passchendaele.It descended like a blanket being thrown over a fire.
The sky darkened slowly, reluctantly, as though even the heavens feared what waited below. Clouds swallowed the moon before it could offer any comfort, leaving only a bruised darkness broken by distant flashes of artillery. Each explosion lit the horizon for a heartbeat, revealing torn earth and skeletal trees before plunging the world back into shadow.
Jack lay flat in the mud.
Cold soaked through his uniform, pressing into his chest and stomach as he breathed shallowly, barely daring to move. Ahead of him stretched no-man's land, an expanse of churned earth, shell craters filled with black water, broken wire, and things that had once been men. The smell was worse at night. Damp rot and iron clung to the air, thick enough to taste.
Behind him, his squad waited.
Friedrich. Otto. Karl. Heinrich Vogel, older than the rest, his face carved by mere months of exhaustion. And Lukas Brandt, the youngest, bearly eighteen, eyes too sharp for someone so young.
Jack raised his hand slowly and made a tight fist.
They moved.
Inch by inch, they crawled forward, bellies dragging through the mud. Rifles were slung across their backs, metal wrapped carefully to prevent clinking. Every movement was deliberate, rehearsed, silent. Jack felt the earth shift beneath his palms, the slick resistance of mud sucking at his sleeves.
Somewhere to the left, artillery thundered.
Somewhere to the right, it answered.
The shells were distant enough not to threaten them directly, but close enough that the ground trembled faintly with each impact. The sound was constant, a low, rolling growl that never truly stopped. It was like crawling beneath a storm that never moved.
Jack kept his eyes forward.
He passed bodies.
Some were half-buried, faces turned into the mud as if hiding from the sky. Others lay on their backs, eyes open, reflecting brief flashes of light. One body shifted as Jack crawled past, sliding slightly into a shell hole with a wet sound. He flinched, heart racing, then forced himself onward.
'Just keep moving, Jack.'
Time stretched.
Minutes blurred into something longer, measured not by clocks but by breath and muscle strain. His arms burned. His knees felt raw beneath the fabric of his trousers. Every instinct screamed at him to stand, to run, to escape the ground that seemed eager to claim him.
But he stayed low.
At last, the shape of the forest emerged ahead, Polygon Wood, or what remained of it. Black silhouettes of shattered trees loomed against the faint glow of the horizon. The air changed as they neared it, damp earth giving way to the sharper scent of old stone and oil.
Jack halted and raised two fingers.
The squad froze instantly.
He listened.
Beyond the wood, partially hidden by the trees, rose the fortress, thick stone walls looming out of the darkness. Unlike the mud and timber of the battlefield, the fort looked solid. Permanent. Its silhouette cut sharply against the night, a stark contrast to the ruin surrounding it.
A faint hum drifted toward them.
Engines.
Vehicles idling somewhere inside the fort.
Jack exhaled slowly.
They had made it.
The forest swallowed him and his squad as they entered.
The ground beneath the trees was uneven, roots twisting through the soil like grasping fingers. Jack moved carefully, stepping where shadows pooled deepest, guiding the squad along a narrow approach that avoided open ground. The scouts' reports replayed in his mind: patrol routes, blind spots, the height of the walls.
They reached the base of the fortress without incident.
Up close, the stone walls were massive, rising several metres above them, dark with age and damp. Moss clung to the cracks. Rainwater trickled down in thin streams, catching faint light from within the compound.
Jack pressed his back to the wall and listened.
Voices.
French.
Indistinct, muffled by stone, but unmistakably human, casual conversation, laughter drifting faintly through an open embrasure somewhere above. The sound tightened Jack's chest. These weren't faceless enemies in the distance. They were men, talking about things that mattered to them, unaware of death climbing toward them in the dark.
Jack raised his hand and gave a slow, circular motion.
Preparation.
The squad moved with quiet efficiency. Grappling hooks were unpacked, ropes checked and rechecked. Metal was wrapped in cloth. Knots were tested with careful tugs.
Friedrich glanced at Jack. "Clear so far," he whispered.
Jack nodded.
