Gryphus

Canales was seething. The march to join the rest of the battalion had begun poorly, with the company coming under fire a mere hour into its march. Marching at the front, Canales’ platoon had taken the brunt of the fire, losing two dead and three wounded.

The ambushers had been chased off, fleeing into the descending night, and the march continued at a much more sedate pace. When they had finally reached the militia’s outermost outpost, an explanation was demanded on how the enemy had managed to slip past them. Upon hearing the answer, it took all of Canales’ self-control not to reach for her pistol.

The militia had demanded the password, but when no answer came, they had not opened fire, still uncertain if the griffons were friends or foes. Similar uniforms made it difficult to guess. They had asked for the password, but the wrong answer only resulted in confusion, instead of a hail of bullets. The information was already making its way through the company, and it wouldn’t take long before everyone knew how poorly their rear would be guarded.

Another problem she was forced to tackle was the private that had panicked at the village. He had frozen again, unable to move under fire. While Canales understood fear well, she could not ignore the problem the brown griffon posed. Fear was infectious, spreading from one host to another, and a single griffon running at the wrong moment could pull the squad, or the whole platoon with them. Canales would then have to restore the line, with her sidearm if necessary, and she wasn’t sure if she could do that.

“Corporal, make sure that he moves the next time there’s a fight.” Canales said to the weary corporal, who stood with her some distance from the rest of the platoon. “If you think he can’t fight, then tell me. I’ll ask Captain Telesca that he’s assigned to a rear echelon unit.”

“I’ll do my best,” the Corporal answered after mulling it over for a moment, looking at his depleted squad. “But it all depends on him. I can’t help him if there is nothing to prop up.”

“I know,” Canales agreed. “But do your best.”

Canales left the Corporal behind, trailed by Sergeant Carranza and another corporal. With the casualties of the morning and the village battle, she had merged two squads, leaving her with four full-strength ones. The Corporal left over she had taken as a runner.

“And lastly we have Tasca’s squad,” Carranza said. The veteran hid his grimace at the platoon’s weakest link, covering it up with something resembling a wistful smile as he looked into the vast forest around them. Somehow the sergeant could always find a chance to enjoy the beauty surrounding them.

While Canales agreed with his assessment of Tasca, she kept her beak shut. The griffon was simply bad at his job, but she had to maintain the platoon’s discipline, and openly mocking a squad leader was a terrible way to do it. Unfortunately taking him as a runner instead of the more competent Corporal was out of the question. Tasca simply lacked the ability to act or think independently.

“Corporal,” Canales greeted him. “How’s your squad? Have they been drinking enough?”

“They’re resting, ma’am. And, uh… hey guys! Drink some water.”

Canales shook her head, and gave Tasca further orders to make sure his squad would be ready when the march resumed. Even then she felt Carranza or her should take a quick look, to make sure nothing was forgotten. Five minutes remained. She started rolling up her greatcoat.

“What will I do with that griffon?” She muttered.

“There’s not much you can do,” Carranza answered. He stood next to the lieutenant, his yellow eyes spirited in spite of his years of experience.

“You’re the platoon leader, you can’t openly berate an NCO, because then the soldiers will not respect him.” He paused. “Well, they already don’t, but they can’t get your blessing to show disrespect.”

“But you can?”

“Yes. Keeping them in line is a part of my job.”

“Great Grover, I should ask you to do that more often. Did you ever have such a terrible NCO in Mustangia?”

The Sergeant looked up, deep in thought. “Well, there was a terrible First Sergeant in a different company. Didn’t do his job, demanded spotless uniforms in a trench, and was always late with supply requests. Then one night he went out with a patrol and didn’t come back, which was odd as not a single shot was fired. I certainly hope I can make Tasca get a hold of himself.”

“Me too.”

The march continued through the night.

The steady, dripping rain soaked them bit by bit, sapping at their spirits worse than enemy fire ever would. Soon word came from the left that they had joined the rest of the battalion, marching in three snaking columns through the graying woods.

The officers knew the purpose of the awkward, tiring maneuver was to bring the entire battalion to position undetected. The division commander had given orders to the brigade commander, who had given orders to the regimental commanders, who had sent their battalions on the move.

While the platoons were digging foxholes to rest in, Captain Telesca had been called to meet Major Thunderclaw, along with the rest of the company commanders. In addition to them, the Major shared his pit with the scout platoon’s leader and an attached forward observer.

A tarp thrown over a branch shielded them from the rain.

“We are here,” Thunderclaw explained, pointing at a line drawn into the vast woods. “And the enemy is here.”

The enemy was set up on an L shaped ridge flanked on both sides by deep swamps. To Telesca’s confusion, the enemy was only set up on the short base of the L, abandoning the potential for flanking fire.

