Chapters Having survived the Great War without any cataclysmic battles fought on its soil, and only a few volunteer divisions seeing action, the Griffon Kingdom threw itself to the Civil War with a frenzy most of the world had matured out of. The Second Battle of Gryphus provided the Kingdom with a taste of what others had seen. Propaganda on both sides spoke of death as a noble sacrifice to cleanse the nation, and here a generation’s finest was given their chance to purify the kingdom.
From THE SUNDERED KINGDOM, by Goldie Delicious.
October
“There’s nothing left.”
Corporal Talonico walked past the smoking craters, searching for survivors. Debris littered the marshy ground, covering the corpses of young griffons. The tall griff knelt down next to one, pressing long talons against her neck. There was no pulse. His brown wings spread out in agitation, and with a weary sigh, Talonico rolled her to her back and yanked her shirt open.
She had died surprised, her grayish-green uniform unbuttoned, and a cap on her head instead of a steel helmet. Blood from her wounds stained the insignia on her collar. Talonico folded her dog tag, cutting it in two. He pocketed the lower part.
“That’s four on my end,” Talonico called out. From the other side of a torn tent, another griffon answered.
“And five on mine.”
Almost a full squad. Talonico looked up, to where the squad’s last member awaited. The front third of a griffon hung from the branches of a dead tree. His body was brown, like Talonico’s, but his head was gray to the corporal’s white. “Should we get him down?”
“Not taking that risk,” answered the other voice. Bounding from the other side of the tent came sergeant Greendown. Dark gray, except for the green tufts on his cheeks, he was Talonico’s friend and immediate superior. The Sergeant looked at the corpse, a disgusted grimace on his face. “With how high he is, it would take a while. I’m not waiting for a second barrage.”
“Aye,” Talonico reluctantly agreed. “Well, that’s how it is.”
The two walked away, leaving the hill behind. Almost immediately the ground below them turned soft and wet, squishing with every step. The squad of reservists hadn’t wanted to set up their tent in the wet marsh, and against the advice of more experienced troops, set up on a relatively dry hill.
When the enemy fired blindly they had targeted terrain sticking out.
“It wasn’t mortars that did that,” Greendown said all of a sudden. “Those craters are too big for even heavy mortars.”
“Six-inch guns?” Talonico asked, tilting his head. “I can’t imagine them in this thicket. They’d sink before they were in position.”
“You know better than me. Oh, and give me the tags you took, I’ll go report to Mama Liv.”
Talonico fished the tags from his pocket. One had been torn in two by a fragment, slick with blood that stained the griffon’s talons. He gave the hill one final look, grimacing in disgust. Talonico had forgotten how awful death looked.
At least the shells had missed the rest of the bivouac area, which was a good distance away for a reason.
“I’ll get back to the section,” Talonico sighed, parting from Greendown as the pair approached the command tent hidden under the cover of a thick forest. A pair of medics rushed past him, moving to gather the dead. The initial shock had passed, and griffons were returning to their routine of rest and maintenance.
Greendown entered the tent, while Talonico continued to his, standing a short distance away. The machine gun section was directly under the captain's control, and she wanted to keep them close.
The tent had been set up under the cover of a pair of spruces, and further concealed with long branches. A stovepipe poked past them, belching thin smoke and the occasional spark. In the Griffon Kingdom, late summer could already be cool, and they were well on their way to autumn.
Outside the tent, a griffon from his squad busied herself with cutting firewood.
“No good news?” private Milan asked, seeing the look on his face. Tawny, and with red cheeks, Milan could meld into any crowd.
“None,” Talonico answered and sat on a felled tree. Frustrated, he took off his helmet and slung his rifle out. “The guns fucked everything on that hill.”
The griffoness sighed. A swing of an axe split another log of birch. Milan had been enthusiastic about the start of the war, seeing it as a chance to cleanse the world of the evil of the Feast Party. The belief that griffons were entitled to eat any creatures they considered prey was beyond disgusting. Months of fighting had not taken away that innocent enthusiasm, but her smile no longer reached her eyes. “Yeah, I expected that. What were they thinking?”
“They thought they were safe,” Talonico muttered. Slowly and methodically, he started stripping his rifle, storing the parts in his helmet. The monotonous activity helped calm him, channeling his frustrations into something constructive.
The war had lasted only three months, and Milan had been there from the start. That was more than any of the reservists had seen. It was in fact, more than Talonico had seen, having spent two months in a hospital after being shot through a bone in his arm.
“It’s not that long ago that wars had a clear battlefield, and everything behind it went untouched,” he continued.
“And that’s what they were used to?” Milan asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Must have been,” Talonico answered. All the while, he kept cleaning the weapon. “Damn them.”
“And damn those guns.” Another log split. “They keep shooting unmolested, and even if they only catch idiots, they get to keep going.”
Talonico nodded. “I’d pay for some pilot to strafe the guns. Make those fuckers run for once.”
The name, so very military in its nature, brought a smile to the corporal’s face. There was not a single thing they could not give a sexual name. He patted his rifle reassuringly. “I don’t think eight-oh-three could make that shot. Not for lack of trying, he’s a spirited lad. Now go to the tent and get some rest. I can chop the rest of the wood.”
The howitzer fired again. Ancient trees shook from the muzzle blast, raining branches onto the griffons crewing the weapon.
“Reload!”
Captain Agosto watched as the crews realigned their howitzers. Pairs of griffons maneuvered heavy eight-inch shells and propellant bags, going through the arduous process of reloading the guns. One by one, the long barrels rose, pointing high into the sky.
“Attention!” Agosto yelled, raising her claw. Seeing she had the attention of the gun commanders, she brought it down in a swift strike. “Fire!”
Again, the four guns fired, shaking the earth. The crews, dirty and tired, moved away from their weapons, congratulating each other on their good work.
Agosto watched them with pride. Although the battery was cursed with old guns, the crews more than made up for that deficiency. The howitzers had no recoil absorbing system, meaning the weapons had to be staked before firing, lest they required two observers: one to see where the shell landed, and another to find the gun.
“I am impressed, Captain.”
Agosto looked at the griffon that had spoken. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Lieutenant Colonel Snowfeather was an odd griffon. She had a small head and a flat, round face of gray and white, a pattern the rest of her feathers shared, while her fur was almost yellow in color. Snowfeather had been an observer in a number of conflicts around the world, refining her tactics on that experience. She had returned home just in time to support the coup that had started the rule of the Feast party.
“I admit, you are a good replacement for Major Manole, bless their soul. You did not disappoint.”
“Aye, that screech was an excellent teacher.”
The Major, fully aware of their outdated equipment, had gone out of their way to make the battery’s soldiers proud of their service branch. The red stripes in their collars ended in the symbol of a flaming grenade, something normally reserved for dress uniforms. “So, Colonel, what brings you here?”
Snowfeather laughed at her straightforwardness. It was in her opinion the best part of serving in the Army Group North, and the Paramilitary after the coup. As she moved to pull a list of orders from her pocket, she swung her rifle out of the way. The weapon had been cut short, with half of its barrel and the entirety of its butt missing, making the whole thing look like an oversized pistol.
“Work, as always. The regiment is being pulled from the front,” the Colonel answered, offering Agosto her written orders. “Why or where, I do not know. The withdrawal must be gradual, lest the Prey finds out.”
Prey. That was what they called those fighting in the Southern army. Griffons that had disgraced themselves by siding with the bovines, willing to throw their lives away for creatures only fit to be food. Army Group South, Republicans, Monarchists, or Equalists, whatever they called themselves, they were all the same kind of scum.
“I understand. I will start the preparations. Well, it gives us a moment to stockpile. We have ammo for two more days.”
As the Colonel left, Agosto’s telephone operator spoke up. “Do I remember this right? Isn’t she the one with a tank?”
“Three,” another answered. “One for each kid.”
“She had twins?” Agosto asked, surprised. “I thought she had just one egg.”
“The word is,” the operator hurried to explain. “That she got two chicks from one egg.”
“And she has a tank for each of them?”
“Yes, or, well, only one now, two are stuck in customs in Prance.”
Leaving the two to their talk, Agosto scanned her orders. The regiment had suffered few casualties, so that was not why they were leaving. No, they were pulled from the front because they were needed somewhere else.
Finally, they would be pulled from this wasteland to somewhere their contributions mattered. Something, she knew, was about to happen.
October
Time passed slowly as the first battalion waited in reserve.
The griffons had found multiple ways to combat boredom, of which Captain Telesca preferred training, mainly because it kept her soldiers from doing anything exceptionally stupid. She trusted her platoon leaders to deal with the regular stupidity, which was why she was able to take a moment for a cigarette.
Smoking quietly outside the command tent, she observed the bivouac area.
Arranged in a circle, with each platoon given its own sector to defend, and her tent in the middle, the camp resembled a massive target if one were able to see it from above. She looked at the ravaged hill and shook her head in dismay. That the squad would set up somewhere with no concealment was not a good sign of their competence, but she would have preferred for them to live and learn.
About once a day, the Paramilitary harassed the frontline, a little over two kilometers away, with their mortars, resulting in a casualty every now and then. Even at the rear, they were far from safety, as the heavy guns kept firing at their own pace. The only road was visible from the air, running perpendicular to the frontline. It was their only lifeline, and so vulnerable. Almost every day someone was killed on the road.
Her company had been badly understrength ever since its first battle. A long period of peace had left the army small. And now an enemy that was, as much as she hated to admit it, their equal, had inflicted casualties that the influx of new recruits and reservists would not immediately replace. Especially not if she couldn’t make them survive long enough to learn the ropes.
So lost in her thoughts was Telesca, that she didn’t notice the shuffling bushes next to her.
The gleam of metal alerted her that she was not alone. Telesca watched with bemusement as a green helmet with a distinct central ridge emerged from the undergrowth, followed by a brown head.
“Good morning, Private,” the Captain greeted private Wingerni. “Not getting too wet, I hope?”
The private blinked, looking up at the captain with his green eyes glowing with mirth.
“Good morning, Ma’am,” he replied politely. “Just completely soaked.”
It was not a lie, Telesca thought. His uniform had visibly darkened and was covered with bits of moss and wet sand.
“Well, a little misery is good for the soul. We are infantry, not gunners,” she said out loud. Further away, she saw Talonico move from tree to tree, talking to his squad members.
“Firing positions?” she asked, recognizing the song and dance she had gone through thousands of times.
“Yes.”
“Very good, you can never train that enough.”
It was something that had been introduced during her last year in the Cadet School. She could remember the derision of some older officers, whose idea of war was two lines of infantry firing at each other, with no regard to cover or concealment. There was a reason most of them were out of the military by now.
“Uh, Ma’am?”
“Hm?” Usually, any questions would be directed at the immediate superior, but she was there, so she might as well answer.
“If I’m going to have sentry duty in a cold rain, I’d like to keep as warm as possible. So does the army have anything waterproof?”
“The towels,” Telesca offered without hesitation, before returning to her cigarette.
October
Griffons could make delicious food from their limited crops.
Or maybe, Amanda thought, she liked it so much because it was her first touch with real food. Back when she had belonged to the family of farmers, she had been forced to graze her food, and when lucky, was allowed to eat whatever they could not.
Still, that made the potato-carrot soup one of the best things she had eaten in her life.
Miss Stela watched her with some amusement from the other side of the small table. Amanda looked up, seeing the teacher with a pleasant smile on her face. Abashed, she realized she had forgotten her manners, and put down the bowl.
“It’s nice that you appreciate my cooking,” Stela remarked, before taking a spoonful of soup. A lone, half-burned candle by the window illuminated them in its warm, fragile glow. This far in the countryside there was no electricity.
“Well, it is good,” Amana replied, before returning to her food. As the South had freed more and more bovines from the slaughterhouses and farms, the question of what to do with them had risen. She had found a home with Stela, who, like many others had volunteered to house the bovines. Still, it was not enough. According to Stela, there were not enough volunteers, and any temporary camps would look suspicious at best. At worst, her rescuers would shoot themselves in the paw by doing so. Many sought their fortune elsewhere, but she had chosen to remain.
As Amanda ate, her mind wandered to those who had rescued her. She had no idea what had happened to them since their first meeting. But as the cogs in her mind turned, a familiar name started to surface.
“Say, miss?” she asked. “The chick that played in the airplane, Greta. Isn’t her last name Silverbeak?”
Stela lowered her spoon, raising an eyebrow quizzically. “Yes, it is. Why?”
“And is someone in her family in the army?”
“Yes, her father is a lieutenant.”
Amanda leaped up in excitement. “I know him! He was among those that found me!”
“There are many Silverbeaks, so you might have seen a different one. Was he completely gray, and full of himself?”
Amanda giggled. “Yes.”
Then, realizing she had found a way to contact those who had saved her, Amanda made a beeline for the door. “I have to go see them. See if I can send write to them or-”
“Amanda, wait.” Stela’s voice was stern but calm as if she was talking to a student that had done something foolish. “I don’t think they will like it if you interrupt their dinner. And, well, can you write well enough to send a letter?”
“Right,” Amanda mumbled, flushing in shame. She made her way back to the table. “Miss, I am sorry. I got too excited.”
Stela waited for her to finish her apology. Interrupting would have been rude, and she didn't want that. Once Amanda was done, she gently reached across the table, resting her claw on the cow’s shoulder. Surprising herself, Amanda found the touch pleasant and motherly.
“That is quite alright. You don’t have to apologize. Now, tomorrow we can go and confirm you have the right griffon. And If you want, I can help you write your message.”
Amanda smiled. “Thank you.”
October
Talone left the camp, acting as if nothing was amiss.
The griffoness had a peculiar coloration of brown and black stripes, and her black beak was straight and narrow, a rarity among griffons. She hummed a quiet tune as she went, absently scanning the forest. It was more out of an ingrained habit than any actual concern, as her lazily slung rifle demonstrated.
A few steps behind her was Milan. She was outwardly calm, but a childish part deep inside her was giddy at the thought of some mischievous rule-breaking. Milan’s body was tawny in color, and her head brown, with the exception of red feathers under her dark eyes.
“So,” Milan asked, interrupting the older griffon’s thoughts. “Where exactly are we going? You said we are going to find food.”
“I did, yes,” Talone answered, ducking under a branch, and then hopping over a stream. “The field kitchen has to throw away any food that is not eaten, right?”
“If you say so. The closest I came to them was when I was peeling potatoes.”
Talone looked around, ensuring there was no one who could see them. So far they could have said they had been heading for the stream to wash. But not anymore. Now they had to be more careful. Once Milan hopped over the stream, Talone continued her explanation.
“Rear line troops are often pretty easy to bribe. We had fish yesterday, and they catch it in such numbers that there will always be too much. Anything that went unused is going to be dumped. We are going to get some of that.”
“And they can’t just use more fish than normally?”
“No. Someone with too much time came up with these ‘calories’, and everything must be measured correctly.”
Milan nodded along. That sounded like the military. Trying to impose order and control into everything, even when it made little sense. Now she understood why they had taken their mess tins.
“So, is that why I have those chevrons with me?”
A month ago, before Talonico had returned from the hospital, the squad had encountered a group of Paramilitary while on a patrol. She had killed three of them, including a corporal, and had taken his brass insignia with her.
“Precisely. I have one silver star with me, but those chevrons are more valuable. You don’t see many these days, since we use cloth now.”
“You used one star for coffee,” Milan said. “So now I want to know where you got that flour from.”
“You know that farm we passed, with the sweet farmer?”
“Yes. How did you pay him?”
Talone looked back, flashing Milan a knowing grin, swaying her tail from side to side.
“Damn,” Milan laughed as she realized Talone’s meaning. “Did you woo him with your personality?”
“Pfft! Of course not,” was Talone’s answer.
Shortly afterward, they entered a small clearing, where the battalion disposed of its waste. Clearing was a generous word, as it was merely a slightly less wooded area, full of tall, withers-height grass.
“Evening lass, I figured you’d be here.”
Standing next to a carriage filled with empty bins was a tall griffon, without a rifle and with only a cap on his head.
“Want your fill before I dump the rest of this away?”
“Yes,” Talone answered. “Two tins of fish.”
“Right this way. How are you gonna pay?”
Ready, Milan pulled out the brass chevron from her pocket and handed it over. The griffon looked at it and laughed. “Well damn, I haven’t seen these before. But say, if you ever get a major’s star, I’ll arrange you a three-course meal.”
“I’ll remember that,” Milan muttered. The cook opened a large steel can, and scooped out enough small fish to fill their tins. One he took for himself, swallowing it whole. Then he picked up the can and dumped the rest into a large hole in the ground.
As they turned to leave, Milan thanked the griffon, who merely waved her aside.
“I’m just glad to see less going to waste. I remember a damn famine, and I don’t want to see people disrespecting food like that.”
Their journey back to the company passed in silence. Both dumped their faces in the ditch, making it look like they had just been gone for a wash. A password called from a distance ensured that the sentry did not bother them.
It took some maneuvering to ensure no one came close enough to smell their bounty, but the two reached their tent without incident. Spotting their approach, sergeant Greendown pointedly looked away, as did Talonico.
If they did not see any rule-breaking, they did not have to interfere.
The tent stove was already hot. It did not take long before the section streamed in one by one. Flour and water became simple bread, and the fish were eaten whole. It was a rudimentary meal, but filling.
As Talone ate, she watched Wingerni and Bluecrest squabble about something or other, as they tended to do. Greendown and Talonico discussed the coming day, planning who would carry what.
Talone took another bite of bread, savoring the taste. Tomorrow, the company would march to battle. She did not fear death nor battle, but something gnawed in her stomach. Long ago she had talked with captain Telesca.
“Private, tell me, will you ever stop hating the Paramilitary?” The Captain had asked one day, seemingly out of nowhere, although Talone suspected she had observed her for quite some time.
“Maybe once they are all dead, or me,” she had replied nonchalantly while trying to figure out where the conversation was going. The Captain had seemed surprised by her answer.
“I doubt you can kill them all. Would you be willing to die just to let go?”
“Why not? I saw plenty of death before the war. As long as someone’s with me, I’m not afraid.”
October
The company set out before dawn.
In pitch blackness, and with a great clatter, they brought down their tents and packed their kits. Officers cussed and hissed for the troops to be quiet.
Soon, the company was ready, sitting at the edge of the road in long, platoon-sized columns. As they waited for the trucks that were, in true army fashion, late, the platoon leaders started touring the squads, ensuring everything was in order. As one approached the LMG section, Talonico could make out a familiar, feminine voice.
