MEIN GOTT IT'S AN ACTUAL UPDATE

I really must apoligise for my absence. I got caught up in exams last semester, and then I guess I decided to take a break - I was dealing with some pretty awful writer's block and I needed to get some things done IRL. Also went to Oahu, which was nice. In any case, I am back, I am hoping to get back into the proper swing of things now that I've adjusted to university study, and I'll try to get to reviewing the stuff I've been missing over the week.

Again, sorry for the absence, but let's get right to it.

Chapter Seven

Captain Kamenev winced as the artillery shells screamed overhead. He ducked deeper into the shallow starting trench and checked his pocket watch.

"Thirty seconds," he whispered.

God damn it, where the hell are they?

It was 1917, and Kamenev and his platoon were in a small, hastily built trench somewhere in Belarus. It was a very bad time to be Russian – Germany was decisively winning the war, the government was barely function and the army – no, society as a whole was on the verge of total collapse. This last throw of the dice – the Kerensky Offensive, named for the Minister for War – was starting to go badly wrong, which was driving the entire army closer and closer towards mass desertion – or worse, mutiny.

There were, as always, the tired old battle cries of the elder statesmen in Petrograd – 'carry on the war, God is on your side!' Madness, all of it – God would never sanction such insanity.

Politics, however, was merely academic at this point. Right now, Kamenev needed to focus on getting through the next few hours without getting his head blown off.

"Five seconds," he hissed.

To his left and right, his men had fixed bayonets and seemed prepared to go over the top – but Kamenev could hear the whispers among them.

Kamenev slipped his whistle into his mouth and blew hard. The shrill peep echoed across the trench.

He was halfway up the trench ladder when he realised that nobody was following him.

He ducked back down – just in time, as a bullet whizzed right past his ear – and turned to his men.

"I said advance!" he shouted.

"Sorry, sir," said his second-in-command, Sergeant Brasov, "They won't go."

"We are not," snapped a soldier, "Having our heads blown off for Kerensky."

Kamenev gritted his teeth.

"You are not having your heads blown off for Kerensky, you are defending the Motherland!" he said, "Would you have the Boche take your cities? Your farms? Your homes? Your dignity?!"

The men looked among themselves but said nothing.

"Make way! Make way!"

A second detachment of soldiers pushed their way through the trench. The officer at their head marched straight up to him – and it was with no small shock that Kamenev realised it was a woman.

"Captain Kulibina Antonova, 1st Moscow Women's Battalion of Death," she barked – and at this point, Kamenev realised her whole command were women – "I was under the impression that you were supposed to be our first wave, Captain?"

"Morale difficulties," muttered Kamenev, faintly embarrassed.

"Then we'll just have to give you some encouragement," nodded Captain Antonova, "Fix bayonets! Corduroy, on point!"

A red-haired teenager in a ragged and worn cloak, wielding an axe in one hand and a baton in the other, stepped up. Kamenev's eyes widened.

"Is...is that the Warrior of..."

"Don't stare, Captain, it's beneath your rank," snapped Antonova, "Platoon will advance on my signal!"

The Warrior of the Red Mare sent Kamenev a wry grin and shrugged.

"Do try to keep up," grunted Antonova.

She blew her whistle and the women's battalion advanced, bellowing a cry as they sprinted towards the German trench line.

Kamenev turned back to his men, who was gazing in slack-jawed shock at their allies.

"Damn you!" he bellowed, "If they can do, why the hell can't you?!"

He blew his whistle again. This time, his men needed little encouragement.

There wasn't much ground to cover between the Russian and German lines, which was both a blessing and a curse. The upside was that it meant that the Russians could cross no-man's land and assault the German trenches before the soldiers manning them had time to zero them in and cut them down. The downside was that it meant artillery could only shell the German rear, meaning that they had to face a full-strength contingent of German soldiers.

Despite that, the attack was going rather well. A combination of surprise and the zeal of the Russians had caught the Germans on the back foot, and the vicious fight for the trench was swinging firmly in their favour.

Wendy ducked into a officer's dugout. Two officers and a sergeant were inside, one of the former on a field telephone – he dropped it as she entered.

The second officer reacted first, drawing a pistol and pointing it straight at her face. She reacted quickly, swinging her baton up and knocking his arm up, causing him to fire into the wooden roof. She followed this up with a swing of the back of her axe into his face, knocking him out and giving him a black-eye in the progress.

The sergeant bellowed a very unkind word and thrust his rifle towards her face. She barely managed to dodge, the bayonet cutting a shallow gash under her right eye. She dropped the baton and grabbed the barrel with her free hand, tugging the rifle from the sergeant's hands. She turned it around and pointed it at his chest.

