John grunted as he set down his pack. Hours of marching had
taken its toll, but the wagons had room only for the most basic and necessary
supplies, not soldiers.
He tried not to think of how they would soon also carry the
wounded back to the border lines.
Looking around, he studied the area. Yes, the scouts were
correct. This would do for a site to build a rough fort, if they could last
long enough to create defenses from those too-heavy supplies.
Strategically located
by fresh water, the area would extend to include the calm bay they’d wearily
marched past. Barges could be used to resupply and send messages, but only once
the company’s protection extended to ensure materiel didn’t reach the enemy
instead.
His second in command, Lionel, bobbed a cursory salute as he
approached. “Good location,” he said. “Hidden just out of their normal scouting
range, but within marching distance once the men get rested up.” Lionel shook
his head. “Criminal, really, how shortsighted they are. I’d tear those scouts a
new one.”
“Good thing they’re on the other side, then,” John replied.
“Can’t say I mind, but I wonder what we’re missing. This
location is too perfect. Why not even an outpost here?”
Leaning down, Lionel pulled up a flowering plant common
across the clearing. “Wild garlic and leeks to make tonight’s rations tasty.
Plenty of them around, with no disturbances.” He dusted off the bulb. “What
lives nearby that scares everyone off collecting valuable seasonings?”
John nodded. “We’ll keep a stiff watch tonight.”
“Aye, Captain Ribeye.”
John considered the landscape a moment more. “Lieutenant
Flank.”
“Sir?”
“The commercial sailors’ maps used to say ‘here be monsters’
as warnings.”
Lionel shrugged. “I’ve never heard of a ground equivalent,
but I’ll see if we have any civilian maps on hand.”
“I’ll get the abatis work groups started.” The leader
frowned at the serene woodland view that was causing him such anxiety. “Camp
layout’s standard, no need to get in the way there.”
An uneasy pause lingered before John broke the silence. “Check
the maps and get the usual trenches going, then. I’ll join one of the abatis
ribwork teams,” he said. “Do the Shanks good to see leaders taking part in
keeping them safe, what?” His voice was relentlessly chipper, tension around
his eyes betraying his thoughts.
Lionel glanced sideways at his leader. “Game faces on, Sir.
The men feel the same unease. Let’s not make it worse with validation.” Their
faces mirrored unease before settling into bland masks.
*****
Hours later, John headed for the river with the other
officers, eager to wash away sweat from days of marching and building temporary
defenses.
The Brisket Corps of Engineers had a well-deserved
reputation for exactness in stake placement, but it was worth the work. He was
confident the sharpened ribs surrounding the campsite would hold, the abatis bound
with tendons and catgut. It was worth the cost in speed to bring the supply
wagons with them, and he didn’t have to blunt his sword’s edge trying to cut
bone.
John thought about his orders as he splashed in the water. Tomorrow
the company would shore up the few weak points and begin permanent
construction. When the men were rested, they would begin sending out scouts to
study Fort Bacon’s defenses.
The locale had a fearsome reputation, but no one seemed to
know why. Few returned from forays this far into the wilderness. Fewer still
were willing to talk about their experiences.
Captain John Ribeye wished with forlorn hope that he knew
what this peaceful glen’s secrets were.
The next morning, he woke to the smell of sizzling wild
garlic and onions along with an improved field breakfast. As he emerged from
his tent, Lt Flank handed him a biscuit. “Sergeant Round’s delighted to have
the time and space to make what he calls real food, Sir. We reap the bennies.
Eggs’ll be right up.”
“And we found the coffee from where it got stuck beneath all
the ribs in the wagon,” said a blissful voice to his left. The officer’s face
was hidden behind a steaming clay mug.
“Morning, Lieutenant Kabob. Any issues in the night?” John
yawned, reaching for his own mug as the officer extended it.
“Negative, Capt’n. Nothing reported. I took the deep night
shift.” Kabob lowered his voice. “But everyone’s still uneasy. Best anyone can
come up with is it’s too quiet.”
John sat, frowning. “Let’s keep them busy.”
Lt Flank brought over a map, much creased and torn at the
edges. John gently touched the yellowed paper. “Surprised I didn’t see this in
all the other papers,” he said.
“Wasn’t from there, Sir. One of the Shanks had it. Said he
an uncle had come this way, years back. Wouldn’t tell him much about it, but
got real sad and then drunk when he heard the orders had come to march south.
Stuffed this in his hand on the way out the door, bottle still in hand.”
Curiosity piqued, John leaned forward to study the aged
paper. “I can’t tell if that’s an ink spill or a bloodstain.”
“Private Chuck said his uncle came back missing a few
chunks, so I’d go with bloodstain. Hold it up to the light and it’s easier to
see.” Lionel shrugged. “Best we have, I’m afraid.”
“Not an issue,” John said. He leaned back in his chair,
squinting in the scattered morning light. “Here lie…night something? Night
sharks? Or maybe it’s noise shades. That doesn’t make sense.”