“Canales?”
The griffon stopped. “Nico? I heard you got back. How was the buck?”
“Fuck,” was the immediate, hissed reply. “Is that the only joke you people know?”
Someone had decided that the Corporal was in a relationship with an Ibex buck. The rumor was made even weirder by the fact that he had never even seen one in his life.
As second lieutenant Canales came closer, more features became visible in the darkness. Black feathers and a gray, strongly hooked beak. Her brown eyes had an intelligent, calculating look. She sat down in front of Greendown and Talonico, curling her feline tail around her legs.
The lieutenant had been their section leader before being promoted to the command of the first platoon.
“No, there are plenty of others,” Canales answered. “But seriously, I’m happy to see you again. You two have all your gear ready?”
“Yes,” Greendown answered. “I took the liberty of getting a few extra boxes of bullets. Two packs per griff.”
“Good, good. Nico, are you ready for a fight?”
“Of course,” Talonico scoffed. “Time to pull some Militia out of trouble.”
The densely wooded east had been a relatively quiet front in the Civil War. The terrain, mostly endless primeval forests, made any large-scale combat difficult. Roads were few and far between, causing headaches for anyone trying to supply the troops. Every place a large force could come through had been fortified.
Even that left massive gaps between units, most of which were plugged with volunteer militia. Though in high spirits, they tended to know little about warfare. To the right of their regiment, a company of militia had been driven from the isolated village they defended.
A few minutes later, they heard the sound of an approaching carriage. Almost as one, they watched a pair of griffons pull a creaking and shaky wagon down the road. They turned their heads to follow the wagon until it disappeared around a corner.
Time passed. The griffons talked quietly among themselves, trying to stave off the cold. The wagon was already making its way back, and still, there was no sign of the trucks.
“Hey, you the second company?” One of the griffons pulling the wagon asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. We brought the mail. Take it so we can get moving.”
A pair of griffons rushed to take the sack containing the letters, dumping its contents into their helmets. Captain Telesca, watching from the side, spoke up.
“We’re waiting for our ride. Did you see them on the way here?”
“Yeah. They had to take a detour because the road was too cratered. Said they’ll be here by five-thirty.”
Telseca’s eyes darkened. It would be twilight then, and she had no desire to test if the trucks would be spotted.
The mail was shared, and to his surprise, Talonico received two letters. So did Bluecrest, and a private from Greendown’s squad. The moment it got bright enough to read, Talonico opened his letter. As he scanned through its contents, he was interrupted by a gasp from Bluecrest.
The brown griffon had covered his black beak with one claw, the other holding what appeared to be a photo. His smile reached his eyes, and the griffon seemed to radiate joy.
“What is it?” Talonico asked.
Bluecrest offered the picture to him. A female griffon, dressed in fine clothes sat on a sofa. From the cluttered background, Talonico guessed it was her home. In her embrace, she held a peacefully sleeping hatchling swaddled in layers of blankets. Soft down and small feathers covered his head.
“My son,” Bluecrest choked out the words. A tear rolled down his cheek. “His name is Andrei.”
“He is amazing,” Talonico said, handing back the photo.
“He is,” Bluecrest agreed. But as he did so, much of his joy seemed to disappear. With an almost bitter voice, he whispered. “And I’m not with him.”
October
“Hey, we found the cows.”
He watched as two griffons in mismatched uniforms escorted a group of cows and a trio of beaten civilians.
“These fucks were with them.”
Company commander Averla spat out his cigarette and marched out to greet his soldiers. He was a small griffon, with reddish-brown wings and a blue head. A black mask crossed his face above his beak, reaching from cheek to cheek and covering his yellow eyes.
“Shackle the meat and get them moving,” he ordered. Averla’s voice was loud and sharp. “I’ll deal with these idiots.”
His militia got to work. The cows had escaped while being transported to a slaughterhouse, sending his unit to a wild chase to catch them. After a sympathetic local had tipped off Averla, he had tracked them to an abandoned farm. The farm and all its outbuildings were overgrown after being abandoned during the Hunger Years.
Averla stalked over to the three civilians, who glared at him in contempt. He did not look threatening, wearing an old greatcoat with navy insignia, and with an unpainted helmet on his head. A quick look at history would have revealed the navy as a hotbed of bloodthirsty radicals.
“What did you think you would accomplish?” He asked. When no answer came, Averla continued. “You try to save cows, fucking cows, and put your own lives at stake.”
One of the griffons spat at his claws. A farmer, judging by his plain clothes. “Isn’t it obvious? Boreas gave griffons a sense of honor-”
A sharp blow sent the griffon sprawling.
“But you are not a griffon,” Averla growled. Hate coursed through him, turning his vision red. “You side with the prey, so that makes you prey.”
He slung out his rifle, the bayonet already fixed. The prone griff cried out in pain as the blade sunk into his stomach. Two more stabs felled his comrades. Looking at the griffons whimpering in agony, Averla called out.
“Cut three branches and put them up as a warning.”
“Yes, boss!”
Leaving the collaborators to their fate, Averla walked away, joining the column making its way to the closest village. Finding his assistant, he cursed.
“Damn these assholes for wasting our time. We should be at the front already.”
October
The shaking of the truck barely distracted the soldiers from their nonsensical discussions.
Wingerni, Talonico’s loader, was busy chatting with Bluecrest. The light brown, green-eyed griffon had his head thrown back, arms crossed behind it.
“The driver said there’s a rumor going that we’re going to get mustang advisors. Apparently, the brigade commanders are already making preparations.”
“No way that’s true,” Bluecrest shook his head. Both were of a similar color, but the lance corporal’s beak was black to Wingerni’s yellow. “And when did you talk to her?”
“Piss break. But-”
“No buts,” Bluecrest interrupted. “We’re on thin ice with Equestria as it is. There’s no way the General Staff will risk angering them. They already blockade us, so you know the ponies won’t hold back.”
“Eh, Sis always says the navy is expendable. Sending the ships doesn’t mean a commitment to a full war.” For all his silly manners and dumb jokes, Wingerni was smart and quick to pick up on what others were talking about.
“Your sister is in the Navy?” Milan piped up.
“Yeah.”
“Damn, do you have a photo?”
Elio picked up a small photograph that was immediately yanked from his claws. It was passed from one soldier to another, who ceased their talk to take a look. Almost immediately they started appraising her.
“That uniform fits well.” “She can show me navy stretches all night.” “Hey Wing, what ship does she serve on?”
When more vulgar comments followed Wingerni slammed his head into the truck bed’s wall. Elena was the first griffon most had seen in months that was remotely well-groomed and not interested in killing them.
A groan escaped his beak. “Before anyone goes and proposes, she did shoot at a passing car to keep rent low.”
“That’s it, I’m marrying her now,” A griffon from the first platoon proclaimed. “You’re invited to the wedding, but not the nuptial bed.”
“Fuck yourself,” Wingerni shot back. However, a small blush had appeared on his face, one that did not go unnoticed.
“Are you blushing?” Milan asked, leaning to take a closer look.
“No?”
“You fucking are! Can’t you handle a lewd joke?”
“Yes, I can,” Wingerni snapped, desperate for a way out. “I saw Blue’s kid and was just fine.”
It took Bluecrest a second to realize what the younger griffon meant. “Let me at him.” “No.” “Let me at him.”
A tap on his shoulder finally dragged Talonico into the conversation. He opened his eyes to see a concerned griffon from Greendown’s squad looking at him.
“Ah, Corporal?”
Hunt, he was called. White and blue face, with a yellow neck. Talonico did not even bother to look at where he was looking.
“Any talons visible? Is Blue smiling?”
The private leaned around Talonico. “Uh, no to first, yes to second.”
“That’s good. Hey, Greendown? Do you think Wingerni is right?”
“Could be,” the sergeant replied. “Mustangs fought for five years, they should know how war works. Was there anything interesting in your letter?”
Talonico pulled out the paper, passing it to Greendown over the hunched private’s head.
“Good news and bad news. Moms have steady jobs despite the war, and my sister is getting into art,” Talonico explained. He stopped to take a breath and spat over the edge of the bed. The twenty trucks raised a cloud of dust. Even at the front of the column, dirt had found its way into his dry mouth. “The bad news is that my grandfather is moving in. It seems he evacuated from his home.”
Greendown nodded in sympathy. “Sorry to hear that.”
“I know. Sucks to be us.”
Talonico’s answer turned the sympathy into a confused laugh. “What?”
“He’s a fan of the Feast Party,” Talonico said, taking the letter. “Had the knife and talon pin in his holiday suit, and tried to talk me into joining the Paramilitary. We haven’t talked since.”
The assistant driver’s shout buried Greendown’s answer. “Approaching the end of the road! Prepare to dismount!”
All conversation ground to a halt. The griffons gave their equipment a final check and donned their helmets. The trucks slowed down as a wall of trees came up, marking the furthest the engineers had cleared a road. Some distance away stood their camp.
Hastily the company cleared the road, forming into long lines. Everything was done with speed but without haste. As the amused rear-line troops watched on, the company marched after its captain, followed by machine gunners assigned to the company. No longer did they speak, silenced by the previously unfelt knot of fear in their stomachs.
A guide, dressed in the simple clothes of a farmer, came up to meet them. He was marked as a member of the Southern Militia by his orange armband, a bandolier, and a single-shot, 6.5-millimeter rifle.
Talone looked at the weapon in disgust. At least when the user was dead -and with that weapon, it was a when- she could take the ammunition for herself.
The silence of the long march left every griffon time to sort out their thoughts. Unreleased tension turned into boredom as the columns marched through the woods. A few leafy trees stood out from the endless mass of spruces, and the white bark of a copse of birches shone brightly next to a small, square field.
Bluecrest swatted at the mosquitoes buzzing around his sweaty head. The coolness of autumn no longer felt cool as they trudged through the thick undergrowth. Still, in the future, he could bring Andrei to a place like this. The birdsong was beautiful, and the forest smelled of life.
“Rear is falling behind,” a whispered call came from behind them. The heavy machine guns had the worst time in the terrain. Once the message had reached the front of the column, an answer rang back.
“Rear will have to catch up.”
Cursing up a storm, the heavy machine guns did that. Bluecrest watched a small, huffing private carry the weapon, and wondered which idiot had assigned the tiny griffoness a gun that weighed over twenty kilos.
A visible line of sentries announced that they had reached the Militia’s encampment. It stood a few hundred meters from the edge of a field. The crops had been harvested a long time ago, creating a barren strip of land nearly three hundred meters wide.
As the company formed a protective square, captain Telesca left to meet the militia’s commander. Kneeling on wet grass, rifle butts resting on the ground. Sharp eyes scanned the ground from under the brims of green helmets.
Their stern professionalism seemed to amuse much of the militia, who gathered to take a look. They were a varied bunch, the only uniform they wore orange armbands or quartered, orange and yellow republican flags. The same flags were on the collars of every soldier in the company.
“What is that?”
Bluecrest looked at where Hunt had pointed. Some distance away stood a field gun, hidden under a tarp and large spruce branches.
“Nico, you tell,” Greendown ordered.
“That’s a… Prench seventy-five,” Talonico answered. “What is it doing here?”
“The Prench donated a lot of weapons to Mustangs. Equestria made a lot of noise, but nothing more.”
“And when we helped Mustangs we were blockaded,” Hunt muttered. “Does Celestia hate griffons more?”
Bluecrest shook his head. He was fascinated by Equestria, and knew some things about its inner workings. “It’s because the Prench have a navy worth something.”
The whispered bickering continued until captain Telesca called the platoon leaders together.
Greendown also went, feeling out of place among the officers. Six lieutenants and second lieutenants stood in a semicircle in front of the captain, flanked by her second in command, lieutenant Silverbeak.
“Our plan remains simple,” Telesca began in an official tone that barely hid her frustration. “However, certain things must change.”
Silverbeak opened his beak. He tried to imitate the captain’s tone, failing miserably and only sounding self-righteous. “The Paramilitary captured the village two days ago, but a report was only sent after a counterattack failed to retake it.”
Greendown winced, and dared an angry glance at the militia commander a short distance away. Trust the militia to fuck it up. If the enemy had an inkling of competence, they would be up to their necks in trenches.
“The Paras have their first line right across the field. It is held lightly, meant to slow us down.”
Greendown nodded along. That was basic tactics.
“Their second line is in the village itself, anchored on the left flank by a manor on a hill, and on the right by a windmill. Common sense tells us to go around. Due to a lack of recon, that is not an option.”
Again, there was the tone of accusation. The militia’s commander, a young griffon with a cocky look on his face, stood some distance away, oblivious to the criticism.
“What we have is firepower,” Captain Telesca explained. “And to get the most out of it, we will go straight through.”
Greendown’s blood froze. A part of him had expected as much. The planning continued, going through the exact routes they would take, but Greendown heard less and less, as he prepared himself for the coming death.
October
The first shell fell with a tearing shriek. A machine gun nest disappeared in a flash of smoke and fire, its occupants turned into bloody ribbons that rained down with dirt and debris.
Screaming, the first platoon burst forth from the forest, Canales at their lead, a pistol in her black claw. Rifles barked behind them, covering their advance.
“Forward!” Canales encouraged her platoon. “Don’t stop!”
Blood rushed through her veins as bullets snapped past the lieutenant’s head. Someone fell with a cry, but Canales ignored it. The enemy was caught by surprise, and here was a chance to drive her platoon into a charge.
There was an explosion to their left, as another position was destroyed. Neutralized was the proper term, but the clinical tone could never fit the carnage around her.
A few griffons paused to fire, before resuming their advance. None threw themselves prone. Canales saw this, brown eyes shining with pride. Then all her focus was on the enemy.
A few steps in front of Canales was a foxhole. A brown and white griffon peered over the edge, a gray helm on his head.
Canales plowed into the griffon, crashing atop him in the foxhole. His comrade was fumbling with the bolt of her weapon, and Canales never gave her a chance. Two shots from her pistol dropped the griffon, a rictus of pain and fear frozen on her face.
Canales shoved the smoking barrel against the one pinned below her.
“No! Nonononono!”
The lad, who seemed barely an adult, had only fear in his eyes as he tried desperately to shield his face with his talons.
Canales blinked, struggling to calm herself. He was not a threat.
“You there!” she ordered a passing griff. “Take care of the prisoner.”
As the two griffons left, she could finally assess the situation around her. The forward posts, set in a treeline separating two fields, had been overrun with ease. But behind the strip of forest, a few meters thick, opened another field.
The ground sloped up, and directly in front of Canales, on top of the ridge, stood a large windmill. The blades slowly turned in the breeze, and from every window came a muzzle flash. Canales flinched as a bullet snapped way too close. Brave as she was, she still valued her life.
More griffons moved along the ridge, seeking firing positions. Her task was to unhook the defenses of the flank, allowing the company to pour into the village. Before the attack began she had wondered absently if it was because Captain Telesca trusted her, or simply because she had the first platoon.
“Carranza!” She called the platoon’s second in command. The sergeant came over, a greenish-gray griffon with a weary look on his face.
“Yes?”
“Is the second wave ready?”
“Yes,” the sergeant nodded. “We’ll follow you the moment you have that hill.”
Around them, the platoon had spread out into a skirmish line, trading shots with the enemy. Two squads hang back, looking at the lieutenant for orders.
“Come on,” Canales muttered under her breath. The windmill should be gone any minute now. “Come on you piece of shit.”
As if on cue, the militia’s cannon fired again. In a flash of fire and smoke the wall of the wooden windmill exploded, raining burning debris onto the rocky ground around it. A panicking griff took to the air, but the burst of a machine gun cut the flight short. Canales looked at the weapon, confirming that the heavy weapons had come. Long bursts hammered the hill, dirt and sparks erupting where the bullets struck. Slowly the weight of fire coming their way lessened.
Canales stood a little higher, understanding her time was now.
“In a single file, follow me!”
Without waiting to see if they obeyed, Canales ran. She passed the firing line at a full run, the magazine pouches bouncing against her barrel. The world ceased to exist around her. There was only the heavy beating of her heart and her shallow breaths. Spreading her wings, Canales took to the air. Barely skimming the ground, she crossed the distance to the ridge with a burst of speed.
After a moment that lasted an eternity, she reached the foot of the hill. A griff from the militia had known the exact shape of the hill, telling them of a patch of dead ground that would conceal them.
But as reality crawled at a snail’s pace, something screamed at Canales.
Had it been that easy? No, it couldn’t. The windmill was a weak anchor, the Paramilitary had to secure the flank with something else. If not with griffons, then with firepower.
“DOWN!” Canales shouted as the machine gun opened fire.
The bullets tore through the group. A pair of griffons fell, clouds of pink mist erupting from their chests. A metallic clang, like a punctured can, rang out and another griffon fell, clutching the side of her head.
“Spread out! Don’t give them an easy target!” The black griffon tried to desperately control the situation. The griffons dove for cover, but the empty field offered none. Canales looked desperately for the machine gun, pulling up her binoculars. The fire was fairly inaccurate. It had to come from the edge of the field, but where?
The heavy undergrowth was easy to hide in, and Canales saw no movement. The wet snap of a bullet against the ground reminded her that they had to leave.
“Around the hill,” Canales ordered. “Get back to cover.”
An older private screamed in agony as a bullet pierced his arm. His friends dragged him around the hill, back to relative safety, followed by the rest of the group. The machine gun fired after them, hitting only dirt and stone.
That was a relief. Canales still hadn’t spotted the weapon, but if the hill masked them, she could narrow things down.
The black griffon turned away from the enemy, and looked down at private Ortolano, whose arm was being bandaged. Blood soaked the bandage and darkened the sleeve of his uniform. Next to him was Gerlond, holding her head and wincing in pain.
“Are you alright?”
“Yeah,” the gray griffon gasped. “Didn’t kill me. I’ll make it.”
Canales smiled and nodded. But it was a hollow smile, meant to reassure without any confidence. The griffons around her were scared, feathers puffed, rifles held in tight grips. She was just as scared, but the lessons of officer training hammered at the back of her head. Focus on the mission.
She still had to take the right flank.
“I need three volunteers,” Canales said, looking up. “Storm us an opening, so I can bring the rest through.”
“No way we’ll make it,” a brown griffon shook his head. “No fucking way.”
“We will,” Canales interrupted his rant before he made the situation even worse. “We break that flank, or we get stuck here. Understood?”