He signalled upward.
The first hook flew, arcing silently into the darkness. It caught with a dull, muted clink that seemed deafening in Jack's ears. He froze, heart hammering, waiting for a shout, a flare, a gunshot.
Nothing.
A second hook followed. Then a third.
Jack took hold of the rope.
The stone was cold beneath his gloves as he climbed, muscles tensing with every pull. The wall seemed to go on forever, each movement slow and controlled. Below him, the faint shapes of his squad followed, shadows against shadows.
Halfway up, he paused.
The hum of engines grew louder. He could smell oil now, and something else, cigarette smoke drifting from somewhere above. A laugh echoed faintly, closer this time.
Jack swallowed.
'Almost there.'
He reached the top and hooked his arm over the edge, pulling himself up just enough to peer over.
The interior of the fort opened before him.
Dim lights illuminated stone walkways and courtyards below. A pair of trucks sat parked near a low building, engines idling quietly. Crates were stacked along the walls. A single guard paced nearby, rifle slung loosely, posture relaxed.
Jack shifted his weight to climb fully over.
That was when it happened.
A shadow moved to his right.
"Hé—"
Two French soldiers stepped into view, their faces registering shock as they locked eyes with Jack. For a split second, none of them moved.
Then one of the soldiers lunged.
Hands slammed into Jack's chest, shoving him backwards toward the edge. Stone scraped painfully against his lower back as he fought to keep his balance, fingers clawing for purchase. The second soldier shouted, reaching for his rifle.
Time collapsed into adrenaline.
Jack drove his knee forward, slamming it into the first man's thigh. The soldier grunted but didn't let go, hands scrabbling at Jack's coat as he tried to force him over the wall.
Jack's heel slipped.
For a horrifying moment, gravity tugged at him, the drop yawning beneath his back.
A blur of motion surged upward beside him.
Friedrich.
The older soldier vaulted the wall with a grunt, knife already in hand. He didn't hesitate. He seized the second Frenchman by the shoulder and drew the blade across his throat in one brutal, practised motion.
Blood sprayed dark against the stone.
The man collapsed without a sound, hands clutching uselessly at his neck as he slid to the ground.
The first soldier turned, eyes wide.
Jack moved.
He wrenched himself forward, driving his own knife up beneath the man's ribs. The blade slid in with sickening ease. Jack felt resistance, then a sudden give. The soldier gasped, mouth opening in a silent scream, eyes locking onto Jack's as if searching for something, mercy, understanding, anything.
Jack pushed harder.
The man sagged, weight collapsing against him. Jack eased him down, lowering the body gently despite himself, easing it onto the stone.
Silence rushed back in.
Jack stood there, chest heaving, knife slick and warm in his hand. His heart pounded so hard he felt dizzy. Friedrich stood beside him, breathing hard, eyes already scanning the area for threats.
More shapes crested the wall as the rest of the squad climbed up, moving quickly now, efficiently. The bodies were thrown from the wall to make sure nobody could see them without trying, and blood was hastily wiped from the stone.
No alarm sounded.
Jack stared at his hands.
They were shaking.
They moved deeper into the fort.
The squad spread out, weapons raised, boots silent against stone. Jack forced his breathing to steady, pushing the image of the dying man from his mind. There would be time later, if there was a later, for guilt. For now, there was only the mission.
Polygon Wood was no longer an idea on a glowing screen.
It was real.
It bled.
They slipped along the inner wall, using crates and shadows for cover. Somewhere deeper in the fort, an engine revved briefly, then settled back into its steady hum. A door opened and closed. Laughter drifted again, unaware and dangerously close.
Jack raised his fist.
The squad halted.
He glanced back at them, mud-streaked faces, eyes hard with focus, fear buried beneath training and fatigue. These men were following him. Trusting him.
The weight of that pressed heavily on his chest.
Jack turned back toward the heart of the fortress.
The first wall was breached. Blood had already been spilt. There was no turning back now.
The system flickered faintly at the edge of his vision, silent but present, like an unseen observer.
Jack tightened his grip on his knife.