Gryphus

October
Western Griffon Kingdom
Grostschapel, Paramilitary

Captain Agosto lashed her tail in frustration.

The heavy artillery regiment had finally reached the Gryphus front, but instead of being deployed, they had been sent to a village far behind the frontline.

Soon after that Lieutenant Colonel Snowfeather had taken Agosto with her for a visit to the Feast Party’s wartime capital. Grostschapel was the northernmost city on the continent, constantly buffeted by a freezing wind coming from the Frozen North. There the two officers had first visited the General Staff to ask about their ammunition situation, neatly sidestepping several layers of authority. When that had yielded no results they had marched through the various workshops responsible for manufacturing artillery shells. So far the results had been disappointing, and now they were standing in the one truly modern factory in the city.

“Ma’am, I understand you want your ammunition, but unless you can give me a new assembly line, this is the fastest we can manufacture shells,” the manager explained. He was a middle aged griffon with groomed black feathers and a pair of glasses on his beak. The three were in his cramped office, surrounded by paperwork.

“And you can’t make your workers work any faster?” Snowfeather demanded, frustration visible on her white and gray face. She had hoped that she could make the manager see reason, but their concepts of reason did not match.

“I have two shifts working twelve hours each!” The manager spat, angry at her implications. “We are making shells at a record pace without sacrificing reliability. And unless you want a repeat of Fillydelphia, we’ll keep that quality up. It is not our fault that you use ancient relics. Eight-inch shells are the absolute lowest priority, and that is not my decision.”

The pounding of machinery came from outside, interrupting their discussion.

The manager looked out of the window overlooking the workspace where artillery shells were made. Right below them a worker was placing an eight-inch shell on a lathe that would then cut it to proper size and shape. The factory was modern, with advanced machinery doing much of the labor, but still it was not enough. There was only one assembly line, and despite the best efforts of the employees, the production could not keep up with demand. And to make things worse much of the pre-war manufacturing was on the wrong side of the frontline. Agosto knew that she could not blame him, but that did nothing to make her less frustrated.

With the manager distracted, Snowfeather leaned towards Agosto. “You’ve been overseas. How the hell did they have enough shells for their guns?”

“They had actual industries,” Agosto snarled, only half joking. “Not some dingy shops making ammo by claw. And their competent workers didn’t defect.”

“Fucking unionists. Any thoughts on how we would get an actual industry?”

“With money, obviously.”

“Listen,” the manager sighed as he pulled away from the window. He had not heard their discussion, too lost in his thoughts. “We’ll start hitting our target numbers in December, but I can’t guarantee the ammo will even go to you. Until we get Gryphus, the Paramilitary will not have enough shells for everyone. I just can’t help you.”

Snowfeather sighed, electing to ignore the manager’s choice of words. He was not capturing the city. “Understood. We’ll take our leave then.”

Upon leaving the building, the Lieutenant Colonel muttered. “Well, how will we get the money for a new assembly line?”

Agosto raised the collar of her greatcoat for protection from the freezing air. She barely had to think before answering. “Well, you could sell your tanks.”

“Absolutely not! Those are going to my hatchlings.”

The Captain laughed at her superior’s answer. “You know you’re a legend in the Regiment? I think even griffs from other units know of the tank thing.”

“Is that so? What do they say?”

“Our regiment thinks it’s amazing. Most of them want to emulate you to some extent. As for others… I think a sergeant from Ninth asked ‘who’s that crazy bitch?’ He also asked how many medals he’d need for your carbine.”

“Ha!” Snowfeather barked a laugh. “So I’m a crazy bitch? I like that. And that sergeant will need some stars in his collar before he can cut his gun like that.”

The two walked to the car waiting for them outside the workshop’s gates. The private chauffeuring them knew to take the duo to the train station, starting the engine upon seeing the two and taking off the moment they were in without any further instructions. During the quiet drive through the small city Agosto put more thought into any ways to solve their problem. Then an old memory surfaced.

“The coastal guns!” Agosto yelled, surprising Snowfeather. The owl-faced officer looked at Agosto expectantly. The brown griffon scritched her feathers in thought before clarifying.

“The old coastal guns used the same shells as our howitzers.”

“That’s true. And where would you find those?”

“Driver, take us to the General Staff,” Agosto ordered, and started explaining.

Snowfeather was soon nodding in agreement, seeing where Agosto was going with her idea. Twenty minutes later they had reached the nerve center of the Paramilitary’s war effort. A large, three story manor with a rose facade and surrounded by a wrought iron fence three meters tall had once belonged to some noble family or another. After the start of the Civil War the general staff had seized the building, enticed by its connection to the sparse pre-existing network of telephone lines.

The guards outside the open gates, standing at parade rest whenever someone looked in their direction, stopped the car. After a short discussion a messenger was sent in, and soon returned with a permission for the two to enter.

Dismounting their car, the two entered the building, where a Major General in a neat service uniform, and with a well groomed mustache, was waiting for them in the small lobby. The uniform was the same green color as everyone else’s, with a red arrow-headed stripe on the collar marking his loyalty. At the base of the stripe was a pair of golden stars and a butcher’s knife below them. Not only an officer, he was also an active Party member.

“Snowy!” The General roared a greeting, embracing the white griffon, who hugged him right back. The General was small in stature, barely reaching Agosto’s beak, but had a surprisingly deep baritone. “Good to see you! Do you have a plan for our shell shortage?”

“She has,” Snowfeather answered, gesturing at Agosto with her wing. “It’s audacious, but maybe we can develop something from it.”

“Well then, let’s get to my office.”

Luna Sea had always been a low priority to the Griffon Kingdom due to most trade going through Celestial Sea, and with no noteworthy targets near the coast to worry about. However, one island had held a garrison before the civil war, protecting the naval base at Arenne Bay that housed the pre-Civil War western fleet. Now it forced the entirety of the Feast Party’s navy to stay in port. Ideas had been floated to scuttle the ships and give their guns to the army, but nothing had been carried out so far, partially due to the dizzying variety of shells likely only worsening the logistical confusion, and partially due to the navy’s pride.

Now the time had come to use the navy to seize the troublesome island. Its fortress, a quite literal one dating to a century ago and modernized over the years, held a significant supply of eight-inch shells. However, that was also a weakness. Its heavy, eight-inch guns were designed to keep the enemy at bay to prevent them from sealing the bay. However, only its lightest guns could easily be moved around, and the new positions facing the northerners were not nearly as well fortified as the old concrete ones.

While Snowfeather returned to her regiment after the meeting, Agosto stayed behind. Half an hour later she found herself in front of a dozen generals, admirals, and other staff officers. Two hours and countless phone calls later a force was being assembled.