The griffon refused to answer, but Canales could not allow the hesitation to spread. She grabbed the wounded griffons’ grenades and passed them to three reliable griffons, a corporal among them.
“Clear us a foothold in the trenches. I’ll bring the rest.”
The trio crawled up the slope. The entire exchange had taken seconds. Explosions and a flurry of rifle fire announced their success.
“Up!” she shouted, racing up the slope. Bullets beat the grass under her as she fell into the trench. Only dead and wounded defenders remained.
“Careful ma’am!” One of the privates shouted. “It’s a bit shallow!”
The trench was little more than a narrow, shallow ditch. Where the ground was soft, it was deep enough to walk in. Instead, Canales found herself sprawled on a rock that no shovel had touched. Swearing, she crawled next to the private.
“We have to widen the breach!” Canales yelled as more of her soldiers poured in. “You three, come with me! The rest of you, cover us!”
The quartet approached a corner in the trench. At a wordless signal, one griffon threw a grenade over the embankment. An explosion sent dirt raining. Before it had rained down, Canales had rounded the corner. Seeing a shade moving in the dust, she fired.
“Where the fuck is that mg?”
Talonico scanned the forest to their right through his binoculars. He had seen the bullets tear into Canales’ group, but the weapon still eluded them. No muzzle flashes, no smoke. The gun was damn well camouflaged.
“Just give the word,” Talone muttered next to him, looking over the sights of her light machine gun. The large, top-mounted magazine obstructed her vision, forcing her to lean away from Wingerni, who lay prone between the Corporal and the gunner.
“As soon as I see them…”
Frustration welled inside the Corporal. Their job was to suppress the enemy, but that didn’t work if he couldn’t see anything.
“Forward lads…”
It took Talonico a moment to register the distant command. He did not recognize the voice, and as countless griffons repeated the command, his confusion only mounted. The battle cry ended his confusion, and replaced it with horror.
The militia, tired of waiting when their homes were just within reach, charged. The moment they were out in the open, the machine gun opened fire. Squad and platoon leaders led their griffons walking into a massacre. Entire squads were cut down before the survivors took cover. Some listened to their survival instinct, fleeing back to the treeline or hunkering down behind their dead friends, but most tried to push in a futile effort.
Flinching at the screams of the wounded, Talonico peered through his binoculars. Finally, something caught his eye.
The rustling of a bush and dark shapes moving behind it.
“Talone!” He yelled, pointing at the machine gun. “Ten meters left of that birch. Range, two hundred. Fire!”
The private’s narrow beak twisted into a grin. She saw the enemy now. She rested her cheek on the wooden stock, took aim, and squeezed the trigger.
Muzzle blasts slammed against Talonico’s face. One burst after another rained down on the machine gun, stirring the crew. He could see the crew turn their weapon.
Lowering instinctively, Talonico braced for the return fire. “Fuck’s sake. You’re supposed to lead.” he thought. “So stand up and lead.”
He could not. The shots went high, snapping into trees and cutting branches. But the sound was enough to make Talonico stay low, no matter how he had managed to stand up before.
“Empty!” Talone yelled. Wingerni wrenched the magazine off and slammed a new one in.
“Slow down. Don’t spend the mags so quick.”
To their left, the first squad also fired at the machine gun. Talonico could hear the weapon’s steady, hollow beat. Talone fired in longer bursts, emptying one magazine after another.
Then the enemy found them. The air around them burned as the machine gun emptied an entire belt in their direction. Talonico could not even hear the individual shots fly by, rather it felt like air itself warped around them. Talonico pressed tight against the ground, hiding behind a tree, even as bullets tore chunks from it.
Only Talone didn’t bother hiding. She kept firing, burst after burst. Drawn in by the repeated muzzle flashes, the shots came ever closer to hitting her.
“Get down!” Talonico shouted. Finally managed to force his body to act, crawling towards the gunner. “Take cover!”
When his words had no effect, he grabbed her webbing and pulled. A stream of bullets flew through the space occupied by her head, one punching a hole in the half-empty magazine.
“Don’t fucking play games!”
“Yes, Corp,” Talone said, sounding anything but repentant. She acted as if she had not just had a brush with death.
The machine gun had stopped to reload, giving them room to crawl into better positions. The militia took the opportunity to move, their ranks visibly thinner. The field gun no longer fired, likely afraid of hitting the group advancing along the trench. A series of small explosions announced Canales’ advance. Talonic caught glimpses of the black-coated officer moving along the ridge.
Unbeknownst to them, the field gun had sought the same machine gun they had fired at. Finally spotting it, they took careful aim and fired. The shot passed between trees, hitting the treetops above the gun.
From his position, Talonico saw the first explosion, and a pine snapping in two like a dry twig. A moment later the second shot hit right in front of the crew. Through the smoke and dirt, he saw the weapon fly through the air.
“Fuck you!” Talonico joined the animalistic shouting. Everyone who saw the explosion cheered, or cursed the crew. “Fuck you!”
The squad approached the smoking crater. The machine gun had been torn from its tripod. Its water jacket, ripped open, leaked dirty water into a growing pool. The gunner's claws, ripped off, lay a few meters from the dead gunner. Two more griffons lay next to the gun, their uniforms soaked in blood where the fragments had cut into them.
“He lives,” Milan called out. The fourth griffon lay on his side, brown and gray face bloodied and battered. The chin strap of his gray helmet was cut inches from his throat. Talonico’s heart sank at the pitiful sight, and he knelt down to take a closer look.
Careful to not stir the griffon, Talonico raised his chin, and turned his head to get a better look. Milan gasped as she saw the torn mess that was left of the griffon’s right eye. A small fragment jutted out from the bloody remains.
“Should we give him a mercy kill?”
“No!” Talonico snapped, glaring at Talone. Two locked eyes, staring at each other without a word. Others stopped, looking at the two, questioning what was going on. Realizing she was outnumbered, Talone backed off
“Watch our backs,” Talonico ordered and reached for the bandages in his pocket. “Wingerni, Blue, take anything important they have.”
Left alone with the Corporal, Milan spoke up. “What about me?”
“Help me fix him.”
Talonico wrapped the bandage around the wounded griffon’s head, careful to not accidentally twist the fragment. Milan held him steady, watching with sickened fascination as Talonico covered both of the griffon’s eyes.
He was about Milan’s age, a few years older at most. Though not exactly malnourished, he was small in stature and likely hadn’t been fed well. The great famine must have happened during his youth, and the North had recovered poorly from the calamity.
“It- I-” Milan froze, trying to figure out what to do, even as she pinned the griffon down to prevent him from struggling too hard.
Talonico grabbed the prisoner’s talon, squeezing it. “Hey, hey,” he spoke, trying to keep his voice level. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” the griffon blubbered. “I can’t see!”
“That’s.” Talonico gulped. “That’s just the bandage. Don’t worry.”
“I can’t see!”
Talonico looked down at the griffon. The helpless cries twisted his soul, but the red strip on the griffon’s collar, marking his allegiance, ate away at his will to calm the griffon.
“Milan, go fetch a door or a stretcher. We’re getting him to a medic.”
“MEDIC!” the wounded boy repeated the word by instinct. “MEDIC!”
That was enough, and Talonico could no longer ignore the griffon under the uniform. He took his canteen and pressed it against his beak.
“Drink. We’ll get you to a medic.”
“I can’t see.”
“That’s the bandage.”
The water and the calm voice seemed to finally calm him. His breathing grew steadier.
“Did we get them? Did we beat their flanks?”
The genuine, eager question forced a bleak smile onto the Corporal’s face. “No. You’re a prisoner now.”
“Oh… Please don’t leave me.”
Talonico saw Milan return with a door torn off a shed. He moved to rise up, only to find his wrist held in a painful grip.
“I won’t leave you. Grab my tail. Second squad! Form up. We’re leaving.”
The five walked back to the village, hundreds of meters away, their prisoner resting on the thick, wooden door. Neither Bluecrest nor Talone spared the half-blind griffon from insults as they were forced to bear his weight.
Talonico was spared from that duty only because he carried multiple rifles and several belts of ammo on his back.
The defenses had been surprisingly light, breaking away after the ridge was taken. Covered by an artillery barrage, the Paramilitary had withdrawn across open fields, returning to their original positions.
Now Republican soldiers swarmed the streets, mingling with the few locals that had refused to evacuate. As the squad pushed their way through to the medic’s post, they came across a heated debate between Captain Telesca and the militia’s commander.
“...your grudge. The prisoners will be treated according to the Army Group’s orders.”
The young militia officer recoiled, then puffed up in anger. He swung his talon wildly. “You can bow to the General Staff, but they have no control over us!”
Behind him stood a group of griffs, eyeing the soldiers carefully. All held their rifles awkwardly, seeming intent on backing up their leader, but clearly aware of the first squad standing in their way. Talonico and Greendown made eye contact, and the sergeant nodded at a nearby house serving as a field hospital. Inside, a medic tended to the wounded of both sides.
The squad passed their prisoner to the medic, and joined Greendown. Talonico pulled out a cigarette and tried to unsuccessfully light it with twitching fingers. Checking that no one from the section saw, Greendown offered his lighter. Talonico accepted the flickering flame and nodded his thanks to the sergeant.
“What’s the fuck up?” he asked after taking a long drag.
Greendown looked at the two arguing officers, his gray face twisting in disgust. “The militia commander wants to execute the prisoners, and Grandma Livi is having none of that. So she’s dealing with the shithead while Silverbeak has the company.”
As if to prove his words, Captain Telesca stepped right up to the other officer. Despite her only reaching his beak, the younger griffon found himself backing off from her way. “If you want to kill the prisoners, you may do so. And I assure you I will march my company out and leave you to deal with the inevitable response by yourself.”
Whatever the company commander wanted to say, he was cut off by the scream of falling artillery.
Agosto poured over the charts, trying to find the correct one.
She had been woken up by a telephone call from a frustrated battalion commander demanding her support should the Prey attack his lines. Apparently, his screen had been pushed out of a village, leaving the path open to his main position.
Finding the correct place on the map had been a hassle, and from what she saw, the major’s fears seemed completely unfounded. His position was strong, and marshes limited the enemy’s approach. Snowfeather had however confirmed the order, leaving the captain to prepare the fire plans for the defense.
A battery of three-inch guns agreed, booming in the distance.
“What powders do we have?” one of her aides asked.
“The triple one and one-five-four,” Agosto answered, and the aide jotted the detail down. They had seventeen types of gunpowder in storage, all burning differently and resulting in a different trajectory for the shot.
Markings filled the map. They had to calculate every shot multiple times, accounting for elevation, air pressure, powder and so much more. The cheat sheet Agosto had prepared was lost somewhere in the clutter.
“Honey two’s location is” the telephone operator spoke to his headset. “Honey one, two, one, nine, six, one hundred, forty.”
Somewhere on the other end of the wire the details were checked. “Ma’am, correction! The elevation is forty-five.”
Agosto acknowledged the correction and added the numbers to her list. The terrain around the position was uneven, and a small mistake in elevation could result in a massive overshoot as a shot landed in a valley instead of a hill.
“Start calculating that one,” she ordered, finally finding her cheat sheet. She passed it to her aide, who sighed in relief at the reduced workload. Instead of doing all the work from scratch, he could adjust the ready numbers.
“Every other battery has already left,” her quartermaster muttered. “I’d hate for things to go to shit right now. All the weight on our withers.”
“At least they are wide,” Agosto scoffed. “I think they can carry one battle.”
Greendown’s section found itself in the company’s reserve, digging foxholes in an apple orchard. The Paramilitary had attempted a small probing attack that had been driven off without casualties.
Exhausted, they had greeted the delayed food delivery with equal amounts of excitement and curses. The food had been brought in large cans instead of the wheeled kitchen. Six hours the soup had been waiting for them, when it would last in the can, at most, four hours.
“Some gourmet stuff,” Wingerni snarked over his mess tin. Although soldiers considered almost anything edible after a battle, none would deny the odd taste of the soup. “I can really taste the spoiled vegetables.”
“I think there’s more than that,” Milan answered, digging into her meal, and pulling out a piece of a hare. She rolled the small piece of meat in her fork. The griffoness sat on the stone oven of the house the section had moved into. “I bet this bunny had something.”
“It had hepatitis,” Wingerni suggested. Talonico audibly snorted behind him, so the private chose to keep going. “A B C D E F G, which one does it have, Corporal?”
“K,” Talonico answered without hesitation, hiding his smirk behind a sip of water.
“Do they go that far?” Talone whispered, leaning over to her friend.
“Eh, I bet the Corporal has one in his collection. Hepatitis hare,” the brown griffon giggled. He was barely an adult, and at times it showed.
“Don’t whine about food,” Bluecrest said from the other side of the room. “It’s good enough, and we have plenty of it.”
“Hey, don’t take it too seriously,” Milan raised her claws in a calming gesture. “Talone isn’t into jokes but she doesn’t get mad.”
The older female scoffed. “Don’t drag me into this.”
“That’s because Talone is always mad,” Wingerni said, ignoring her plea. “She was fucking crazy today, kept shooting like that mg was nothing.”
“And speaking of,” Talonico interrupted them. “Clean up that gun a second time. I don’t want any nasty surprises with fouling. I’ll go get more ammo once the quartermaster is ready.”
“Will do, Corp,” Talone nodded. “Hey, Milan, did you snatch that thing I told you to?”
“No, I was a bit busy carrying those guns. Wingerni got something though.”
The private pulled out a photograph from his pocket and showed it to the two females. Talone seemed confused at first, before cracking a smile at a whispered explanation.
The rest of the short dinner passed with nonsensical conversation. Eventually, the Corporal left to find the quartermaster, leaving the squad under Bluecrest’s care.
They went through their routine in silence, cleaning their equipment, and arranging themselves some room to sleep. Furniture and kitchenware were shoved aside. A sentry from the first squad stepped outside into the darkness.
“Right, try to get some shut-eye,” Bluecrest eventually instructed the others. “It’ll be a cold night, so be ready for that.”
As the room fell silent, Wingerni’s mind wandered back to the battle, and the paralyzing, intoxicating fear. The sensation was all he could remember.
He stared at the ceiling for a long time, his hand reaching for his sister’s photograph, stored deep in his pocket. Holding it in his claws, he finally fell asleep, dreaming of home.
October
Amanda moved about the square, trying to find one of the Silverbeaks. Hundreds of griffons, both locals and from smaller villages further away had gathered for the weekend market. The cow found herself sticking out from the crowd like a sore hoof, and would have likely fled from the scene were it not for Miss Stela standing next to her, offering silent encouragement.
Finding one specific griffon from the crowd was difficult, especially when she had seen the older family members only a few times.
The two pushed through the swirling mass of bodies. The musky scent of griffons mixed with the smell of cooking meat and fish at a nearby stall, and the crisp, fresh produce from the farms. Smoke and steel lingered in the air as the village blacksmith worked far away. The kaleidoscope of sensations almost overwhelmed Amanda’s keen sense of smell, which was unused to such abundance.
“Amanda! Amanda!”
Greta’s happy shout simplified the search. The hatchling hovered a meter above the crowd, swaying from side to side in an unsteady flight.
Crossing the distance, they found her mother, smiling up at her daughter.
“I see she’ll be flying everywhere in no time,” Miss Stela greeted the griffoness.
“Oh she will,” the mother agreed. She had a worn dress, covered by a red apron that reached the ground. “It’ll be a struggle to make her come down. What can I help you with?”
“Amanda here-” the cow waved shyly at the spotted griffon. “-would like to send a letter to some of your husband’s soldiers.”
“Oh? Oh! Grigore mentioned you!” Amanda’s tail rose in surprise as the griffoness shook her hoof. She looked around for pen and paper, before shaking her head. “Dear me, this is no place for a chat. Please, come over to my house. Not right now, it is all messy. How about in the afternoon?”
Amanda leaned back in surprise as the griffon was suddenly face-to-face with her. She tried to stammer out a response, but only lone syllables made their way out. To her side, the cow saw Miss Stela nod in encouragement.
“Yes! Please. I’d love that,” she finally managed.
“That’s great, I’ll get the place ready in a jiffy.”
As the griffoness spoke, Greta kept tugging at her sleeve. Now that she had realized the connection, Amanda could see her mother’s black spots on the lieutenant’s silver feathers on the hatchling.
“Mama! Mama! Can I play with Amanda?”
Surprised, her mother looked up at the chick, then at the other two. Amanda was equally baffled, but Miss Stela’s cheeks rose in a smile. Realizing she had to ask everyone, Greta turned to face each in turn, wings flapping furiously.
“Please? Please? Please? Pleaspleaseplease?”
Spinning from griffon to griffon to cow to griffon, the hatchling finally lost her balance, tumbling from the air and landing in a cloud of dust.
“Owie.”
“She gets that from her father.” Mrs. Silverbeak lied, finally given a moment to talk. “Well, honey, I think you’ll need to get ready for when the guests arrive. But I think you have plenty of time to play with her later today.”
Greta looked up from the ground, giving Amanda the most wide-eyed, pleading look she could manage. “Please?”
“Sure thing,” the bovine nodded hesitantly, before looking at the teacher for confirmation. The griffones waved away her concerns with her claw.
“Dearie, I’m not your mother. You may do as you please.”
“Of course!” Amanda blushed.
“Well, I’ll leave you be,” Mrs. Silverbeak chirped. “See you at five in the afternoon?”
The Silverbeaks departed, disappearing into the crowd. Once Greta tried to take to the air, before realizing there was no room to spread her wings.
“It means a lot for her that you accepted.”
Amanda looked at Miss Stela, waiting for an explanation. The griffoness saw her confusion, and pointed after the departing pair. “When you said yes, she started practically glowing. Griffons don’t tend to be generous. One cannot gift anything, if they themselves don’t have enough. The Silverbeaks can scrape by, but nothing more.”
Amanda tilted her head in confusion. “Then why did she invite us over?”
“You have news about her husband, no matter how old. She would give anything to hear them, and all you asked for was a favor.”
Amanda thought of what she said. If griffons were rarely generous… “Why did you take me in. You’re not exactly swimming in money.”
“Oh dearie, I just thought I’d be useful.”
Talonico sipped from the cup of coffee. Sunlight streamed in through the open window, washing the kitchen in bright white light. He was dressed in a loose, partially unbuttoned shirt, and a pair of worn pants held in place by leather suspenders. His uniform was nowhere in sight.
“So, a week of leave?” His mother asked, pouring coffee for them both. She was a portly griffon, with white feathers streaked with red.
