"What do you do when the chips are down, you're surrounded, and the only ammo you've got left is in your rifle?"
That was the response whenever humans were asked about the bayonet lugs on their caseless electronically-fired assault rifles. Most species scoffed.
Then came when the Marines engaged a pirate gang on Ragesh IV. Most of the troops landed okay, but a dropship had been shot down beyond the settlement perimeter. The survivors had artillery support from the main unit, but were surrounded. The orbiting battle group was engaged in a long firefight and couldn't provide any cover fire.
Lieutenant James Anderson looked around at what remained of his platoon. Forty jarheads had been aboard the dropship. He'd lost a quarter of them in the crash and another five to combat losses.
The platoon was dug in to the planet's dark soil. The little bluff they'd found themselves on gave them the high ground.
Anderson grimaced as he checked his rifle. Only a few strips of ammo left. He looked at his platoon sergeant. She grimaced too, and shook her head. "They'll be coming soon, sir," she said.
Anderson looked around. The new Marines were exhausted after so much combat. They looked back at him with their faces streaked with mud and tears.
"Sir, we can't hold them," their navy corpsman said, standing up from a patient.
"We've got some of their weapons but they're no good," a squad leader commented, stepping over.
"Lieutenant?" The radio operator asked, "HQ says they can get us a few passes but they can't pull us out yet."
Anderson frowned. "Alright. We can't hold them. But we've got a few passes." His face lit up, "'Situation excellent, I am attacking'. Fix bayonets!"
Everyone stopped. "Sir?"
"They're not disciplined. They're good on offense but no good fighting back. So let's take it to them!" Anderson insisted, "Fix bayonets! We'll charge them just as they try to do us!" At their dubious faces, he took a breath, "They gotta be tired, even more than us. They've been fighting the main front and dealing with us at their backs. So fix bayonets and let's do this!"
The platoon sergeant nodded slowly, "Right sir. Fine."
Anderson grinned, "Situation excellent, sergeant. We're attacking."
The NCOs shifted. They rushed around their little fort. "Bayonets!"
"Oorah!" High tech single piece steel blades flashed in the light of the two moons as the platoon fixed bayonets.
"Sir, this is the dumbest thing we've ever tried." his sergeant said.
"I know," Anderson said. He gave that grin again. Then he climbed the breastworks. He could see the pointed helmets of the enemy. "Come on you sons of bitches! Do you wanna live forever?!"
The first enemy soldiers rose up to charge, as a tidal wave of green soldiers came screaming down the bluff toward them. Bursts of fire ripped out. Bright silver sparkled as they ran.
"Oorah!"
The enemy, so confident at first, skidded to a halt. Anderson distinctly saw five of them do a shuffling stop before trying to turn around and run. They crashed into one another like a mob.
Twenty-four exhausted, battered Marines slammed into them with improvised spears. Anderson drove his bayonet into an enemy soldier. He yanked it out and fired at another about to shoot the sergeant. The battlefield dissolved into a blur of slashing, biting, smashing, and stabbing. Always the stabbing.
The enemy mob swiftly turned and withdrew. The Marines were more disciplined, and pursued them as a line of sharp blades. No more bullets fired.
By the time it was over, there were eighty enemy troops on the ground or with their hands over their heads.
There were maybe five magazines left amongst the entire platoon. And those vicious blades.