Night Mission

This week, my dad got in on the Odd Prompts writing challenge fun and suggested the phrase “fast food for dragons.” I can’t wait to see what Leigh Kimmel comes up with! My prompt came from nother Mike, who suggested I explore a mondegreen misunderstanding…

They ran, legs burning, packs heavy on shoulders and against backs. The first few miles were easy. Boots thudded over the ground without care for the prints left behind, soft turf churned to mud by the time the last of the troopers passed through the terrain. The natural light of a mottled and glowing full moon was all they used for guidance.

Panting grew louder and ragged as the miles lengthened, footsteps no longer striking in rhythm as the terrain changed from uneven fields to unending hills. Both were covered in thistles and long grasses, burrs clinging silently to bootlaces as they could not to uniformed legs.

The men ran on, speed varying, each striving to chase and better the Sergeant solidly shadowed in front of them all, unceasing and unsparing, always leading, always forward. The path was new; the pattern was not.

The Sergeant held up a fist. The men slowed and gathered around in a semi-circle, most leaning forward toward the older man. Four automatically set up in outward-facing positions, trusting their comrades to pass on the message later. The sentries stood still in the gloom, studying their dim surroundings in shining white light, streaks of camouflage paint shadowing their faces.

Earthy spices wafted up from crushed buds and blossoms beneath their boots. The Sergeant’s voice grumbled low in the watchful night, less disruptive than a whisper. “Twenty minutes. Spell the sentries every five. Quiet talk, ye ken? No fires. Then we’re back on’t, lads, and off t’ the target.”

The men nodded and started to disperse, halting movement with a final, muted warning. “Remember, we stop five minutes out from the target for a quick mission brief. Then we exfil out th’ other path. Look over th’ map again if ye need.”

Logan moved toward a small boulder, an indeterminate shade of grey in the moonlight. Shrugging off his pack, he leaned against the cool stone, relishing the feel after the run. He closed his eyes and heard some others head his way.

“Logan,” a voice to his left murmured.

“Aye, Brodie.” The rest would have been better with peace and quiet.

“Been holdin’ onto a question for a bit now.”

He sighed. “Ask, Brodie.”

The other man cleared his throat. “When we left camp…did the Sarge say to get your arse in gear, or to get your arson gear?”

Logan’s eyes snapped open. The moonlight seemed impossibly bright. “Do you mean to tell me, soldier,” he hissed through gritted teeth, “that you didn’t know and didn’t think it was important enough to ask before now?”

“I –“ Brodie tried to speak, but Logan cut him off.

“We’ve been running for hours. Not far from the target.” Logan glared at the other man, watching him pale even under the camouflage streaks of paint.

He shook his head. “You howlin’ dobber. Get over to Sarge and figure it out.”

Logan closed his eyes again, keeping them cracked just enough to verify the other man was headed for the Sergeant.

“That was interesting,” a new voice said softly. “Sarge didn’t tell us what the training mission is yet, did he?”

“Aye, Callum,” Logan said wearily. “You heard him. This training’s about adaptation and improvisation. Short notice stuff.”

“His accent’s so thick, it really was hard to tell what he did say.”

The pregnant silence dropped for a few moments.

“I dinna have a clue either,” Logan said finally. He knew Callum wouldn’t let him get a few minutes of sleep until he answered.

He tipped his head back against the smooth rock. “But tell me, were you so daft as to not grab your arson gear whilst simultaneously getting your arse in gear?”