“Yes,” Talonico answered. The two sat on the opposing sides of a small kitchen table. “Feels good.”
His mother nodded and placed the coffee pot on the table. Steam rose from the white, floral printed spout. Talonico savored the coffee’s soft, full taste. He had talked to his mother, but the words had already fled his mind.
With the cup empty, the griff reached out to pour another, but the pot seemed suddenly so far away. He should have reached it without issue, but his claws didn’t seem to obey. Everything felt intangible, and Talonico suddenly worried he might be sick.
“Any plans for the leave?” His mother asked chipperly.
“Yes,” Talonico answered, and sipped from the full cup. “Might go see a movie with Sil. Unless you or Ma need me for something.”
Sunlight streamed in through the open window, warming the kitchen with its caress.
“No, you have a clear schedule,” a male voice spoke up behind Talonico. Silvestro reached out with his pink claw, stroking the top of Talonico’s head. The Corporal smiled at the gentle touch. He parted the collar of his uniform, allowing his friend to reach further down.
“So touchy,” Talonico purred. He reached up, and after a moment of blind grasping, managed to twirl Silvestro’s long, thin mustache around his talon. His friend only petted and scritched him more in response.
“If you keep doing that, I’m going to marry you.”
“Would I be your first griffon? All the bucks will be disappointed.”
How had Sil heard that joke? He was not into that type of humor.
“You’d be the first and only anything,” Talonico answered instead. With his free talon, he took the shot glass and raised it.
“Happy to hear,” Silvestro asked and drank the cheap whiskey. He still had not stopped petting him. “Will you wear your uniform at the wedding? It’s a bit dirty.”
Talonico looked down. Surely not? He wouldn’t have been allowed to leave before the uniform was clean. Barrel and back were fine, as were the sleeves, where large, yellow chevrons were stitched to the green cloth.
Then Talonico rotated his talon, and saw the bullet hole in his wrist. Blood soaked the uniform, slowly creeping up the cloth.
Sunlight streamed in through the open window, illuminating the wound.
“Was it worth it?”
Talonico was not surprised that his grandfather had asked something like that. He was a fanatic of the Feast Party. Nothing more, nothing less.
Talonico put down the mess tin’s cover, splashing lukewarm water onto the table. He stared at the griffon opposite him. Gray with age, and dressed in ill-fitting clothes, Talonico’s grandfather stared at him.
“It was.”
There was no hesitation as Talonico spoke. He cared little for the old farmer, who had spent months saving money to get a photograph of his newly hatched grandson. He did not recall the time the two had spent on the road as his grandfather had found his passion at the wheel of a truck. He did not care to remember how the two had loved each other.
All his focus was on the pin on his grandfather’s shirt. A golden talon held a golden knife, and Talonico felt the cold pain as the blade stabbed at his heart.
“That is not just your blood,” his grandfather spoke again. He did not sound mocking. Angry, perhaps. Angry to see his grandson on the different side of the battle line. “How many have you killed? That is griffon blood.”
Talonico looked at his bloodied claws. He had killed, but only the enemy. Soldiers fighting for the Party. “Blood will wash off. Sins won’t.”
“Even my blood?”
Talonico raised his head at the question, seeing his grandfather’s face for the first time. Shrapnel had torn his eye to pieces. Talonico wrapped his talons around the comfort of his rifle.
Talonico woke to Bluecrest shaking him awake. “Hey Corp, wake up.”
Talonico rose. His red, bleary eyes moved across the dark, blurry room until they finally focused on the black beak in front of him. The corporal glanced at his wristwatch and saw it was a few minutes until the beginning of his guard shift.
“Morning,” Talonico grumbled as he picked himself up from the floor. As the white griffon’s brain slowly caught up with reality, he gave Bluecrest a confused look.
“Why are you awake?”
“Couldn’t sleep after my shift, so I kept the Sergeant company. How about you? You looked restless.”
Talonico thought back to the hazy dream. The distant, pleasant memory of home called to him, but he could remember nothing more.
“I don’t know,” Talonico muttered and picked up his greatcoat. “Some food poisoning shit.”
Talonico grumbled something he himself didn’t understand and gingerly stepped between sleeping Talone, and the still warm stove Milan had chosen as her bed. The front door was slightly ajar, and the corporal headed for the sliver of silver light pouring through.
The cold air slammed into Talonico, worming its way under his uniform. The white griffon shivered, before accepting the invigorating coolness, letting it wash away the last vestiges of sleep, held in place by the stuffy, still air of the house.
Talonico closed his eyes, and breathed in the calmness of the night. He held his breath for a while, before breathing out a cloud of mist that disappeared into the darkness of an autumn night, joining the few thin, ragged clouds marring the dim half-moon peering over the trees.
“Enjoyed your sleep?”
“Not too much,” Talonico answered Greendown’s question. Like his rifle, the Sergeant leaned against the porch’s white, wooden railing. The green tufts on his cheeks stood out from the rest of his body in the darkness. He had his helmet on as regulations demanded, but hadn’t bothered to close the chin strap for the one hour of boring sentry duty. At the center of the village, their main concern was waking everyone up if the frontline raised an alarm.
“I don’t think anyone except Talone is sleeping well,” Greendown said, staring at the main road inhabited only by smashed carts and abandoned litter. “Although you had no trouble falling asleep. How long did you wait for the ammo?”
“A couple of hours. Sergeant Major took his time. Something to do with the battalion quartermaster.”
“Well, you got it in the end. Although, next time get some matches and such while you’re at it. We’re running low on those.”
Talonico stared into the distance, his mind racing. He really had forgotten to take anything except ammunition, despite knowing well it was a part of his job as the second in command.
“Shit,” his beak turned his realization into words.
“Eh, don’t worry,” Greendown reassured him. “I didn’t remember that at first either. You just have to remember it the next time, and I’ll pass the title of Quartermaster to you.”
“Can’t see Quartermaster working for Corp,” Bluecrest muttered, leaning into the railing on the other side of Talonico. Shell fragments had dug into the wood next to his talons.
“But it worked for me, and the section’s supplies are now his job. So that makes him Quartermaster.”
“True,” Bluecrest conceded. “But it is different with him. He likes doing it, but he doesn’t have this scary aura. The equipment lists are not his entire life.”
Greendown scoffed. “And were they mine?”
Talonico held down a laugh. “Green, at times I thought you would jack off to those lists.”
Greendown raised his claw in protest, then lowered it. “It was a lack of will, not a lack of ability.”
Bluecrest chuckled at that, a dry and cold sound. “Can’t spout those jokes anymore. I’d get plucked if Andrei starts repeating them.”
Most of the enlisted were young, and it showed. Sex was one of the most common topics, as the soldiers were drawn to the sight of any moderately attractive griffon. There was no way he would actually drop the subject.
“So get it out of your system here,” Talonico suggested. “And then go get some sleep.”
“Movement up the road,” Greendown said all of a sudden, picking up his rifle. “Single file, can’t tell how many.”
The other griffons also took their weapons, flicking off the safety switches at the ends of the bolts.
“Password,” Greendown demanded as the shades became the silhouettes of griffons. Although Talonico was the guard at the moment, and it would have been his job, the Sergeant had naturally stepped into the role.
“Wet,” came the first part of the call.
“Towel,” Greendown answered and lowered his rifle. As the column marched past them, Talonico finally recognized the battalion’s scout platoon. Many wore field caps in lieu of helmets, cockades removed so the yellow wouldn’t shine in the darkness. All had stained their feathers black with coal and soot.
“That isn’t good,” Bluecrest observed after the last scout had passed. “Means we’ll be moving soon.”
October
“What are you doing?”
The increasingly familiar voice made the two militia griffons stop their task of tearing the door open. They had heard it now and then after the infantry company had arrived. The voice belonged to a griffon they all had agreed was closer to a hound of some sort than a noble griff, but the type of dog they had not agreed on. Was he the captain’s attack dog, or her lapdog? He certainly behaved like the former but yapped like the latter.
Turning around, the two soldiers, dressed in mismatched equipment, came face to face with a dull gray griffon staring at them with narrowed eyes. A light drizzle had dampened the dirt path the officer stood on. Large droplets of water burst against his green helmet.
“What are you doing?” Lieutenant Silverbeak demanded again.
“We- We were trying to get a look at the house,” the smaller griffon muttered. Her compatriot shot her a look, but could not muster a proper defense himself. “The commander’s orders. The family here might’ve spied for the Feast Party.”
“Then why wasn’t Captain Telesca informed yesterday?”
The two looked at each other with uncertainty in their eyes. Before they could say anything, Silverbeak continued his rant. “You were looting! You are soldiers of the Griffonian Republic, not, not some horde of bandits! Both of you are coming with me to sort this out.”
His words might have been more effective, had the two any respect for him, or if he did not stop his speech every few words. As it was, the two waited out his tirade with thinning patience, too smart to pick a fight with an officer, especially one from the regular army.
“You there!” Silverbeak called at a passing soldier. “Go fetch a machine gun squad!”
“Which one, sir?” The private answered with a clear lack of enthusiasm.
“Doesn’t matter. Go!”
“Hey, Wingerni, you have company.”
The brown griffon rolled his head back until it was upside down, catching a glimpse of a young griffon ducking behind the corner of the house they had slept in.
“Well shit, dinner’s running away.”
“The hell?” he yelped, more from surprise than pain, and looked at the overripe apple now in the pit, brownish insides revealed where it had smashed into his cheek. Rubbing the bits off his feathers, he looked down to see Milan in the other foxhole, holding a second apple. She tossed it his way, almost landing it in his oatmeal.
“Don’t scare the kid,” Milan admonished him.
“Don’t throw shit in my food!”
“Oh come on, that’s an upgrade.”
Wingerni poked at the clumpy, sticky oatmeal and was forced to agree. The apple would at least bring some flavor. Still, hunger was hunger, and the porridge kept it at bay, even if barely. Wingerni had gone only a few spoonfuls before Milan spoke again.
“The kid is back.”
Wingerni did not turn to look this time, unwilling to take another apple to the head. He watched Milan look at the adolescent, her face twisted in a concerned frown. The tawny griffoness jumped out of her foxhole, a piece of hardtack in one claw.
He could hear the rustling of fallen leaves as the hatchling retreated a few steps.
“Now now, I’ve got some food,” Milan cooed, trying to coax the hatchling closer. She pitied her and wanted to do something to help. Judging by the sounds, she was successful, with the hatchling inching ever closer.
Talonico looked at her efforts for a while, before speaking up. “Where are her parents? Someone should be looking for her.”
“It’s a warzone, they might as well be dead. I doubt they’d let her out in those clothes,” Talone said, shrugging her shoulders. “She has to eat and Milan is ready to oblige.”
“Even if her parents are dead,” Bluecrest continued. “Someone should’ve taken her under their wing. We’re in the countryside, so odds are she has a big family, or neighbors to look after her.”
Talonico sighed and started packing up his mess kit. “It really isn’t our business, but keep an eye on her when you can.”
“I’m not doing that Corp. If I scare her, Milan will throw more shit at me.”
“Language,” Bluecrest chided him, wagging his talon. “The kid can hear you.”
“Yes, papa. Already training for when you get home?”
Bluecrest did not answer at first, and Talonico saw sadness flash in his eyes. Bluecrest opened his beak for a biting retort but was interrupted by the ripple of distant rifle fire. All turned to look, trying to gauge the distance. The second Milan turned her head, the chick leaped at her, snatching the hardtack and running away, leaving behind a surprised private.
“Four kilometers, minimum,” Bluecrest observed. “I don’t hear heavy weapons, just rifles.”
“I think our scouts hit a patrol,” Talonico nodded in agreement. Recognizing they were in no danger, the squad returned to their foxholes.
“Did the kid snatch the food?” Wingerni asked, incredulous. “Little rascal and you were worried I’d spook him.”
“That’s one smart kid,” Talone laughed, clacking her narrow beak. “I think she’ll be fine. Doesn’t need Bluecrest to be her dad.”
Wingerni joined in on the laughter. “No cursing around children,” he cackled, imitating the other griffon.
“Well, a soldier is always supposed to be on their best behavior,” Talonico joined in. He had considered backing up Bluecrest, but he seemed to be doing all right. “A model citizen in and out of uniform.”
“Yeah, you’ll need to practice that and quick. Silverbeak needs you for something.” During their conversation, Greendown had snuck up on the squad. His greatcoat was rolled and wrapped around his barrel, ready for use.
Recognizing their rest was over, Talonico jumped out of his pit, encouraging the others to follow.
“Once more the general purpose squad. Doesn’t he have anyone else to do this shit?” Talone muttered.
Talonico ignored the grumbling. “Did he say what for?”
“The runner didn’t specify. Just hurry up to the main road and find him. And whatever he needs you for, do it quick, Major Thunderclaw just showed up.”
October
Stela watched Amanda and Greta frolic across the lawn, their infectious cheerfulness filling the evening. Backlit by the setting sun, the two didn’t seem to mind the cold, spinning around with wild giggles, coming ever closer to a swing hanging from a tree at the end of the yard. A gramophone played a scratchy recording of a joyous Prench ballad, setting the tone for the evening. The player and disk had been Lieutenant Silverbeak’s anniversary gift to his wife.
“I’m so happy they get along.”
Stela nodded at the words and sipped her drink. The two had moved from tea to an old, cheap wine bottle a while back, and a slight blush colored Stela’s cheeks.
“Oh yes. Amanda is so relaxed around her I didn’t even know it was possible.”
Honestly, as much as she and Amanda liked each other, Stela was worried the cow was still afraid of her. Or maybe less of Stela, and more that she would be left on her own if Stela ever grew tired of her. The question of why Stela had taken her in was still fresh in the griffon’s mind. It was a fear born from pain, and she wished so much she could just take it away. The best she could do was to be a good host to Amanda for as long as she needed one.
Stela felt her pocket, where Amanda’s letter to the squad that had rescued her was stored for safekeeping. The next day they’d send it with the mailgriff. She lowered her claw onto the wooden table, looking at their play and smiled. What would those two get up to?
On the other side of the yard, Greta leaned closer to Amanda and, unheard by the responsible adults in the yard, whispered: “Thanks for coming over.”
The words surprised Amanda. From the moment Amanda and Miss Stela had entered their home, a red, wooden building that was half a shop and half a home, the hatchling had babbled nonstop. The sudden departure from exciting stories caught the cow’s ear, and she looked down at the griffon.
“Whenever Dad leaves, Mama gets really sad. So she loves to have guests over. She and Miss Stela used to do that before.”
“Oh,” Amanda muttered. “Did they do that often? What happened?”
“The war,” Greta said. “Dad left, and all my aunts and uncles volunteered, so Mama has to run the shop all by herself. There’s not much time for fun.”
“Now there is,” Amanda tried to encourage her. “So don’t worry and have fun.”
Greta jumped on the swing, sitting on the worn, wooden seat held by the gray ropes she grasped in her small claws. The white paint on the seat had been cracked by the long summer, but that warmth was in the past. Yellow leaves rustled in the wind.
“Wee!” Greta screamed in delight, spreading her wings. As the swing came back down, she stood upright, letting her yellow dress billow in the wind. As the swing reached its apex, Amanda rose to her rear hooves and pushed the swing down with all her strength.
Giggling, Greta rose almost to the level of the branch the seat was suspended from.
Amanda had never had a childhood. She had been a slave to the family of griffons that owned her, working on their farm until she would one day be slaughtered and eaten. Although never outright cruel, they had only seen her as an animal.
Here Amanda could experience everything she had missed out on. She was learning to read and write, she had met Miss Stela, who looked after her, and let Amanda be herself.
The cow pushed again, and screaming with delight, Greta rose over the branch.
“One more time!”
Amanda obeyed, sending the hatchling up into the air. Pointing high into the deep blue sky, the swing seemed to crawl to a halt, quickly losing momentum. Then it reached the branches above the swing. Greta came back down spitting out yellow leaves.
“Are you alright?” Amanda gasped, horrified.
“Yes!”
Mrs. Silverbeak had also seen her daughter's introduction to the tree, and decided it was time to call it quits before someone got hurt. Unfortunately, with the yard visible to a side road, someone else had come to the same conclusion.
“The fuck are you doing?!” A thin, hoarse male voice demanded. “Stupid fucking cow!”
The voice and double swearing had Stela up from her seat in an instant. She recognized the voice of one of her former students. The haggard, black griffon leaned on the fence surrounding the yard, glaring at the bovine standing a few meters away.
“Hey Silverbeak, you know your food got free?”
Seeing Amanda slink back in growing confusion and anxiety, Stela stepped between the two. “Watch your words, Jules. I doubt your mother would appreciate them.”
The black griffon’s mother was an outspoken supporter of bovine liberation. Her son’s attitude towards rescued cows would have certainly caused a fight, had she known about them. As it was, Jules had been drinking and was in no condition to think of the consequences of his words. His blue eyes honed in slightly to the left of the teacher.
“And… you. I remember in school you taught us to be proud we’re griffons, and now you’ve taken a cow as a pet. Do you spre-”
A sharp blow into his talons cut the griffon’s speech. Stela had picked up a fallen branch and was using it as a cane. “Another word and you’ll be serving detention for the rest of the month.”
The sharp tone seemed to surprise Jules, who could not say anything for a moment. Finally, it clicked to him that he was an adult, and not bound to the school’s rules. “You can’t do that!”
“When I drag you by your tail to your mother, I promise she will watch over your detention.” To emphasize her words, Stela poked at the griffon’s chest with her improvised cane. Realizing she would act on her promise at the slightest excuse, the dark griffon backed off. He shot Amanda a disgusted look and left while grumbling about wasting time on cows.
With the mood thoroughly deflated, the evening came to an end. Mrs. Silverbeak sent Greta in for her evening routine, while Amanda and Miss Stela started packing their things.
“I’m sorry this ended in such a mess,” Mrs. Silverbeak apologized. “But please, if you ever need me, I’ll be here.”
The door crashed inward, revealing a dark room.
Wingerni was the first in, moving awkwardly with the butt of his rifle tucked into his armpit. Talonico was next, followed by Talone. The rest of the squad waited outside.
“Corp, I’m not paying for the door,” Wingerni chuckled, scanning the house for traps.
“Odds are nobody will. I don’t see anyone here to demand reparations.”
The house only had a single room, heated by the smoke from a chinley-less stove next to the door. The stinging smell of smoke still hung heavy in the chamber filled with the clutter of daily life cut short. A long thread hung from a pedal-powered spinning wheel where the work had been cut off, while the beginnings of a mug were emerging from a block of wood on the table, with a knife laying next to them. In every corner and nook something had been stored.
