Author: fionagreywrites (Page 35 of 38)

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!”