Gryphus

October
Western Griffon Kingdom
Countryside west of Gryphus, Paramilitary

“Why the fuck are we here?” Averla demanded from his superior. “I was promised my company would finally get to the trenches, and we were there for under a week!”

The battalion commander’s office was located in a small manor in the unit’s bivouac area, a tightly built southern village. A crackling fire kept the room warm in spite of the freezing winds outside.

The battalion commander looked down at the angry griffon on the other side of his desk. His party discipline clashed with the northern griffons’ more gung-ho attitudes, and the fanatic sailors were the worst example of it. Thankfully they’d stop being his problem in a few hours. “Party headquarters have started collecting sailors together into their own units. Seems they found a suitable job for you.”

“As abattoir guards?” Averla laughed. “They’ve certainly let a ton of cows escape. Maybe we can do their job better.”

“The abattoirs are understaffed, yes, but you have a different role. Tell your soldiers to pull the boats from the warehouse and report at the train station,” the battalion commander allowed himself a small grin. “Have you ever crossed a river?”

October
Eastern Griffon Kingdom
Wilderness, Contested Territory

Captain Agosto took a long drag from her cigarette. She was covered in powder residue and wet dirt kicked up by explosions. The battery had fired the last of its shells to stop the enemy attack, and received a volley of counter-battery fire in return. That had caused only a few casualties, and the battery had gone through the rest of the night without issue. Now morning had come, and they were finally packing up, preparing to leave the front.

Agosto warmed her claws on the embers of all her carefully prepared cheat sheets. They were no longer useful, and like everything useless they went to the flames. The roar of engines preceded the arrival of the gun tractors, large, unarmored and tracked vehicles that could move the heavy artillery in most terrain. Along with them came Lieutenant colonel Snowfeather, who jumped off a tractor’s hood when she spotted Agosto.

“Excellent work, captain! The division reports that the attack was completely repelled.”

“Good. There is no way we could pull that trick again.” Agosto stood up and saluted the senior officer. “I heard we’re leaving on a train.”

“We are, somewhere to the west. I talked to the higher ups to see about our ammo situation.”

“That bad?” Agosto asked, and watched the guns be limbered up. It took the combined efforts of the entire crew to limber one eight ton howitzer. And after that everything from ramrods to unused powder bags had to be packed. There was no shortage of work to be done.

“Yes. We were meant to get new guns,so the shell production stopped years ago. But the factory is in Gryphus, so that’s not restarting. And the pre-war supply is almost spent.”

Agosto sensed Snowfeathers anger, and offered her water to the owl-faced officer. “That means no training for us. Is the workshop in Grostschapel working?”

“I’ve heard yes. Give it a decade and we’ll have a week’s supply.” The regiment was directly subordinate to the Army Group Headquarters, and its commander was therefore privy to more information than many others of her rank, who were already balancing the line between involvement in military and politics. “Don’t expect to see any action until something big happens.”

The regiment retreated to its starting positions. The Paramilitary hounded them for much of the way, until their vanguard was ambushed, leaving them with a bloody beak that stopped the chase for a day. Along the way they passed the village they had taken mere days ago, pulling its militia and civilians with them. When the Paramilitary next poked at them, it was a half-hearted effort stopped at the outpost line.

More militia arrived to the front, freeing up the regiment to move to the rear, and giving Talonico a chance to visit Milan in the field hospital. Upon entering the octagonal tent where the wounded slept, Talonico saw Talone knelt over her wounded comrade, deep in a whispered conversation. Waiting for them to finish, he checked the tent stove, and seeing it was down to embers, chucked in a small piece of wood that burst into bright flames.

“Corp.” Talone’s even, emotionless voice told him their talk was over. She moved past him, revealing the bright daylight and lush green woods for the brief moment the door flap was open. When the thick, heavy cloth fell over the opening, Talonico stepped over to Milan.

“Hi. Feeling alright?”

Milan tilted her head and smiled. Sweat matted her brown feathers. “I’m fine. They gave me a ton of morphine, so I’m not feeling a thing. A good thing too. The medics said the bullet tore my muscles to shit. Went between the bones though.”

“That’s good,” Talonico answered. Something about the other griffon’s cheerfulness seemed thin and feigned, barely hiding the fear and pain underneath. And a part of Talonico felt guilty for that fear. He knew that he could not have stopped the bullet, but he was responsible for his squad’s wellbeing, and now one of them was wounded.

“Besides, now I get to be handled by medics. Some of them look really nice.”

Talonico suppressed his laugh, careful not to disturb the other patients. “So that’s where your mind is.”

Milan smiled, looking at the tent’s ceiling, and the few tiny holes in it. The so-called star chart fortunately did not let much water in. “Corp, I’m eighteen. I’m allowed to fantasize.”

“You are. Well, I’ll leave you to your fantasies. Get well soon.”

Talonico rose to leave, but Milan’s voice stopped him. “Hey, look after Talone for me.”

“Will do,” Talonico answered, unsure of how he could fulfill his promise. He turned to see if she had more to say, but Milan had already fallen to a feverish sleep. The corporal stepped outside, sunlight blinding him after the darkness of the tent. Once his eyes had adjusted, he saw Talone waiting for him under a tree.

“Ready, Corp?”

“I am. Let’s go.”

Talone hoisted her rifle, the machine gun remaining with the squad, and followed the brown and white griffon down a narrow trail leading through the forest. The wet, post-rain smell hung in the air, and it would have been refreshingly clean if not for the stench of death overpowering it. Bodies were being loaded in caskets.

The regiment left that night. A two-day-march took them to the nearest railhead. Two battalions could comfortably fit in one train, and the first battalion was lucky enough to get the first ride out, departing after dinner and leaving the others to wait in the cold and darkness. In the rush to pack everything, Talonico saw the two hatchlings they had found in the village hiding next to the field kitchen. At least someone was looking after them.

Huddled in the press of bodies, Talonico listened to the whispered conversations, unable to sleep.