“Well this is a mess,” Talone scoffed. “But at least we know their loyalties.”
She picked up a tin photo frame from a shelf and showed it to the others. A female roughly Talonico’s age gazed calmly into nothingness, uncaring of the intruders at her home. A medal hung from the frame, golden knives crossed on a black field. A regimental insignia, given to the families of the dead.
At least one of the griffons of the family had been a member of the Paramilitary. Talone tossed the photo to the floor and kept walking. Talonico gave it a passing look of disappointment, sighing at Talone’s behavior, before returning his attention to the room.
Slowly and methodically they went through every item to see if there was anything of note. No secret papers revealed themselves between bedsheets, but Wingerni picked up another photograph, hidden behind a loose board he spotted.
“Holy shit! Full house!” Wingerni’s excited shout drew the attention of others. His photograph had an old griffon in a fancy dress uniform. Even without the rank insignia, Talonico would have instantly recognized General Oltenau, with his broad, scarred face. He was the commander of the Paramilitary, and one of the generals that had led the Feast Party’s crackdowns. Talonico thought of the brown griffon’s comment.
“What do you mean, full house?”
“I have him, the other two Generals, the King and Prime Minister.”
“Of course you do.”
While the others talked, Talone’s attention was drawn back to the stove. She was certain she had seen something around it, some sort of irregularity that kept gnawing at the back of her mind. The floor was covered with a thin layer of dust and dirt, but she could see small, sooty pawprints leading to a partially opened window.
As she moved, Talone bumped her paw against the stove’s cold metal hatch. The squeak that followed did not come from her beak. The griffoness stopped, then dropped down and opened the hatch.
Talone stared at herself. Dirty, soot-covered face and teary eyes. Torn clothes and the smell of sweat. Frightened and helpless, she made herself as small as she could.
Talone blinked and saw the hatchling had retreated deeper into the oven. It was not her. They shared only a bare resemblance in color, and what she had thought were stripes were only dirt on her feathers. Then to her horror, Talone saw something shift under the chick’s wing. A hatchling barely covered with fluffy down and the first hints of fur. It still breathed, but for how long Talone had no idea.
“Corp!” she yelled. The rest of the squad rushed in at her cry.
“Oh shit!” Milan was the first to recognize the hatchling that had snatched her food. She tried to reach out with a reassuring claw, only for the hatchling to retreat even further into the ashes.
“She’s scared,” Talonico observed. “Give her some room. Milan, try to coax her out.”
The others backed off, while Milan reached for her canteen, holding it just outside the hatchling’s reach. At first it seemed to work, before the hatchling looked at the other soldiers and backed off.
“Why is she so shy now? She had no problems earlier?” Wingerni whispered.
“She was hungry,” Talone answered curtly. “Or the smaller one was. Is it working?”
“No,” Milan answered, pulling her claw out of the stove. “She’s scared, and water isn’t enough to change that.”
“Let me try.”
Confused, Milan stepped out of the way, allowing the striped griffon to step in front of the hatch. She reached inside, and grabbed the hatchling by the collar of her shirt, dragging her out screaming and kicking. “Grab the smaller one.”
“Talone!” Talonico yelled, both in anger and surprise. The feeling faded instantly, as the private looked at him, something fragile briefly surfacing below her veneer of rage.
“Corp, we have to get them to the medic! Who knows how long they’ve been breathing that soot and ash!”
Realizing that she was right and that there was no point berating her, Talonico simply nodded and made for the door. Once outside, he stopped to give final orders. “Bluecrest, Wingerni, try to figure out where her parents are.”
The two hatchlings were carried to the medic’s post, the older with much greater difficulty. They picked up Greendown’s squad along the way, which rushed to help the medic prepare. By the time Talonico arrived, a table had been cleared for the two, the medic standing ready to inspect the two. Listening to Talonico’s explanation, he began his work.
“They are still breathing, and they aren’t coughing their lungs out,” he spoke as he scanned them for wounds. “But breathing that much ash might cause problems down the line. A bigger issue is that both are freezing and malnourished. Feeding one is easy, but he is going to be a tougher case.”
“What can he eat?” Greendown asked the medic, nodding at the younger hatchling. With both present, he had automatically taken control from Talonico, which the latter accepted with a relieved sigh.
“Someone has to regurgitate meat for him. Preferably cooked, but I’ll accept even raw meat right now.”
“Can’t we take some from the locals?” The Sergeant demanded. “Or give him vegetables or fruits?”
“Likely salted for preservation, so no deal,” The medic explained with growing agitation. If the hatchlings had been shot or hit with shrapnel, he would have been in his element. Now he had to go off of old lyceum lessons. “And vegetables don’t have enough nutrients for him. Just focus on getting them warm!”
“Here,” a raspy voice interrupted the medic. A Paramilitary griffon with an amputated paw pulled a red scarf from around his neck and offered it to the hatchling. “Keep her warm.”
Those who were at their journey’s end would recall the moment with pride, more pride than triumph had ever brought them. For the ones who would carry on to one battlefield after another, the fleeting moment would eventually become a hazy memory, lost in the din of death and violence.
“Hunt,” Greendown ordered. “Go and kill some small animal. Squirrel, hare, bird, anything, and bring it here.”
The blue and yellow griffon rushed out, passing Talone.
Talone felt a pang of guilt as she watched the Paramilitary. She had no issue killing them, and now they went and acted like normal griffons. Unable and unwilling to bear the feeling, she reshaped it into anger, focusing it on the griffon she had seen in the photo. That griffoness had abandoned her family to fight for the Feast Party. It was her fault the hatchling was so close to death.
“I’ll go help Hunt,” she said and left the house.
As Greendown had guessed, the arrival of Major Thunderclaw meant that something was happening. After conferring with the Major, Captain Telesca gave the order to prepare to march. Orders were issued to platoon leaders, who informed their squad leaders of what was happening. The whole battalion was on the move.
Setting out on a darkening road, Talonico finally managed to ask Bluecrest: “Did you find out what happened to their parents?”
“Yeah, the Militia shot them as potential spies.”
“Ours?”
“Yes.”
“Shit.”
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.”
Canales departed from the rest of the company, climbing up the nameless ridge dominating the battlefield. From atop the abandoned trenches and shell craters gouged into the sandy ridge she could see down into the valley where the battle would be decided
With all squads at the top, they slunk deeper into the woods, advancing along the length of the ridge. The first crews of the machine gun company were by then scaling the steep slope.
A series of explosions made Canales look left. Black smoke and fragments of earth flew to the skies. The division’s artillery, a total of thirty-six three-inchers, pounded the two-kilometer front in a display of firepower impressive by the Griffon Army’s standards. When compared to the artillery duels of The Great War, it was downright pathetic. From her vantage point, Canales could see the fires move further away, then return closer, striking a number of targets in turn. Then she was back with her platoon.
The skirmish line advanced through the forest in two waves, griffons moving from tree to tree, maintaining a proper distance between each other under the watchful eye of their squad leaders. Thickets of spruce trees and bony white birches dripped water onto the mossy ground.
The crack of a rifle made the advance halt as the griffons ducked instinctively, trying to figure out if the shot had been aimed at them. When the bullet tore into a tree next to Canales’ head, they understood they were in danger.
The flanking maneuver had relied on the element of surprise. Although the scouts had scoured the ridge before, they had not foreseen the hastily returning patrol using a shortcut parallel to the ridge.
“Carranza!” Canales screamed over the sounds of a developing firefight. She saw the small size of the faraway enemy and realized they were not a true threat. “Take the second demi-platoon and pin the enemy! The rest will follow me!”
There was a risk in dividing her platoon, but an even greater risk was the enemy outpost having time to prepare. The Paramilitary had opened fire at the extremes of effective range, and while they had caused no casualties so far, they were too far away to be flanked, especially with the terrain not masking any move toward the enemy.
Cheering her soldiers on, Canales took the two squads for a mad dash toward the outpost. A bullet scraped the ground between a running griffon’s paws, and she paused behind a tree, leveling her rifle. The griffon fired, cycled her weapon, and fired again. One by one the griffons followed their instincts, returning fire rather than passively taking it.
The shots rang out nonstop now. Canales cursed, realizing that they were all stuck in the firefight.
Talonico advanced to the sound of the explosions. Four behind him, five some distance to his side.The machine gun section never strayed far from Captain Telesca.
They had passed by the enemy’s forward posts a few minutes ago. The first wave had overrun a few, the others had been abandoned after a few shots, having achieved their task of warning the first line. Now the enemy’s forward line was being hammered by artillery. High explosives shook the ground and snapped trees like dry twigs, while shrapnel shells burst in the sky in white clouds, the spreading cones of burning steel cutting barbed wire.
When the shelling stopped, the three platoons of the first wave dashed forth in a silent charge. Talonico did not see the results, but he heard the intense firefight, and noticed they were no longer walking forward.
“Check your gear,” he called out. Wingerni proceeded to check the magazines hanging from his webbing, making sure they were within easy reach. Bluecrest and Milan checked the cardboard pouches in their pockets, ready to fill the magazines as they emptied.
With a loud clack of steel on steel Talone cycled the bolt of her weapon, taking satisfaction in the sound and the knowledge that her action hadn’t been jammed by dirt sneaking in through the magazine’s slit.
A long burst of a machine gun told them what their task would be.
A runner returned to Telesca, and she sent the second wave forward in response. That was bad. She was committing her reserves to the first obstacle. Despite the shelling, the enemy was quick to recover.
“Greendown! A machine gun is suppressing the left flank. Get your section there and destroy the gun.”
The sergeant nodded to Telesca. “What then, ma’am?”
“Take a position to support that flank.”
Greendown nodded to the captain, who left for the skirmish line, drawing her pistol from its black holster. With the camouflage pattern painted on her helmet, she would have looked like a mustang trench raider, if not for the years visible on her weary face. The sergeant watched her go, before returning to his task. “Section, follow me.”
The section ran after Greendown. Bullets buzzed over their heads, ricochets wailing. The shelling had shifted to their left, to the second battalion’s sector, leaving them without the protection of artillery. Their run ended in a shallow ditch.
“Wingerni, check the mags,” Talonico ordered, then rolled around to look at Talone. He rarely acted like a drill sergeant, not enjoying the task, but this moment called for it. “And you. No dumb tricks today. Be smart and take cover.”
The griffoness showed no emotion, either shame for her earlier actions or annoyance that she was being called out for them. “Yes, Corp.”
Greendown returned from his visit to the pinned platoon’s lieutenant. “Right, there’s a wooden bunker over there.”
Talonico followed Greendown’s gaze, and saw the muzzle flashes in a black firing slit. The building was so well camouflaged with dirt that he would not have spotted it otherwise. “Aye, I see it.”
“We set up a base of fire here, you over by that thicket, and a squad attacks the bunker.”
“Not going to flank?” Talonico asked, trying to get a better look at the bunker’s surroundings.
“Booby traps. Now go!”
“Second squad! Follow me to the thicket!” Talonico ran, paws and claws sinking into the soft ground. Whirring stray shots passed by. The wet clothes weighed him down, but at least the adrenaline prevented him from being cold. A griffoness in a gray helmet peered over the trench, but a quick burst from Greendown’s gunner sent her back to cover.
Gracelessly Talonico plopped down in the firing position. Talone was next and immediately set up her LMG, sinking the bipod into the soil. Wingerni slipped, cursed, and joined her with a second magazine ready. Talone breathed in and out, in and out, taking the dark shape illuminated by the muzzle flashes into her sights.
Greendown’s gun fell silent as it reloaded. Talone squeezed the trigger and felt the weapon push into her shoulder. She fired a full magazine in short bursts. She didn’t see if she hit anyone, but the machine gun was now jumping from target to target, its crew clearly spooked, which allowed the pinned platoon to crawl forward meter by meter. One griffon died instantly as he was pierced by five bullets, all holes in a neat line, but the others kept going.
Greendown’s gun had fired its second magazine, and Talone again took her turn. After three rounds the weapon jammed.
“Malfunction!” Talone called out, letting Wingerni yank the magazine free, cartridges jostling about as the follower had gotten stuck, no longer holding them in place. Swearing furiously she tried to wrench the charging handle back to eject the disobeying shot. “Rat fucking, fucking cunt I’ll fuck you with a knife-” the griffoness growled, as though the LMG’s designer would somehow hear her.
Feeling the fire slacken, the same enterprising griffoness from before rose with a grenade in claw. Milan, seeing the helmet rise, had already picked up her rifle. With a single shot she killed the griffon. The grenade exploded harmlessly.
“Attagirl!” Talone cheered for Milan.
Her weapon still refused to work, and Greendown alone could not silence the bunker alone, especially from their awkward angle. And neither would he move to a better spot in the hail of bullets.
Bluecrest had come to the same conclusion. “Corp! Me and Milan can get closer!”
The white corporal thought about it for a second. “Go!”
Hearing the word, Milan rushed after Bluecrest. She hugged the ground in a half run and half crawl, cutting a path through the marshy grass. The bunker did not spot them, and after she had shot the griffon with a grenade none wanted to raise her head. A sudden, slow beat told her that Talone had cleared the gun. The rifle platoon was not slacking off either, laying down a constant barrage of fire. The crew kept firing one belt after another, but now there were short breaks as crew members fell.
“I toss the grenade, you cover the door,” Bluecrest whispered. He tried to ignore the bullets flying by, telling himself that the others would make sure to not hit him. He felt the blasts of hot gasses as the weapon fired a mere meter from him. From under his belt he pulled a hand grenade with a cardboard handle and an explosive charge in a cast iron head. He breathed in, pulled the cord and pushed the grenade inside. The griffons inside managed an alarmed yell before the grenade exploded.
Hearing the explosion, Milan jumped into the trench. She raised the rifle to her shoulder just as the bunker’s door opened, gray smoke billowing out. Seeing the dark figure stumble out, she fired. The griffon fell, instantly dead, but another was right behind. With a straight-pull rifle Milan did not have to lower the weapon to cycle the bolt. The second griffon never saw her, stumbling about in panic.
Weapon smoking, Milan stood and approached the intersection in the trench. Bluecrest’s yell made her jerk back just as a rifle barked around the corner, bullet slamming into the logs reinforcing the trench. Milan fell, her ear ringing and eyes stinging from the muzzle blast. The Paramilitary griffon rounded the corner, rifle raised. His uniform was torn by shrapnel and helmet dented. In his eyes Milan saw the coldness that separated a soldier from a griffon. Before he could fire, a burst cut the griffon down.
Talone jumped into the trench, weapon smoking.
“You’re a fucking Trench Raider!” she screamed in cruel delight, giving the bodies an uncaring glance. Behind her came Talonico and Wingerni who helped her up.
“Bluecrest, secure the corner! Milan, can you stand?”
She didn’t answer at first, leaning on the trench for support. She doubted she could, but that would mean she’d have to wait and recover next to the corpse with his back torn open, tongue hanging from his open beak, weak wheezes coming out… and its eyes bulging out in a final moment of terror.
“I’ll manage, Corp.”
Canales moved next to a fallen tree that three griffons used to support their rifles, firing at the fuzzy figures in the distance. Nearby a wounded griffon was dragged to cover, crying in agony.
“Lieutenant, the Captain orders you to retreat!”
Canales turned to meet the runner that had appeared behind her. “What?!”
The firefight started by the enemy patrol had drawn everyone’s attention and reinforcements had poured in. So far they were evenly matched, but Canales’ platoon had burned through half its ammunition keeping the enemy at bay. She doubted she could carry out her mission after that.
“He’s set up two guns further away. If the enemy pursues he can flank them.”
Canales scowled. The problem with a feigned rout was that it could easily become a real one, especially when the enemy was suddenly given fire superiority. But she might have that soon in any case, with no reserves and her right flank open.
Well, if the machine-gunner’s Captain had a plan, it was more than she had.
“Tell the captain we’ll withdraw to the trenches in ten minutes!”
The runner scurried off, and Canales crawled along the firing line to inform her squad leaders of what was about to happen. Her new runner traveled the other direction. Eight minutes later she was back at the fallen three, drenched in sweat, but her message delivered.
The final seconds ticked by. Canales raised her rarely used whistle to her beak and blew a long, shrill note. The firing died out as magazines ran dry. She counted the time it took to reload and blew again. Griffons fired their fresh magazines as quickly as they could, turned around and ran.
Sergeant Carranza had once remarked that volleys caused few casualties, but turned the foreground hostile to life. He was clearly right, as the enemy ducked from the way of two hundred bullets suddenly filling the air.
Running as fast as they could, the platoon ran to the trenches, the Paramilitary pursuing them at a slower pace. A few shots flew past them harmlessly.
“Reload, everyone reload!” Canales yelled as she dropped into the trench, sand rolling down with her, sticking to her uniform. She could hear the sounds of the approaching enemy, and soon the first gray helmets rose from behind the small plateau. When the first Paramilitary squads had set up their firing line, the machine guns came to life.
Canales could not see them, but she heard the sound of two belts being emptied into the exposed line. What she did see was the puffs of blood and torn feathers, as the exposed squads were torn to pieces. She saw only two escape with their lives. After a moment, the rest of the machine gun company ran up to them, the Captain at the lead.
“Lieutenant,” he said without preamble. “I have sent a runner to the battalion. The regimental mortars will hit the outpost as soon as possible, and you will seize it immediately after. I’ll give you two machine guns for support. Can you do that?”
It was not really a question, at least Canales did not consider it one. It was an order that gave her the option of backing down and letting someone else do it.
“I can do that, yes. Where will you be, sir?”
The Captain gestured at the forested valley below them and raised his binoculars. His order also answered the Lieutenant’s question. “Set up here, range seven hundred!”
Canales raised her binoculars, and saw a long column making its way towards the outpost line, where fighting was still as fierce as before. Explosions of hand grenades echoed through the woods as sections of trenches were fought over. The detachment was not as far forward as it was supposed to and had to shoot over the heads of the rest of the battalion.
Around them four tripods were set up in a line, then the machine guns with their heavy water jackets were attached with the clatter and clinging of metal. Water cans were connected to the jackets, and the cloth belts inserted to the weapons. Ushered on by the sharp, hissed commands of NCOs, the guns were set up, sighted, and ready to fire in less than twenty seconds. The Captain raised his talon, followed by the platoon and gun leaders. He made a cutting motion, and as one the four machine guns fired. Red tracers cut through the air in a lazy arc, descending down into the forest. The belts were emptied in one go, but the ones after that were fired in shorter, better aimed bursts.
