Officers—those with command on either side—walk to and fro amid the lines. Giving orders to those in uniform, of where their rifles should point, and what objectives must be taken. But their own lives, they do not risk. Too valuable, they claim. Worth too much to gamble on war’s game. And perhaps this statement would be wise, were it the cause of their hesitance. In truth, the real reason for most is this: they do not wish to see the blood, pain, and cries they so readily dismiss. They wished, in their distant minds, to hold glory without first sifting through the grime.
He who lead the Kings’ 31st regime was one such man. All knew his motivations to be personal and vain; to impress, and renown gain. Thus he charged his troops with assignments ill-thought, ignoring orders, and unable to realize the folly of the task at hand. For he pushed now for a grand fortress of the Empire: this one said—on questionable information—to hold the Queen’s right hand: the woman with an eyepatch of gold. His plan was simple; split his force in half, taking one to press, the other to distract. For much of the fortress’s soldiers were repelling another attack, one lead by the very commander who ordered the Brigadier hold back.
Many protested within the camp, yet all silenced when a gun entered his hand. The officer gave his words in groups small, not allowing collective resistance to his plan. Another officer, still green, nevertheless had the wisdom to see the recklessness in his superior’s strivings. The man’s worries fell on deaf ears as they sent scouts ahead. Of which, only two returned, the rest rent asunder by the fortress’s guns. Thus the novice went to the one above him, and so soulfully begged:
“Please sir, these is not our orders, and the chances are slim. At the end of the day, this plan may leave every man dead.”
Again he was scorned, told that money was all that granted him a position. He held no family history like the man above him, no previous deeds of valor: all to his name was a father who’d taken him in. And these words were true, for Dale Nelson Slater indeed held no renown of his own. Thus he was ignored, and the attack implored.
Screams and shots rang through the caves forming the keep, blood running down stone, and bodies forming a heap. Those pressing the assault soon learned: the task was impossible, the battle’s tide remained unturned. The keep’s defenders shot from every entrance and flank, pressing on as the Nation’s men broke rank. Skulls were burst in sprays of gore, bodies broken forevermore. One dozen. Two. Three. Four. Over half of the attackers lost their lives heretofore. All of which the novice officer watched, having come along to direct the assault. Now he fled, having emptied every shot of his gun, commanding each and every man to run. One he carried back to camp, telling the woman that she could survive the bleeding stump that overtook an arm, pleading her just to push on. But naught could be done, and she fell to the stone just before the medics’ tents.
He stayed by her side even as the morticians informed him of her demise, before slowly taking the revolver at her hip, stalking over to his commander’s tent. Without saying a word, he threw aside the flap, before tossing a fistful of bloodied dogtags into the man’s lap. A meager collection in all, no more than ten. He then demanded the leader read the names of all—out loud to him. The commander sputtered, before shaking his head.
“Waste my time not with what is gone, when there is still so much to do ahead.”
But for that Brigadier, there would be no future battles to direct, nor orders to be bade. For instead, his heart would open in a crimson cascade. Dale would turn, smoking gun in hand, walking back, ordering the able to swiftly take tents and dusts, making from them covers to wear in the dark. For the Empire’s soldiers were soon to swarm, overtaking the Nation’s camp in a golden swarm. Using the grey canvases, the remaining soldiers—about two hundred in all—would swiftly rush out into the dark. They moved towards the very tunnels they had just left, relying on the enemy’s haste to render their search anything but deft.
Yet the maimed could not go, too weak to follow the plan, in too much pain to reliably remain silent. Thus, those men and women grit their teeth, taking up their rifles the final time; to save their comrades from their former commander’s crime. A distraction, they would be, firing downrange at the advancing enemy. Fourteen in all, their lives forfeit, just to allow others to live. They could not walk, could not run, only able to wait for the inevitable end to their misery. Each of these noble souls—of far greater courage than the Brigadier would’ve ever known—would live on in Dale’s mind, permanently remembered, repeated under his breath to remind.
Nearly a quarter day’s span passed. The Empire soldiers did indeed rush the camp, passing by the remaining Nationers hidden in an offshoot cave. Several fell to the heroic last stand, shot down by dying men. But for all the shock, it quickly became apparent: the camp had been abandoned, now guarded only by the weak. So swiftly the remaining injured were gunned down, the last one shouting loudly through the caves:
“The rest fled as you cravens struggled to slay men already dead.”
The remaining Nation soldiers, still hidden in an adjacent cave, stalked back to their camp as the golden soldiers advanced. Dale, radio clutched in hand, swiftly relayed warning to high command. Thus a plan was quickly laid: an ambush on the advancing Empire brigade.
Pinched between the two squads in an open tunnel, the bloodshed was swift, the slaughter terrible. But as the dust settled, the Nation’s losses were found to be bearable. For annihilation had been adverted, some souls made it home. And thus, Dale Nelson Slater was granted his renown.
I cannot confess to being happy with this one, it’s rather uninspired, compared to my other fics. Nevertheless, I thank you for reading.