Lt Kabob brought over a plate of the promised eggs and
another biscuit. “Better than we’ve been able to tell. We’ll try later when
we’re away from the trees more and into stronger light.” He traded the plate
for the map. “Looks like some circles, too, or maybe the letter O repeated.”
“Unless it’s a representation,” Lionel added. He pushed his
hat back. “Could be a drawing of something. We just don’t know what.”
“Hmm,” John replied, mouth full of biscuit. He swallowed. “Well, that fort won’t attack itself. Let’s get started on improving the defenses and getting things ready for your Sirloin Platoon. The scouts will be itching to go soon enough.”
*****
Days later, Fort Round was slowly turning from a field
fortification to a more permanent abode. Assuming the attack went well, John
thought grimly. They wouldn’t be here much longer if it didn’t. The scouting missions
had already failed several days in a row as injuries in Lt Flank’s Sirloin
Platoon racked up.
Private Tip raced up, heading from what they’d decided to
call Porterhouse Bay. “Sir! Mail delivery just came in. Orders from High Command.”
The Shank slapped the envelope into suddenly sweaty hands.
John gazed at the familiar wax seal. The cow and crossed swords shone against battered
paper. He took a deep breath, broke the blue wax, and ripped open the envelope.
Captain Ribeye,
Congratulations on establishing
Fort Round. We shall need that fortification if we are to win this war, though
we still believe the enemy does not suspect our attack.”
“That’s a relief,” he muttered. John pretended not to notice
Lt Flank casually inching closer as he read on.
However, we are highly
disappointed to hear of your officer’s lackadaisical efforts to scout the
surrounding area. Sirloin Platoon begins to disgrace itself with its inability
to conduct reconnaissance, and we shall have none of their nonsense.
John froze his expression, hardly daring to breathe. He’d
been clear in his message that the scouts had been injured in the process of
attempting the scouting runs. Each had been injured while trying to press
through toward Fort Bacon, eleven furlongs to the south.
He’d called them back to because field scouts also served as
message runners. The men had taken to greeting the forest, assuming something
was watching them as the source of their unease. He wanted to have runners in
reserve.
Your overabundance of caution is
noted. High Command orders you to press the attack within the week, with or
without your scouting runs, or be removed as Captain of Roast Company.
The trees spun around him as he reread the threat.
“Captain?” Lionel sped up his approach.
“I deeply regret to inform you that I must resign my
commission,” John said, so softly only the lieutenant could hear him. He
straightened, clearing his throat, and looked at the Shanks watching. “Shall we
adjourn to the command tent?”
Lt Flank placed a hand briefly on his Captain’s shoulder
before heading to gather the other officers.
“Keep your voices low,” Chief Marrow said. “Everyone knows
something is going on just from the orders arriving. I’ll take care of Private
Tip’s mouth later with some appropriate tenderizing discipline. Now, what’s
going on?”
Captain Ribeye didn’t respond for a few moments. “I still
don’t understand what’s wrong with this place, but the longer we are here, the
less likely we are to make it back home.”
“Then what’s this nonsense about resigning?” demanded Lt
Flank.
John sat with a heavy thump. “I’ve been ordered to take Fort
Bacon within the week. Without scouting runs to see if we need more supplies,
men, weapons, or even what the place looks like. Closest we’ve gotten is
finding the rapids prevent a river approach.”
Marrow scratched his head. “Some of the men aren’t sure it
exists. Think we’re out here on a boondoggle.”
Snorting, John shook his head. “Excellent. We’re asking men
to die for a myth. And they will die, without that reconnaissance. We don’t
know what we’re up against. We certainly don’t understand the enemy or why they
cut off supply lines and trade.”
Lt Kabob picked up the letter from where it lay on the
command table and skimmed it in silence, before thumping it back onto the
table. His eyes sparked with anger. “Did you even finish reading this? Someone
who knew you wrote this letter. You can’t resign, or you doom us all.”
John furrowed his brow. “What are you talking about?”
Joe Kabob thrust the paper toward him. “Did you not finish
reading it?”
He skipped down to the middle of the page and gasped.
Understand that
Captain Welldone eagerly awaits your commission in the event of your failure or
resignation.
We await the
joyous news of your success, and look forward to open supply lines once you
have taken the enemy’s fortification.
He read the letter aloud slowly. Silence filled the tent.
“You’re right. I stopped reading after the impossible
orders. There’s no need for this timeline, or to go charging headlong into
danger.”
John shook his head again. “It’s a sneak attack and we’ve
stayed hidden. The whole country has sufficient stores in warehouses to last
several months before the supply route needs to be reopened, and we could use
that time to negotiate a diplomatic solution or develop a new path.”
“You know Captain Welldone from the Sous Vide Academy, don’t
you?” Lt Flank asked.