Canales left to join her platoon as the first raindrops fell from the gray sky.
The machine guns stopped the Paramilitary’s counterattack before it had a chance to get going. The survivors of the outposts withdrew in good order where they had stopped the Second Company, but where the attack had made it to the trenches almost all the defenders had been killed or taken prisoner. Close quarters combat was almost always lethal, and after one side had seized the initiative, very lopsided.
Its ranks a little thinner, the company reformed to continue its advance, establishing contact with its neighbor. They passed by the dead left behind, but the broken attack had taken care to evacuate all its wounded at least. Had they not been under fire, the Paramilitary would have likely taken their dead with them as well, to be returned to their hometowns or -villages. Now they were left on the soft forest floor.
The ground rose slowly, and evenly, covered with trees until about two hundred meters from the main defensive line dug into the ridge. There, every tree had been cut down creating a complex maze of intertwining branches. A scout had taken a massive risk in the days prior, diving down at night and confirming that no barbed wire had been thrown in the mix. The last fifty meters between the barrier and the trenches had been left barren. Everything about the defenses baited the attackers to take flight, and expose themselves to the enemy barrels.
“Halt,” the order traveled down the line. “The enemy has cut the branches.”
The LMG section had returned to captain Telesca. Talonico saw what the warning meant. Low hanging branches had been cut, reducing concealment available. The attack had been surprisingly fast, and they were slightly ahead of the artillery’s schedule.
A series of weak coughs rang out behind them, followed by the sounds of explosions from somewhere where Canales was. In the short moment he had to think about something other than his squad, Talonico hoped she was doing fine. Then the first enemy shells fell behind them, crushing the seized positions. Talonico lowered his head instinctively, but when he realized they were not the target he returned to a watchful stance.
Then the time came for the friendly cannons to open up. Ground shook as shells tore the ridge, throwing dirt and wood in the air and covering it in a layer of fire and dark smoke. Then the mortars fired, blanketing the ridge with thick, white smoke. With the blow of a whistle, the line advanced.
The barrage lasted for five minutes. During that time they had made it halfway through the obstacles,having to fight through the natural barrier. The explosions stopped, but more smoke shells still came. The rain, steadily growing from a drizzle to a downpour, was clearing the air of smoke faster than the new shells could create it. Bullets came through gaps in the smoke, killing careless griffons.
“Machine guns! Set up!”
Greendown and Talonico took their squads to positions. A pair of small, knee high rocks and a thick tree trunk had to provide cover for Talonico’s entire squad. They could see as the smoke cleared, no more shells falling. And the enemy could see them. The dugouts were deep underground, covered by three layers of logs and several feet of soil. Thin firing slits dug into the forward slope spat out bullets the moment the smoke cleared.
The line stopped, and moved no further.
Raindrops burst into steam as they hit the burning rifle barrels. Bullets snapped into trees and stones over the griffons’ heads. After hours of fighting, they still lay in their positions, firing non-stop. Runners moved up and down the line, bringing with them ammunition for the tiring guns.
Talonico peered over a fallen tree and fired a half aimed shot. With the enemy so well dug in, it was unlikely to hit. He dropped back to cover and cycled the action. As predicted, a bullet whirred over his head.
By his side, Talone fired a shot after another from between the two rocks. So confident in her cover that she had not once ducked from harm’s way. Talonico could see her frustration as the machine gun she was firing at refused to go down.
“Corporal!” A sharp shout pierced the chaos of battle.
Talonico crawled away from the line. Captain Telesca waited for him, crouching next to a massive, moss covered boulder. The rain had turned her greatcoat practically black, and mud clung to it in ugly clumps. Water flooded down in rivers from the edges of her helmet.
“Yes, Captain?”
“Where the hell is Greendown!?”
Talonico looked at the captain, then to his left. “Some fifty meters that way! He’s trying to hold the fourth platoon together!”
“How many are running?” Telesca asked, rising to have a better view of the platoon.
“At least ten from what I saw. Captain, we are running out of ammunition. We have three magazines left, and the rifles are down to two clips.”
There was a wet snap, followed by an agonized wail. Another wounded griffon was dragged from the line. The casualties had been light so far, but each one tore at the frayed nerves of the troops. The battle had become one of endurance, a question of whose spirit and ammunition lasted longer.
“There is more ammo coming. Just hold your position!”
Captain Telesca left to rally the wavering platoon. Wherever she went, she moved in defiance of death, spreading her confidence to those around her. But she couldn’t be everywhere at once. Little by little the company started cracking.
A riflegriff slumped over her rifle. Her body was unceremoniously rolled out of the way, and another assumed her position. Corporal Flocco, enraged by his squad’s refusal to move, stood up to give them an example. A bullet tore his throat open. Talone cheered as her shot killed a northern griff rushing to aid his wounded twin.
Artillery from both sides joined the fray. Shrapnel and shell fragments tore into the flesh of the living and the dead. Grenades savaged the ancient forest, bringing down trees that had proudly stood long before the first griffon had drawn breath. 8-inch grenades slammed into the Paramilitary’s trenches, kicking up geysers of earth and broken bodies that rose far above the treetops. The griffons fought, and bled, and couldn’t take a step forward.
Darkness had fallen an hour ago, bringing an end to the fight. Talonico was drenched and freezing and miserable, but at least he was still alive, like the rest of his squad. The dice hadn’t landed on them.
He knew he should have given the order to dig in, as was the norm, but he didn’t. Something about their situation bothered him. The blackness and the roar of rain isolated them, reducing their world into a tiny bubble. In that bubble, everything was all right, but at its edges lurked a danger he couldn’t spot. Bluecrest could.
Talonico felt Bluecrest tap his shoulder. The brown griffon leaned close, and whispered so quietly that the rain almost swallowed the sound. “Corp, do you hear anything?”
Talonico didn’t answer at first. He racked his brain, trying to see what the other meant. And then he understood. Digging foxholes was noisy, and they should have heard the shovels scraping the earth or biting into wood.
“No,” Talonico whispered back, his heart stopping as he realized something had gone terribly wrong.
Steps.
Talonico could hear griffons move around them, whispering orders. They were approaching from the wrong direction.
“Form a ring,” he ordered. “And prepare the grenades.”
As quietly as they could, the squad arranged itself into a ring, covering each other’s backs. Grenades were pulled from belts and set down within reach. They could have tried running, but where? They had no Idea where the company had disappeared to.
Movement surrounded them, coming so close that Talonico could hear the ruffling of feathers under greatcoats. He did not want to fire the first shot. Once they were spotted, it would be the end.
He was going to die. The realization didn’t scare Talonico as much as he thought it would. He would never see his mothers and sister again, but they would understand, wouldn’t they? A sense of calm pushed away his fear as Death laid a talon on his shoulder. In silence, she promised him a blissful oblivion.
They waited.
The machine gun company had taken its dead with it, the company commander included. Canales had seen him take a bullet through the beak. The Paramilitary’s counterattack had been slowed by the Scout Company, allowing them to withdraw at the nick of time. The captain had led the rearguard action, dying a few moments before complete darkness fell.
The slow, careful march took them back to the company’s assembly area. As Canales went to report to Telesca, she saw the Captain in a heated, whispered conversation with Greendown.
“Captain, the first platoon has returned,” she said when Captain Telesca noticed her. “We’ve taken our spot in the perimeter.”
“Thank you, lieutenant.” The captain acknowledged. She listened to her brief report on casualties and remaining ammunition. Her face was hidden under the visor of her helmet, but Canales could see the tension in her pose and expression. Canales could not stop the question from leaving her beak.
“What’s the problem?”
Greendown looked at captain Telesca.
“Talonico’s squad is missing,” the Captain explained.
Canales’ blood froze. She cared for her former section and did not want to see them abandoned. “Are they dead?”
“Didn’t see them dead, but the runner didn’t find them, so they didn’t get the order to withdraw.”
“Which is why the Sergeant wishes to go look for him.”
“Ma’am, I know exactly where they were,” Greendown almost hissed. “I can go get them.”
“Going alone into the darkness is a sure way to die.”
“Ma’am,” Canales interrupted. “I can go with him. We’ll watch each others’ backs.”
“And if you die?”
“Then Carranza will get to be an excellent platoon leader.”
The captain looked at Canales, who met her gaze. Finally she cracked a smile. “I see the Sergeant is a bad influence to you. Go, you have thirty minutes before the company moves out.”
The patrols hadn’t spotted the squad in the darkness, but it was only a matter of time. Milan gripped her rifle nervously, hunched over and looking around for the inevitable death. She knew they would not go down without a fight, but it would only be a symbolic gesture.
The voices moved around them, picking ammo from the dead, moving from one corpse to another.
She didn’t notice her breath had hitched until a palm suddenly rested on her shoulder, and she failed to gasp in surprise. Talone gave her shoulder a few comforting pats. She seemed calm, accepting of her death. And Milan did not believe it was the fearlessness born from the knowledge of inevitable.
Her thoughts were interrupted as she saw a dark shape moving towards them, shouldering her rifle. The fuzzy figure came a little clearer, giving her a target.
“Hey, you guys AGS?”
“Yes?” Milan blurted out in confusion. “Sergeant Greendown?”
The sergeant crept right up to the circle, looking for Talonico. “Get moving, we’re in a hurry.”
“You heard him, leave everything.”
Everything they had taken from their pockets they left behind, moving in a clustered file. Greendown took the lead, guiding them through the relatively safe path he had found, while Talonico watched the rear. Every second their surroundings became a little less oppressive as safety beckoned. Then a shadow moved, vaulting over a trunk in search of loot, crashing into Greendown, who instinctively pulled the trigger.
The gunshot shattered the silence.
Milan saw another griffon illuminated by the flash, and fired a hasty shot, before breaking into a run after Greendown. Shouts and alarmed cries followed them, but no shots. Then with a whoosh the night became day as a burning flare rose to the sky.
There was no purpose hiding. They ran from golden light to shadows stretched by the nighttime sun and back to the light. The forest behind them rattled with gunfire.
Milan screamed as pain flashed along her right rear leg and she crashed onto the soft soil. Breath slammed out of her lungs and stars filled her vision. She felt claws wrap around her leather webbing and pick her up, and struggled to raise her ringing head to see what was happening.
She recognized the pounding beat of Talone’s weapon as she covered them. Milan blinked, and they were deeper in the woods, the enemy not to be seen. She raised her paw, and pain flared across her hind leg. She opened her mouth to scream, but Talone slammed her beak shut before she could.
Around the other griffoness she could see Talonico bandaging the wound. Her green uniform was blackened with blood. Milan’s eyes widened and her breath quickened, but Talone’s secure grip prevented her from screaming.
“Take it easy,” Talone whispered. “Come on big girl, you got it. Just hold on.”
She nodded, and grimaced as she felt the Corporal working on her wound. She didn’t know how long the pain lasted, focusing on Talone’s claws holding her down, grounding herself. She did notice when he stopped.
“The bleeding stopped, we have to get going.”
Milan felt herself be hoisted on the Corporal’s back. The enemy patrols did not come this far, and they were able to reach the company in time. In a flurry of movement Milan was put on the ground, and then on a makeshift stretcher made of thick branches and gun slings.
“Sorry, got to take these,” she heard Talone say, and then her magazine pouches were empty. She did not hear her friend say goodbye, blissful unconsciousness having claimed her.
Talonico and Greendown looked at her from a short distance away.
“She’ll make it fine,” Greendown reassured the younger griffon.
“She will,” Talonico agreed, nodding absently. He was exhausted from carrying her the whole way, and shaken by the sight of her being wounded. “Yeah. Thank you for coming for us.”
“Thank the Captain for letting me come. And Canales for persuading her.”
There was a brief silence. Then the company left. Greendown and Wingerni were the first stretcher bearers, doing their best to make the ride comfortable for their wounded comrade. Walking in front of them, Talonico whispered to Talone. “Are you alright?”
“Yes,” the striped griffon answered without hesitation. When she saw that Talonico was not satisfied, she added. “I just don’t like losing.”
Far away a flare rose to the sky, and the scout company opened fire on their pursuers, reminding them that the war was still going on.
October
“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
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.
October
“Guys, guys, look! It’s the old shitter!”
When the train had stopped, the soldiers had emerged to familiar terrain near a small village where two streams merged into a river. Sparse woods, a winding stream lined with tall, now frozen grass, and a distant ridge all told them where they were.
The cold wind did not bother the soldiers in the least as the siren call of warm barracks beckoned. At the rear of the formation someone broke into song, a sound not heard in a long time, and soon the entire company was singing along. Even Talonico, with dark thoughts swirling in his head, was swept up by the momentum. The song’s lack of artistic merit was overruled by the shared enthusiasm.
“Mother, father, why can’t you see?
Although I work I never gain.
A wave of derisive laughter interrupted the song, as everyone knew only the second part was true. Tankers were dumb enough to get in a tank!
“Riflegriff’s corpse just can’t get laid.
Mother, father, why can’t you see?
Lieutenant Silverbeak had tolerated the song, but demanded a more patriotic one to be sung next. After singing a waltz some genius had made the regimental march, the company fell into silence, until the original singer began his next song.
“Taking a plane to Canterlot, Princess’s tower a-”
“Silence in the ranks!” Silverbeak cried out, recognizing the tune, if not the words of this variation. Bullets and shrapnel never seemed to faze the annoying officer, but the song was enough to break him. The company was in high spirits the rest of the way. The barracks beckoned.
Each company had two unpainted houses built from thick, sturdy logs. One, the smaller one, housed the commander and their staff, and the other the rest of the company. The barracks were a continuous building with no adornments beyond simple windows for each room. Guided by the shouted commands of officers, every platoon arranged itself in front of a door, and then moved inside, until only the light machine gun section remained.
Talonico did not say a word, guessing exactly what had happened. He kept his eyes focused on the wooden wall, silently examining the patterns on the wood. The leather strap of his backpack chafed against his neck, but he ignored the feeling, standing at parade rest.
The section was arranged in three ranks, with the last one consisting only of Greendown’s ammo carrier. The sergeant himself stood next to the section, the look on his face telling he felt the weight of a certain officer’s stupidity falling hard on his withers. He looked at the section, amber eyes meeting Talonico’s red.
“Section… silent break. I’ll go and ask Lieutenant Silverbeak what’s with the hold up.”
Talonico relaxed, rolling his stiff neck. Others took the chance to adjust their gear or move their aching limbs. Although the train had spared them from a long march, they had not had much rest since the battle, and their bodies felt the ache. Talonico looked back and saw that Talone remained completely static, her heavy weapon resting on her shoulder. She had spoken very little after Milan had been wounded, and Talonico was worried about her. He knew Talone had gotten close to the younger griffoness, mentoring her to the best of her ability in Talonico’s absence. Had her advice not frequently skirted to the wrong side of laws and regulations, Talonico would have let Captain Telesca know of her budding abilities.
“Section!” Greendown shouted, snapping everyone to attention. The sergeant approached them at a brisk walk. Silverbeak had forgotten to issue the machine gun section their orders, as Greendown had not been in the officers’ wagon. “We get one empty room from the First platoon’s hallway. Let’s get going. And be fast, we have more things to do today.”
As it turned out, the first thing they did was cleaning their equipment and getting new uniforms. While his was not as dirty as the others’, it was still dirty and worn enough for Talonico to completely forget how vibrant green the uniforms were supposed to be. No amount of scrubbing the uniform in a ditch could get it perfectly clean, and the conditions in the field ensured it was dirty by the end of the day.
“Great Grover, do you feel that?” Wingerni asked, having come to the same conclusion. “This doesn’t have a crust! It’s amazing!”
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Hunt teased from across the room. The griffon’s white undershirt was unbuttoned, revealing the yellow of his neck continuing down to his fur. With that, and the white mask and crown of long, blue feathers he bore a striking resemblance to a blue tit.
Greendown did not appreciate the anatomical curiosity. “Hide your chest Longclaw, you’re not attracting a mate here. We’re all equally covered in shit.”
“Sergeant, isn’t it good when mates are on equal footing?” Wingerni quipped. “What do we even have on the schedule?”
“Personal maintenance.” It was a blanket term for any kind of rest and recovery except for actual sleep, which was considered a duty. “And classroom and drills tomorrow.”
Talonico had checked the list, and already put his uniform in the locker. The water repelling towel was on his shoulder. “We should shower before the line gets too long.”
“Aye, let’s get going then,” Greendown agreed, starting a flurry of action in the section.
Scrounging his rather messy locker, Wingerni kept chatting. “I’ve heard that we have Mustang advisors coming. That's why we have those classroom lessons.”
“Where did you hear that?” Hunt asked.
“When we were getting clean clothes, the guys at the warehouse talked. A few mustangs, or ponies, have been walking around the place in full Mustang uniform.”
Once again Bluecrest disagreed with the joyful griffon. “Why would we do that? Equestria already doesn’t like us.”
“Exactly! There are Mustangs who had to leave the country after Equestria won. And Celestia already doesn’t like us, so does it really matter if we let in some mustangs who are very good at war?”
“Mustangs lost” Hunt observed. “Can’t be that good.”
“They lasted six years.”
The throng made its way to the showers.
Talonico had seen Greendown give him a look, and lingered behind to hear what the gray faced griffon had to say.
Greendown waited for the room to be completely empty before opening his beak. “Feeling alright?”
“Yes, why?” The answer came quickly, and only after he had said it Talonico wondered if it was true. He had had some trouble sleeping. Apparently Greendown had also noticed the same.
“You’ve been quiet, and I can see you haven’t rested enough. It started after Milan was shot.”
“Not beating around the bush. I… what even happened there? We were ready to make our last stand, but then you came and got us to safety.”
“When the order to fall back came, the runner went past you, thinking I was the full machine gun section, and I didn’t realize that you didn’t know. I only realized at the rally point that you were missing.”
“I understand, that happens. But, when we were waiting, I thought I would die. And… I was fine with that. I didn’t want the others to die, but me? I was ready to go, and I don’t know why. I’m not brave enough to be a willing martyr.” It was the truth, but Talonico left out how welcoming death had seemed at the moment.
“Anyone might become braver when they know they are going to die. You wouldn’t be the first.”
“Maybe it was just that. I hope it was, at least. But whatever that was, it was gone when Milan was hit. I know it’s war and there was nothing I could do, but I AM still responsible for my squad.”