“The enemy positions here guard their supply lines for this salient.” The Major explained the goal of their attack for the first time. “We attack as a part of the regiment’s battle to cut the supply lines to force the enemy to abandon the salient, shortening the front. The third battalion will attack to our left to fix the enemy, and the second will wait in reserve, ready to exploit success. A scout company from the division will screen our right flank, the militia our rear.”

Telesca nodded along as the Major pointed out more and more details on the map. She wished the battle in the village had been more like this. The area had been properly scouted beforehand, and the regiment’s mortars and division’s cannons would all support the attack, before shifting to the third battalion’s sector.

Each company would attack by the book in two waves, the second reinforcing the first if the attack stalled. But for her company, there was an additional task.

“Telesca,” Thunderclaw added. “You will send one platoon to capture the enemy forward positions here. After that, the machine-gun company will set up there, to control the enemy’s reinforcement routes.”

That would be Canales’ platoon. She had enough griffons for the task, and it would spare it from the worst of the frontal attack. Still, it was the captain’s duty to make sure she knew everything necessary.

“Are we certain there are no positions along the ridge?” She asked. “That is good defensive terrain.”

“We are certain. The trenches were vulnerable to direct fire from three directions and the Paramilitary abandoned them a long time ago. Any more questions?”

The scout platoon’s leader spoke up. “Why do we not move through the marshes? We have gone through worse terrain before.”

“That is true, but then the enemy’s flanks were open. If we try that, we’ll be exhausted and pinned between two battalions. The enemy is estimated to have a company in reserve, and if we are caught out of position they can cause heavy casualties.”

There were no more questions.

“The attack will begin at nine-zero-zero. Make sure your companies get some rest before that.”

With the foxholes dug, the LMG section took the chance to make a small, fizzling fire dug into a small pit. The lowest branches of spruces made for almost dry firewood. Mess tins hung over the flames, dry rations stewing inside.

Talonico raised his head as Wingerni emerged from the woods, sitting down on a relatively dry rock. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Talonico answered. “What’s the news?”

“The third company got some casualties from artillery fire, but otherwise it’s been quiet for them. First company said that their supply column saw three inch guns driving towards the front, to older positions.” As he prattled, Wingerni took his mess tin and an enamel cup filled with coffee substitute made of dandelion roots. He took a deep sip, cherishing his disgusting drink.

“That would make sense,” Greendown agreed. “Try to get a few extra miles of range.”

“Yeah, it was twelve guns from what I heard.”

“Huh, a full battalion then.”

“That’s a lot of firepower, they are really putting effort into this,” Talonico observed. “Not that I mind, we could have used that at the Abattoir.”

“That asshole officer wouldn’t have shot you, for one,” Wingerni chuckled. He didn’t laugh at the wound, as much as he laughed at everything whenever he had the excuse.

“Maybe. Or maybe she would’ve gotten lucky in any case.”

The white griffon checked his mess tin, and satisfied that the stewing meal was ready, reached for the spoon in his pocket. As he did no, his talon brushed against a piece of paper. Confused, he pulled out a letter. At the first few words he recognized the sender. “Ah, shit.”

Greendown looked over. “What is it?”

Talonico glanced at the paper. He could explain the contents, but he was hungry and his wood was waiting. “See for yourself.”

The gay faced griffon accepted the letter, and started scanning through it. “Dearest Grandson… griffons spilling griffon blood.. oh!” Greendown scratched the tuft on his cheek, before reading the passage again. “I beg you to reconsider your loyalties, misled by silly ideas of a Republic. You are young and healthy, a prime example of griffonkind. The Feast Party would accept you, and you would help elevate us to our rightful place?”

The sergeant smacked his beak. “Your grandpa is a-”

“Cunt.”

“Yes. That’s a word for it. Want your letter back?”

Talonico shrugged. “Just chuck it in the flames, I would have already but I forgot I had the thing.”

Sitting next to them, Talone had picked up on the exchange. “Corp, is your Grandpa a fucking Party member?”

“Yes. And no shooting if you see him, he is still a civilian.”

Her question preempted, Talone chuckled and resumed cleaning her weapon. It was a habit caused by the weapon’s unreliability. Milan elbowed her and leaned in to ask. “Doesn’t Corp let you have any fun?”

“Clearly not. Pass me the recoil spring.”

Milan gave the spring to the larger griffon, who checked it for wear. “Corp might be a bore, but we’ll have so much fun today. Isn’t that right?”

Milan paused. She would hardly call battles fun, nor the nightmarish aftermath, but she could not deny the exhilarating feeling of adrenaline warring with her fear. “Aye, I suppose.”