He considered his words carefully before deciding honesty
was better than caution in this instance. “His reputation, like his family
name, is well-earned. I will not subject you to his whims.”
“Yes,” John said, heart aching as he looked at his men.
“Someone certainly knew me.”
Lieutenant Kabob began digging through the papers stacked on
the captain’s field desk. “Then we do what we can not to die before we take
that fort.” He pulled out the bloodstained borrowed map and a military version.
“What do we know from how far the scouts got?”
“We can add in some good supply cache locations. There’s a
cave and a hidden area under the biggest blackberry bush you’ve ever seen that
would work as medical and resupply waystations,” Lt Flank said.
“We just haven’t gotten to the edge of the forest. Sirloin Platoon
said it’s like the land itself fights them from getting through.” Lionel
frowned at John’s words.
Chief Marrow leaned over the map. “There. That’s the only path
the scouts haven’t tried.”
The men stared at the maps, yellowed and torn against fresh
and crisp.
“Anyone else feel herded?” Lieutenant Flank asked.
“Doesn’t matter,” John said. “We either let Roast Company go
to a sociopath, or we get going.” He stood up, picking up the letter. “Start
gearing up. Prep the wagons for injured transport. The boat stays for emergency
evacuation.”
“I’ll be in my tent composing a response to my father.
There’s only one man who knows me this well.” As he walked toward the tent
entrance, he added, “And figure out what that map says!”
*****
Captain John Ribeye eyed the white, wavy ground and hoped it
was the last of a lingering fog. They’d spent two days slogging their way to
Fort Bacon, capturing Outposts Chop and Ham along the way.
Lieutenant Kabob’s platoon had done well, but they’d gotten
little intel from the captured Porkers manning the outposts. They’d been skinnier
than he’d anticipated, uniforms baggy and ill-fitting, and poorly supplied by
the state of the garrisons.
“Giggled, Sir,” Joe had reported after fights barely worthy
of the name. He’d shaken his head. “Can’t say I understand it. And they said we
wouldn’t until we saw it.”
John bit his lip, thinking about the past few days while he
studied the rest of the scene.
“Send a runner up the river path to Filet Mignon,” he said
in a low voice. Whispers carried far in weather like this. “High Command will
want to know about this terrain as soon as possible.”
Lionel gave a sharp glance to the mapmaker crouched among
the pines, sketching in quick, steady lines. The Shank nodded in return. Rolling
the parchment and tucking it into a hardened leather case, he rose and faded back
into thicker cover.
“Sir,” Lt Flank murmured. “Is your father that dead set on
winning this senseless war, or is he trying to get you killed?”
John sighed. “Tell me what you see and if it makes any sense. That’s not snow. Not even close.”
“That field looks like mashed potatoes and you know it.”
Lionel frowned. “No idea what that lumpy white stuff all over the hill is, but
it’s terrible terrain for an attacking force.”
“Which we are.” He could hear the defeat in his voice.
Lt Flank tilted his head in acknowledgement. “Fort Bacon
appears to have an actual moat. By the smell, it’s filled with gravy. Which is
ridiculous, of course. That’s got to be a lot of stew they have on. Which means
a lot of soldiers.”
“What did that map say?” He tapped his hand along his leg,
trying to remember.
“Something about night sharks, Capt’n. Didn’t make sense.”
“Huh.” Something teased in the back of his mind, slipping
away every time it got close. He squinted, hoping it would help.
Lionel frowned. “The fort’s flags look like actual hot peppers
to you? All round but triangular and curling?”
“Here be night shades.”John paled and took a
step back. “This is a trap.”
“Sir?”
“We’re not fighting the Porkers at all. Remember that
guerrilla warfare band we studied at the Sous Vide Academy?”
“What about them?” Lionel’s eyes darted from side to side.
He looked both confused and paranoid.
“The Nightshades already own that fort. And we are not the
attackers.”
John strode back, Lionel following him.
“Lieutenant Flank. Lieutenant Kabob. Chief Marrow. Gather
your men.” His voice rang out in the quiet, firm and decisive at last.
Captain Ribeye could feel his breath quickening. He knew
what to do, no matter that his father would call it the coward’s option. He’d
take saving his men over an artificial, Pyrrhic victory any day.
“We retreat immediately to Fort Round and the Porterhouse
Bay area immediately. Be prepared for Nightshade attack. Go!”
A fork whizzed by his ear and embedded itself in the soft
tree trunk.
He could hear the thunk of similar attacks nearby. Screams
erupted from camouflaged soldiers hidden under cover of pines, bushes, and
lingering fog.
“Fall back! Fall back!” John bellowed.
He looked around desperately. Flaming charcoal briquettes landed nearby, wafting smoke and the smell of searing meat into the air. Captain John Ribeye sucked in a breath and coughed, unable to see his troops ahead of him.
Behind him, the ground heaved, white ripples and peaks surging closer.
“Fall back! The potatoes are attacking!”