“I understand. It’s difficult to order your griffons to their death, and well, we’ve been lucky so far. Only two wounded for the whole war, so we haven’t gotten used to our griffs being hurt. And I think - think - that we’ve grown too close to them, way closer than a leader should.”
Talonico nodded. “I remember when the war started, we dropped the formalities quickly. But I can’t exactly build a new wall in front of them, nor do I want to.”
“I know, and I could order you to do that. But we know what happens to stupid orders. What I mean is that, we must be ready for when our luck eventually runs out. It’ll hit everyone, but we must be the ones that hold things together.”
Greendown hadn’t exactly silenced the voice of guilt inside Talonico, but he still accepted the older griffon’s advice. He would just have to focus on his duty to others, and to do his best to suppress the guilt with action.
“Thank you,” He finally said.
“Anytime. Now come on, I’m going to shower now, not tomorrow.”
Three thousand soldiers marched in lockstep to the frozen parade ground, a large clearing cut into the woods outside the barracks. Cool air nipped at their feathers, and the sunlight did little to warm them. Here and there ground frozen during the night crunched under the steps.
Captain Telesca led the Second Company after the First in a wide circuit around the chosen field. Each platoon was arrayed in a column of four abreast and led by their platoon leaders.
Seeing the first company stop, Telesca called out a halt, and stepped out of formation. At the commands of lieutenants, the soldiers turned left, columns changing into lines.
“Second company! A-tten-HUT!” Canales cried out, her voice cutting through the cold air, announcing her presence without effort. Two hundred and forty soldiers snapped into attention, their steps echoing as one. “Dress riiight DRESS!”
The platoons shuffled in alignment with the first company, and Telesca saw the third company follow their example. Company by company, battalion by battalion, the regiment formed into a large open square. The troops waited in silence at parade rest with their rifles hanging by their sides, until a lieutenant colonel, marked with two silver stars on a swallow-tailed rank tab, stepped on a platform facing the inside of the formation.
“I hereby take command of the parade formation. Atteeeen-hut!”
The senior officer watched with satisfaction as three thousand soldiers snapped into attention, the stomp of their paws echoing across the clearing.
“Present, arms!” As one the griffons slung out their rifles, slamming their butts into the ground in front of them. Officers drew their thin, silver sabres that gleamed in the cold air, raising them in a salute in front of their faces.
Seeing that they were ready, the officer pointed to his left, and cried out. “Presenting the regiment’s commander. Eyes, right!”
Every head turned to where he pointed, and officers slashed down their blades. The younger officer passed the command to the Colonel, and the inspection began.
A marching band began beating a tune, the parade song assigned to the regiment by Great Grover himself, the staccato snare drums joined by trumpets as Colonel Valderas stepped in front of the regiment’s colors, a golden musket and a lance crossed on a white field with black rays reaching out, and saluted them. Lowering her claw with reverent slowness, the Colonel began her tour.
She was an average sized, graying griffon, visibly worn by both her age and unforgiving duties. Her dress uniform was clean and well fitting, clawmade by a tailor as opposed to the mass-produced equipment of lower ranks. A cloak, a darker shade of green than her uniform, fastened with a silver string hung from her shoulders. Its folded collar displayed the crossed rifles of infantry, and the light cloth covered her entire back, reaching down to her withers where wind had pushed it slightly to the side. The officer’s striped wings were folded against her sides, the cloak having been designed with room for them. The ensemble was finished by a tall peaked cap with a leather visor, a silver cord at the front and a round yellow and orange cockade on the cap’s distinct crown.
Telesca followed the griffoness’ movement, keeping her head high. Their eyes met briefly, and recognition flashed in the older officer’s eyes. The Captain supposed that she would recognize one of the remaining half of captains. The other half were either wounded or dead.
Finally, with her tour completed, the Colonel stepped on the same platform her second in command had used. At her command the rifles were lowered, and tucked in their place, while officers rested their swords against their shoulders.
“My children,” Valderas spoke, her voice echoing through the clearing. “I once again see you together, after almost four months of war. War against our fellow griffons, a thought that horrifies us. But it is a horror you have endured, boldened by the righteousness of our cause.”
Colonel Valderas paused for a breath, letting her eyes rove through the ranks.
“You began this war by liberating a slaughterhouse, bringing life to those the griffons of the north would have slaughtered. And you fought on, driving the enemy back again and again, always proud in victory.”
When the Colonel had inspected the regiment, every soldier had followed her movements. And Telesca had seen the toll of those victories. Even now, the regiment was missing a fifth of its strength, companies thinned out and entire platoons missing. Over seven hundred griffons who were no longer with them, even more accounting for the reinforcements that had taken over for the missing soldiers of the original regiment. Opposite Telesca, the third battalion was now led by a captain, and all three of its companies by lieutenants. Officers had faced the fighting the same as anyone else.
Unaware of her grim thoughts, the Colonel continued. “And just as you are noble in victory, are you unwavering in defeat. No setback can douse the righteous flame, your desire to see the war through to a final victory.”
That was a lie, but one the troops needed to hear. Telesca had spied discontent in her ranks, and while a retreating army was never happy, she would have to make sure it did not become a serious problem.
“But for now, we will rest. And we will train, to ensure that when the next challenge comes, when we are once more called to face the Paramilitary, we will be victorious. Our friends from Mustangia have come to aid us, bringing with them years of valuable skills and experience. Our just cause is recognized beyond our borders, and we will not face the enemy alone. Three huzzahs for the Republican Army!”
She raised her fist in the air, and with each shake of her fist called out another shout.
“Huzzah!” Cried three thousand griffons.
Again the Colonel struck the air.
“Huzzah!” Replied the soldiers.
By the third “huzzah”, Telesca again believed in victory.
October
Amanda pulled the scarf tighter around her neck as headed for the mailbox. Although the hatchlings thought her hide kept her warm, even a cow like amanda had her limits. Besides, just because she could do something did not mean she wanted to, and the scarf was comfortable.
It was the last Sunday of October, and Amanda and Miss Stela had the day for themselves. In practice that meant cleaning the school and their rooms, and preparing for the next day’s lessons. As she passed the shed of firewood, Amanda realized how empty it was. They’d need to chop more wood later.
Upon reaching the white, iron mailbox, Amanda opened it with her mouth and pulled out a neatly rolled newspaper, and a number of letters. As she pulled them all out, Amanda noticed that one of them was addressed to her. Curious, the cow opened the letter and scanned its first lines.
“To Amanda From Igino Talonico and the squad”
Eyes widening, Amanda ran back to their house.
Miss Stela, busy with cooking, looked up as Amanda barged through the door, holding an unfolded letter in her mouth. The cow dropped the letter on the table, and blurted out in excitement. “The reply came!”
“What?” Stela answered, a little unsure of what her ward meant.
“I sent the letter, and the reply came!”
Perking up in excitement, the yellow griffoness left her knife and vegetables on the counter, taking her place next to Amanda, wrapping her in a one-winged hug.
“This is amazing! Oh dear, I’ll give you some space to read it. Just call when you are ready.”
“No!” Amanda interrupted. “No, please. I won’t mind if you stay, and I may need some help with this.”
Miss Stela nodded, and waited for Amanda to begin. The letter was written with neat claw-writing, but here and there were signs of the writer being suddenly disrupted.
“To Amanda From Igino Talonico and the squad
Although I write this letter, I speak for us all when I say that I am happy to hear that you are safe and happy. And we are all honored that you have gone through the effort of writing to us.
Your letter left me with the impression that you are not only safe, but doing well for yourself. It is more than any of us dared hope when we first found you. You went from that to helping a teacher, so clearly nothing can hold you back. I have never heard of Millbrook before, but it seems to be close to Gryphus, so you could not have found a better place. Wingerni (the brown one, if you can remember) demands a correction: Griffonstone is better.
Unfortunately I cannot say much about where we are, as I do not want the censorship office breathing down my neck. But I can say that we are all safe now, being trained for more action. Unfortunately Milan (the one who looks like a hawk) was wounded a short while back, and cannot send her good-luck wishes with us. I have taken the liberty of sending your original letter to her as well, as I am certain her excitement will be greater than our boundless joy combined.
I am aware that my response is unfortunately short, but should you ever wish to write to us again, send the letter to the following address:
Igino Talonico, 19th Regiment, 2nd Company“
Amanda looked at the letter in front of her, processing its contents. She had not been certain that her letter would ever reach its intended target, or that the griffons would answer, but now their reply lay on the table in front of her. She couldn’t connect the names to the individuals, and their looks were a hazy memory, but the impression of the five lived strong in her mind. And one of them had been injured. She was aware that it could happen in war, and had seen scores of wounded griffons when she had been examined in a field hospital after gaining her freedom, but somehow these five had been above that in her mind.
“Amanda,” Miss Stela’s voice snapped her out of her musings. “Are you all right?”
Amanda realized she had been tearing up. Wiping her tears to her hoof, she nodded. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. I’ll think of something to write back later. Oh, this also came.”
With that, Amanda handed Stela another letter, written by the same claw as the previous one, and addressed to “Miss Stela”. The teacher smiled at the last detail.
“I think that one is just for you,” Amanda said. “So, do you need my help with anything?”
“Oh, yes! I think you saw our firewood situation. Could you get the saddlebags and get some logs from Sharpclaw?”
“Sure thing.”
Sharpclaw owned the largest sawmill in Millbrook, and supposedly the village had been named after it. The cow quickly threw on a warm, thick shawl and took the saddlebags with her. Stela watched her go, before opening the message meant for her.
“Miss Stela,” it began.
“This is my personal letter to you.
I cannot thank you enough for helping Amanda. I don’t know how much Amanda told you about her life before the war, and it is not my place to tell the few details I know, but as she lived with northern griffons, it was far from nice. If it was anything like the norm, it could barely be called a life.
Finding her reminded me of the good we do when completing our duty, but that is not always enough. I believe in Bovine liberation, I would not be here otherwise, but as time went on I believed less and less in griffons.
That you have taken Amanda under your wing, out of your free will, is a reminder that good griffons exist. At times that is difficult to see, when all we face is evil, that others can do good.
Thank you.
Igino Talonico”
Stela smiled softly at the text. She had never thought of her actions that way, but the words on the paper warmed her heart. Rescued bovines had simply needed a home, and she had opened her doors. But maybe the soldier was right, and that was all the more reason to keep doing the same.
As she approached the village center, Amanda noticed the distant cloud of white smoke billowing from an approaching train, the smoke bleeding into the sky full of gray, patchy clouds. Her eyes followed the tracks, and she saw a crowd gathered at the train station. Picking up the pace, the cow changed her course.
The train was faster, and Amanda reached the station a few minutes after it had come to a halt. The stone platform was filled to the brim with griffons, but Amanda found a bench to stand on, managing to just raise her head above the crowd.
Griffons dressed in warm coats were piling out of the train carts, each of them marked with an orange band on their right sleeve and carrying a rifle. They were in an animated discussion with the closest griffons around them.
“What’s going on?” Amanda asked a nearby elderly griffon.
He looked up at her. “Our hatchlings are coming home.”
The Millbrook militia company had spent two weeks at the front near the capital, and now a different unit had taken their place. As the varied group of griffons cut their way through the crowd, embracing their loved ones, one among their numbers spotted Amanda and made for her.
“Hey, you’re the one living at the school, right?”
“Yes? Why?”
The griffon shuffled with discomfort. “We were supposed to pick up some bovines smuggled across the frontline, but they never showed up. Saw you and thought they might’ve come with someone else.”
“Oh,” Amanda muttered and shook her head. “No, I haven’t seen any.”
“Aye, unfortunate.” The griffon appeared uncertain what to say, and proceeded to simply nod and leave. Amanda watched him disappear into the crowd, and hoped that the bovines meant to come with them were safe.
October
For the Second Company the day after the parade began with a session in the battalion’s classroom. Located on the first floor of a two story building, the classroom could fit an entire company, if only barely.
First the rank-and-file piled in, followed by NCOs and finally the officers. Windows were opened in spite of the cool weather to let at least some fresh air in by some corporal. Normally they would have done it as they piled against the back wall, but this time there were too many empty seats. The griffons were given a few moments for an animated conversation, when Lieutenant Silverbeak’s voice interrupted them.
“Classroom! Up!”
Every griffon leapt from their seats, facing the gray officer standing next to the doorway. Silverbeak stepped to the side, allowing a pony to enter the room.
Most were able to hide their gasps, but they were all curious at the sight, seeing a pony for the first time.
Much shorter than a griffon, the mare, from her rounder features Talonico guessed she was a mare, had a coat the color of rusting iron, and a yellow mane. She wore a blueish gray uniform, featureless except for the square, red collar patches and the white numbers on their upper edges.
“Presenting,” Silverbeak continued. “Teacher for the lesson, Captain Arc Weld. Captain, I give the class to you, with the strength of two hundred and forty-five enlisted, and four officers.”
“Thank you,” the pony answered, her voice rough and smokey. After Silverbeak left, she turned to face the class. “Sit down.”
Chairs squeaked as the griffons took their seats.
“Up!”
The griffons bounced up.
“Sit down. Up!”
After the last command the pony jumped on the table in front of one private, slowly strolling from one table to the next, surveying the classroom and all the confused griffons. As she moved, the griffons shuffled awkwardly to keep her in front of them. Talonico spotted a diamond shaped, slightly off-white stripe on the pony’s muzzle, and realized that she was a mustang.
“Good, you’re all awake,” the Captain remarked, and jumped down. “Sit down, at ease,” her commands flowed lazily together as she took her place at the front of the class. She spoke fluent but heavily accented Griffish.
“First, introductions. I am captain Arc Weld. Served in the Trade Union forces against Equestria from oh-nine until this spring. Started as a platoon leader, then led a trench raider company. Now I’m here to teach you about more modern infantry tactics.”
The impromptu workout had shaken everyone from the shock of seeing a live mustang, and everyone listened to the captain’s words intently, watching as she drew something on the black chalkboard behind her.
“Now, we’ll start with the basics, some of which might sound familiar. We’ve both learned through trial and error, but the goal is to skip that and get you to the finish line.” Arc Weld’s lecture continued, interrupted once in a while when she paused to receive questions.
They continued for hours, going through everything from half-squad fire and maneuver, to simple platoon drills. The officers and NCOs kept writing down notes, as did most of the enlisted, filling the room with the scratching of pen on paper. Looking at the simple drawings on the chalkboard, Talonico suddenly realized that although the mustang had called them simple, they involved far more moving parts than anything they had done before. The platoons were being broken from a single block to four squads more nimble than what had existed before. From now on it wouldn’t be enough for a platoon to advance as a wave, and every squad had to know their objective.
However, Talonico noticed that his section’s role was not mentioned. It seemed Greendown had also noticed it, because when the time came for the last round of questions, he raised his fist.
“Sergeant.”
Greendown was about to stand up, but the mustang waved him down. Remaining seated he asked: “Ma’am, what’s the light machine guns’ role in this?”
“Ah, very good. The same principles apply to your section, just scaled down. However, until the Army gets more heavy weapons, your role in the company will stay about the same. You’ll see tomorrow with your Sister Livi.”
The casual address for captain Telesca resulted in a wave of choking laughter. Everyone called her either that, or Grandma Liviana, but never when the captain could hear. Although she was an officer, Arc Weld was clearly not too interested in protocol.
“But for the afternoon,” Arc Weld continued as though nothing had happened, checking the clock. “Go eat lunch, and get to the parade ground at one PM, full combat gear, we’ll put theory to practice there. Class dismissed.”
As they filed out, Bluecrest spoke up. “Sergeant, Corp, think she’s onto something?”
“I don’t know,” Greendown answered. “She’s more experienced than us, so she should know what she’s talking about.” Talonico nodded in agreement.
“Maybe we don’t understand her because she’s ten steps ahead,” Wingerni laughed. “And we’re the ones lagging behind.”
Following their lunch the company made its way to the parade ground and got to drilling. As he watched the maneuvers made by platoons and squads, Talonico started to understand what the mustang had meant. Internally he was looking at the situation from a machine gunner’s perspective, and realized that spotting a few second dash, and then firing a burst in time would be difficult. And all the time the leapfrog movement of the half-squads brought the entire platoon closer and closer to their target.
Still, all did not go right, and Arc Weld had to frequently call for the griffons to keep enough distance between each other. But the drills, from leapfrogging to a flanking attack by two squads, were all simple and easy to understand. By the end of the day every squad and platoon could make a passing attempt at any of the drills.
Captain Telesca had also joined to watch, and was in an animated discussion with Arc Weld about something, stopping when the LMG section ran the third drill. After they had crossed the parade ground she nodded approvingly. It might have warmed Talonico inside had his muscles not already been burning.
“Well, think you can do these tomorrow?” Captain Telesca asked, as the section passed the pair of officers.
“Yes ma’am!” Answered Greendown automatically.
“Excellent. You won’t be doing that though. We have something special planned for you.”
October
Engine rumbling, the armored car made its way out of the depot built into the barn of an abandoned farmstead. A peculiar design with no roof and a trio of machine guns, the car’s armored hull carried four griffons within itself. All wore simple but warm civilian clothes, but were clearly not civilians. All had steel helmets and were marked by red armbands sewn to their sleeves. On each armband was written G:us V.A
Gryphus, Fifth, Automobile company.
The Fifth Regiment was composed of equalist militias formed in the factories of Gryphus at the outbreak of the Civil War, and the automobile company was one of the largest concentrations of armored cars in the kingdom, patrolling the areas around the city in an eccentric mix of vehicles.
Leaning over the side the vehicle commander, a middle-aged griff named Jorge, watched the safety of the depot and friendly guards disappear as the lone vehicle traveled down one of the few paved roads in the kingdom. Here any griffon would run into hard ground after digging only a few inches. Jorge had heard it was caused by erosion from before when the mighty Grafburn River had been redirected.
He didn’t know much about that, but he knew it meant that no trenches could be dug in the area, and therefore it had to be constantly patrolled.
“Hey, some griffons ahead,” said the gunner to Jorge’s left, peering over her gun’s large, square shield.
Jorge turned to look and saw the orderly ranks of a dozen griffons marching in the same direction as them. All had peaked caps with massive crowns. Jorge clicked his beak in amusement. Monarchists.
As they drove past the group, he could see their spotless uniforms, and the smooth feathers on their faces that twisted into disgusted or condescending grimaces as they saw him.
“Enjoying the walk lads!?” He yelled.