"Hands up," she snapped.

"You wouldn't," snarled the sergeant.

Wendy raised an eyebrow. The sergeant swallowed and put his hand up, and the first officer did the same.

Wendy was relieved as she marched the two men out of the dugout. She had, up until now, been very fortunate, in that she'd never had to kill somebody. Injure them, certainly – she usually had no choice – but she was quietly proud of the fact that she'd never killed. Yet she was starting to think it might only be a matter of time – she could only hope that her destiny, whatever it was, would come sooner rather than later.

Captains Antonova and Kamenev walked over. The melee outside was over, and the aftermath was gruesome. Dead and wounded soldiers in both green and grey littered the trench – one man, a German soldier, was clutching his eye as he was carried away by two Russian stretcher-bearers. He shot Wendy a withering glare with his remaining eye before he was gone.

My father served on the Russian Front in the last war. He lost an eye in 1917 – and he distinctly remembered who was with the Russians when it happened...

Wendy shuddered and shook the thought from her head.

"Fine work, Warrior," said Antonova, "Very fine."

"Eh, weren't nothing," shrugged Wendy.

"How long can you stick around?" asked Kamenev, "My men could use your encouragement, ma'am – morale hasn't been this good since before the Brusilov Offensive last year."

"I dunno," replied Wendy, "I've learned how to delay when I shift, but when I've gotta go I've gotta go, y'know?"

"I know," nodded Kamenev, who had no idea what she was talking about.

"Captain Kamenev! Reinforcements!" shouted Sergeant Brasov from down the trench.

"Better welcome them along, I suppose," shrugged Kamenev.

He strode along the trench – Wendy and Antonova followed behind.

"So you travel through time, Corduroy?" asked Antonova, "Tell me, how does this war end?"

Wendy bit her lip.

"Um...the Allies win," she said, diplomatically.

Antonova narrowed her eyes a little but didn't press the subject.

"And why do you travel?" she asked, "What is your goal? Are you simply a temporal soldier of fortune? An angel, even?"

"I'm lost. Very, very lost."

Kamenev walked up to the reinforcements – six soldiers, all plainly dressed in the standard Russian Army uniform, and yet Wendy couldn't help but feel slightly ill at ease. For some reason, they were setting off alarm bells in her head.

"Is this all we have, Sergeant?" asked Kamenev.

"Yes sir," replied the leader, and Wendy couldn't help but think he sounded somewhat Cockney, "Rest of the company have either gone home or died. We heard the Warrior of the Red Mare was about so we rallied on you."

"How did you know? She only arrived this morning," said Antonova suspiciously.

"Rumour travels fast, ma'am."

Wendy scanned them closely, crossing her arms as Kamenev said something to them about getting orders. They certainly seemed in order – a bit well-fed, but maybe they were new to the front. No problems with the uniform. Munitions seemed in order too – all Russian, with one carrying the unmistakable shape of the Red Army's iconic PPSwait a minute.

She stepped up, cutting Kamenev off.

"Any of you wanna tell me where you got a gun from 1941?" she demanded.

The leader turned to the offending soldier, scowling.

"Holland, you bloody idiot, I said World War One!" he snapped.

"I'm not good with weapons history, sir," Holland replied lamely.

"Oh, to hell with it – bring her in!"

Holland raised his gun, firing a burst into a Russian soldier standing nearby. He cried out as he was blown back, and pandemonium reigned.

It was now March - the snows had faded into small patches in the dirt. The world sparkled in the early morning frost.

The door to the Shack opened, and Dipper and Mabel emerged. They carried a long pole between them, a few Tesla coils attached to the top. Ford followed behind, explaining the purpose of this contraption as he went.

"What we need is a decentralised powering method," he said, "If we spread the power generation around, we run less risk of a catastrophic power fluctuation. Plus it keeps the Feds from picking up the power surges."

"Yeah, I think I've been arrested by enough Federal goons for one life," shrugged Mabel.

They reached Soos, who had dug a small hole in the front yard.

"Alright, put her in," nodded Ford.

Mabel lowered her end of the pole into the hole. Carefully, they raised the pole, pushing the end into the earth as they did so.

"Excellent, children," nodded Ford, "Now we've got four more to do today, so let's get to it."

The four began to head back to the Shack, leaving the coils behind. Ford put a hand on his nephew's shoulder as they did.

"We're making real progress, Dipper," he said, "I know it doesn't look like it, but we're going to do it."

Dipper looked up. Ford smiled at him.

Dipper shook his head and walked ahead of his uncle. Ford's face fell, and he followed him dejectedly inside.

Gonna have to try harder than that, Fordy.