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The humans rose from their trenches, and the Tols'gar laughed. The humans were pathetic: where were their hauberks, their lists of victories? They had none. They were but children facing down the mightiest army there was, whose warriors were the ultimate in bearing the glory of their ancestors.
And the humans raised a scream. It was more than just a challenge; it was a collective memory, and it was then that the leaders of the Tols'gar, those imbued with some telepathy, felt the collective rage of those humans, who had fought tooth and nail against each other for millennia and who had won every time; who had tamed death-worlds and who had spread without assistance for light-years beyond their own system.
The Tols'gar would have to fight; and, as a wave of screaming humanity crashed towards their lines, the Tols'gar realised that this was what "war" was - battles to fight, not battles to win by the sheer terror implied by the names inscribed upon one's shoulder-pads.
The human line struck home, and the violence that the bayonet sings in its very existence was unleashed upon the Tols'gar.
On that day, a new terror was added to the galaxy: the terror of the human soldier, and his bayonet.