“If it gets us away from you,” answered some sergeant.
“Yeah, because you can’t drive anymore! You have to walk like the rest of us mortals. So fuck youuuu!”
His final shout was stretched out as the car suddenly picked up speed. A combination of a downward slope and the driver’s lead paw placed some distance between the monarchists and equalists.
Jorge broke into a laugh. He didn’t hate the monarchists, not really. He just found them useless, idiotic, and downright ridiculous. But he did not hate them as long as they were not in the same room with him. Calming down, he resumed watch.
The surface of Grafburn glimmered with the cold light of the setting Sun peeking through the cloud cover.
October
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.
October
Captain Telesca had promised something special for Greendown’s section. The following day, as the rifle platoons were sent to practice their drills in the woods, every LMG section in the battalion was called to the yard in front of the first company’s barracks, and the sight there was certainly special.
“It’s a fucking contraption,” Wingerni muttered. Even Talone, who had been quiet the past few days, had to agree: “It’s a gods damned device.”
In front of the six squads was a light machine gun, bearing a telescopic sight and mounted on a tripod. With barely a single scratch in the paint, all had likely left the factories only recently.
The sergeant standing in front of them was from the technical corps, judging by the cogwheel insignia on the cuffs of her ironed uniform. She began her explanation on the ultimately rather simple device, really just a heavy machine gun tripod modified to accept a light machine gun. They had become common in the Gryphus front, where static frontlines and long ranges made them practical and arguably a necessity. But every griffon also thought of what the tripod that weighed more than its weapon would do the moment they had to move.
Following her instructions, they spent the morning familiarizing themselves with the attachments, until they could assemble or disassemble the sets without the sergeant’s input, knew how to carry them on march or in advance, and understood the principles of the tripod’s controls. Once satisfied with their performance, the sergeant started an exercise that Talonico had seen the heavy machine guns do time and time again, always resulting in a pang of pity.
Pick up the pieces, run around the barracks, and set up the weapon again. A combination of physical and technical training. With every round trip around the barracks they moved a little slower, but also set the weapon up a little faster.
During the ninth round Talonico’s ears picked up a metallic clanking noise. Bluecrest, who was carrying the tripod, also noticed it. “Corp… I’m clicking.”
The sound came with every strained step the brown griffon took, indicating something was wrong with the device. Wingerni, a few steps behind Bluecrest, came to a different conclusion. Even through his panting he managed a joke. “It's just your balls. Pure steel!”
They rounded the final corner. Bluecrest set the tripod down, and Talonico noticed one of the controls had gotten loose. He tightened its screw, and when they next set off the tripod made no extra sounds. “Corp,” Bluecrest said, looking concerned. “I think you stole my balls.”
They managed to repeat the exercise five times before the sergeant finally called them off. By then they were all walking dead.
When the rest of the company returned from the day’s training, they found the machine gun section lounging in their barracks room. Canales was the first to make the discovery, but her quip about them having lazed the whole day resulted in only a few disinterested grunts. Now curious, the black griffoness made her way to Talonico, who was seated at a small wooden desk, going through a pair of papers with a pen in claw.
“What’s this?” Canales asked, stepping deeper into the room. Wordlessly, Talonico passed her the paper. It was the second squad’s equipment list, seemingly having just come through the typewriter. Canales’ brown eyes scanned through the lines of text, looking for whatever oddity had caused their exhaustion. Finally she found it, and after a second of disbelieving silence snorted in amusement.
“I’m sorry, but that’s kind of funny.”
“Funny?” Greendown growled from his bed where he was reading the tripod’s manual. “We’re a light machine gun. Someone clearly forgot what light means.”
Talonico agreed. He raised his claw to emphasize his point, a single claw raised. No words left his beak however, as the various complaints that he normally wouldn’t voice competed to make themselves heard. Finally he managed to speak. “Ten kilograms. The tripod weighs ten kilograms.
“That’s the fun part. Also that it’s no longer my misery. By the way, where is Talone?”
“She’s out for a walk,” Wingerni said, not raising his head from his pillow.
Talone was on a prowl for additional dry rations, as well as any other non-perishable food. At the barracks again, they were much better fed than in the field, but stocking up was only smart. The griffoness was wrapped tight in her greatcoat as she made their way to the buildings behind the canteen. The duty officer had asked no further questions as she left the barracks, only reminding her to stay within the fence.
Talone did her important task alone. She didn’t dare to admit it, but she missed Milan’s company. The younger griffon was innocent, but in a way Talone found endearing. Milan could be corrupted to bad habits, and she was by no means naive, which would have frustrated Talone to no end. In addition she was good company that at times thought along the same lines as Talone.
Talone was pulled from her thoughts as she suddenly had to dodge a large maple tree. Late in the autumn, it got dark early, and she had some trouble seeing her path. And as she stumbled closer to her destination, it was the same darkness that hid the passing captain’s rank insignia.
“Halt! Why didn’t you salute? This is a disgrace!”
Talone swore under her breath. The only thing she could see was the officer’s vague outline. Before she could answer, the captain continued.
“And where are you going? You have no business here.”
“Out for a walk, ma’am.”
“Is that why you have a mess tin with you? Are you some greedy asshole not content with having enough?”
Talone’s heart pounded. She had to seal her beak tightly as she tried to think of a way out. And as if answering her unspoken prayers, the captain provided her with one.
“I have errands to run, but you will stay put. The moment I come back, you are in trouble.” She stalked past them, before suddenly stopping. “And what is your name and unit?”
“Private Perez,” Talone lied without a second thought. “Machine gun company.”
The officer marched away. The second she was out of sight, Talone spun about and ran for it. She instantly melted into the black night as she bolted through the wooded areas criss-crossing the garrison. Approaching the Second company, she saw nobody outside, but decided to slow down just in case. It wouldn’t be good to raise suspicions if anyone saw her.
The duty officer hid the magazine he had been reading as he heard the door open, and gave the striped griffoness a curious look at her early return. Talone offered no explanation as she walked to her room, almost colliding with Second Lieutenant Canales.
“Back so soon?”
“Not the weather for walks, ma’am.”
The light machine gun sections spent a few more days familiarizing themselves with their new equipment, putting theory to practice. After that they returned to their parent units, which had started training company sized maneuvers. Not a single day was easy, and the troops always returned to the barracks tired. Months worth of training was condensed to two weeks. Most would then go on to enjoy a week of leave.
When he and Greendown talked about the subject, Talonico mentioned that he would not be going. Leave days were accumulated by days of service, and additional ones with time at the frontline, and due to his stint at the hospital Talonico would not have enough days for a meaningful leave.
“One day to get home, one day there, and one day to get back. I’d just feel worse than if I didn’t go.” Instead the corporal would stay behind with a skeleton crew, ensuring that everything would be ready when the time to return to the front came.
The little time that was not spent training was either used for a few extra hours of sleep, card games, or writing letters. Talonico had begun penning one to his parents, but a second one was still in the works. Silvestro was expecting a letter, had been since Talonico had returned from the hospital, but he was not certain how to describe the days at the frontline to him. He had allowed Sergeant Carranza to pull him from that project the few times Carranza had managed to pull a sizable chunk of the unit for a few rounds of hoofball.
On the second to last day of training the entire company was called for a live-fire exercise. Judging by the distant pops of rifle fire muffled by the woods, a different company was running the same exercise already when the Second was marching down a dirt road to the exercise area. The regular firing range was empty aside from a few officers firing their pistols at targets fifty meters away.
Passing by a sentry the company marched to a grassy knoll, forming a semi-circle in front of Captain Telesca.
The company would attack a trenchline, advancing up a gentle slope covered with grass that reached up to the withers. Under the watch of Major Thunderclaw, Captain Telesca explained their plan, illustrating it with a sand table made of sticks, stones and pinecones. The light machine guns, along with two rifle platoons would provide covering fire for the attack group sneaking closer through a large copse of trees. From there the second wave would move in and help overrun the trench.
Canales noticed that in principle it was similar to some of their previous battles, but now there was much more emphasis on a stealthy approach.
At first the company ran the exercise without ammunition, going through the motions to make sure that everything would go smoothly with the real thing. Move here, fire there, toss a grenade. Everyone knew what they would do. When they returned to get their ammo, one private remarked that the enemy would not let them have a test run. He was promptly told by Arc Weld, who had manifested seemingly from thin air, that they would train with replicas of known enemy positions whenever possible.
The ammunition was shared among the griffons, weapons were loaded, and the exercise began anew. Bullets smashed into steel plates and wood panels serving as targets. Griffons dashed from cover to cover, advancing towards the imaginary enemy.
“Lights! Get in the trench and secure the position!” Captain Telesca’s order carried through the cool air.
Talonico, who had sheltered behind a birch, rose from his cover and lifted his rifle as a signal. “Come on Second! Follow Greendown!”
Talone wrenched the weapon from its tripod, which Bluecrest picked up. The four rushed up the hill, following Greendown and his squad which was several steps ahead of them. They jumped into the trench which they had dug the previous day. It was simple and lacked any concealment, like one made by a fresh recruit.
“Nico! Cover right, friendly squad will overrun!”
Talonico passed the order along to his squad.The weapon was set up and started firing at distant targets. There was an intersection in the trench between the Sergeant and Corporal, and the two kept their weapons trained on it, ready to shoot any enemy that tried to poke their head around the corner.
From the left, moving quickly along the trench, came a rifle squad followed by Canales and Telesca. Greendown gave them room, and the squad prepared to assault around the corner. A griffon pulled a grenade from a cloth sack hanging from her webbing, unscrewed the capand yanked the pull cord. With a yell she tossed the explosive.
Time froze around Talonico as he watched the grenade hit a tree cut down to little more than a barkless husk by the years its home had been the firing range. The grenade bounced and flew in a graceless arc into the trench, landing at Talonico’s claws with smoke billowing from the lit fuse.
There was a flash and a bang and Talonico fell.
“NICO!”
Canales ran past her griffons, carelessly pushing them aside. Telesca was right behind her.
“Cease fire! Cease fire!” Canales screamed, and the order was repeated along the line. Finally she stopped in front of Talonico. Smoke rose from the white griffon’s uniform, and his face was stained more than when he used coal to reduce its shine.
“Ammmm…. Am I good?” Talonico mumbled, spitting burnt potato flour from his beak. The training grenade had a real fuse, but the head was rubber instead of iron, and the explosive filler was replaced with flour. Even then he was dazed, blinking rapidly as he tried to regain his bearings.
“Yeah, you’re good,” Canales gasped. She had known the grenade was not a real one, but the fear was still real. She could only imagine how Talonico felt. “Can you stand?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just got spooked.”
Canales wasn’t convinced. “Are you sure you’re fine?”
“Yes,” Talonico lied, and Canales rose, helping him get up. Talonico swatted some powder from his uniform, then leaned to the trench wall for support. Canales looked at him with concern in her yellow eyes, then turned to Carranza.
“Sergeant?”
“All yours ma’am.”
Canales nodded, then stalked down the trench towards the offending griff. The professional mask was swept away by an avalanche of anger.
“Watch where you throw those FUCKING GRENADES! You just killed our own mg and my friend! If you’re not sure, then don’t fucking throw!”
Nausea rocked Talonico as he listened to Canales’ rant. He raised his head to the Sun peeking through a sparse cloud cover. He could not stop his heart from racing.
November
The barracks were almost empty. The second company had gathered in the yard that morning, and been sent off for leave. As such, Talonico found himself a duty officer in charge of the dozen griffons that had stayed behind. Technically but in practice not counting the officers.
Talonico was seated at the wide desk, surrounded by papers and files, some of them related to work and others to anything the bored soldiers could think of. Drawings, both artistic and less so, covered every surface that did not bear bad poetry. An unofficially improved edit of the Soldier’s Guide, the finest manual in existence, was opened on the page depicting a circular firing squad of a machine gun company.
The corporal had spent a while chatting with the griffoness that would replace him in the evening, until he had announced to the remaining griffons that the company would be doing thumb twiddling until four in the afternoon. The griffoness had announced that she would spend the time sleeping, and thirty seconds after that Talonico could hear her snoring.
After that Talonico found himself guarding an empty hallway with one eye, while the other was focused on an old novella passed around in the barracks. A few hours into the story he suddenly heard a door open, and snapped the book close. Captain Telesca marched in. Talonico immediately stood at attention, the bored look disappearing from his white face.
“Good…” Talonico glanced at the clock. “Noon, ma’am.”
“Good noon, Corporal,” the stout officer greeted back. “Well Nico, how has your day been? Anything to report?”
“It’s been boring, ma’am. Nothing has happened since the company left.”
“Good. Pass me yesterday’s report.”
Talonico scrambled to obey. Captain Telesca scanned the paper, before grunting. “There was a little altercation with an officer from the headquarters company, and a private from our battalion. Some griffoness was trying to sneak into the kitchen.”
Talonico kept his face expressionless.
“Ran off before she could be punished, so now we are checking who was out at the time. Do you have any idea who the culprit could be?”
“None, ma’am.”
“That is unfortunate,” Telesca said absentmindedly, before returning the report. “Well, there are a number of names here, and she could be any one of them. Let me know if you find out who did it.”
From the look in Telesca’s eyes Talonico knew she knew exactly who to yell at. She was simply giving him a chance to deal with the matter himself. Talone’s scrounging trips would have to end.
“Yes ma’am.”
“Good, carry on. And let me know when the next issue of Old Republican comes.”
“Your good Captain seems to follow politics,” said another voice at the doorway. Captain Arc Weld trotted in, removing her cap as she came. Her steel gray greatcoat hung unbuttoned.
“It is the Republican Army,” Captain Telesca answered.
“Clearly not just a name. Mind if I borrow some of your Corporal’s time?”
“Go right ahead.”
Telesca left, and Arc Weld turned to Talonico, who was still standing at attention. “Oh come on Corporal, at ease.”
Talonico stepped into parade rest. Arc Weld stared at him. The griffon did not budge. “Relax.”
Talonico had predicted she would say that, but he still needed the order before being able to act normal around an officer, as much as he could with anyone that wasn’t Canales. He rolled his neck and took a few steps that felt amazing after sitting in one place for so long.
“Yes ma’am. So, you wanted to ask me something?”
“Oh yes. After coming to the Griffon Kingdom… well, in practice I was always AGS’s guest, I’ve spent a lot of time with officers. But only ever them, and I see they are mostly way richer than you and me. I want to know what the rank and file is like. At least in this battalion.”
“Well, um, ask away.”
“Why do you fight? During the Great War I fought to see an independent Mustangia, where foals would not have to work so their families would not starve.”
Talonico looked up. Why did he fight. He of course followed orders, but he was not just a machine. What would peace look like if he could have his way?
“Well, seeing the Feast Party gone is a good start. And like capt- Mama Livi said: Republican Army. The King fled when the war started, and we’ll manage without him.”
The mustang nodded approvingly. “Democracy sounds fine, doesn’t it?”
“No King to say that shooting civilians is fine, some kind of constitution to say everyone has rights… I like the sound of that.”
“And do you have any vision of what you’d do with that democracy?” Arc Weld asked, sounding genuinely interested.
“Vote for someone that can fix things,” Talonico said, only half joking. He shuffled the items on the desk around, settling into a more comfortable position. “The problem is that there’s only the Republican Movement. Had to pool resources before the war, and now they need to keep a united front.”
“It was like that during the Great War. Equalists and Unionists did their own thing, but everypony else was ‘Anti-Monarchist’. It wouldn’t have lasted after the war even if we’d won. I guess it is the same here.”
Talonico laughed. “Rich, poor, urban and rural, religious and secular, liberal and conservative. That’s… sixteen parties right there. But we’ll fly across that ravine when it comes.”
“Indeed Corporal. I believe you cheaped out when you said you want someone to fix things, but I’ll let it pass. I do like it when soldiers think instead of blindly obeying.”
The Mustang left, seemingly satisfied with the results of her interrogation. She was correct in that Talonico had cheaped out, giving a quick answer before he had been able to think. It wasn’t exactly a common thing for an officer to ask. What in Tartarus did he even mean with fixing things?
Pain flashed across Talonico’s wrist. He looked down at the claw bloodied by the bullet of a pistol. The griffon’s red eyes traveled up the sleeve, covered in bandages. Talonico blinked and the pain and blood were gone. His gaze rested on the rank insignia of his dress uniform. The two chevrons glimmered gold like the Feast Party’s butcher’s knife.
That was the answer, or at least the start of one. The Great Famine had killed griffons by
The knife had to be pulled from the wound. Maybe then he’d no longer feel shame for being a griffon.
November
Bluecrest held Andrei in his claws, gently rocking the hatchling to sleep. His mother was already in bed, getting some sleep after a long day. Tartarus, it had been one long day after another for her ever since Bluecrest had left, with nobody to share the burden of life and of raising the hatchling.
He sat on the wood-framed, red and yellow couch standing right behind the door to the small room he and his wife lived in. It was cramped, hot during summer and cold during winter, but it was their home, and now they had brought new life to it.
Suddenly Andrei cried out, his shriek splitting the room. The hatchling was hungry.
“I’ll take care of it,” Bluecrest said to his wife, who was stirring in their bed. During lunchtime they would regurgitate fresh food for the hatchling, but otherwise they had a bottle of baby food ready in a glass jar. Bluecrest scooped some with a wooden spoon. The moment he tasted the food, Andrei’s crying stopped instantly, replaced with happy coos. He cleaned the spoon, and then started gnawing at it with curiosity. Deciding the wood was not too tasty, the bundle of pale down was happy to receive a second spoonful.
Now full, Andrei drifted into a calm sleep. When Zina woke up in the morning, she found her husband sleeping on the couch, their hatchling sleeping firmly in his claws, his military greatcoat draped over them both, shielding the hatchling from the world.
November
Talone was already drunk as she entered the tiny room she had rented for the night. It was not much, with a bed, a nightstand and barely any room to stand. It was still leagues ahead of where she had spent most of her nights as a teen. The orphanage had not intentionally neglected her, but they had simply been overwhelmed by the Great Famine.
The griffoness had shoved her uniform into her backpack, which was ready to go at a moment’s notice. There was no need for that, nobody would shake her up during the night to drive her away, but old habits were hard to shake off. Talone dropped off her cheap civilian clothes and rolled on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
She had taken the train heading to Griffonstone, and jumped off at a small town of a few thousand griffons. Large enough that she could simply fade into the crowd and spend the week of leave drinking, eating and fucking before heading back to the one place she could consider home.
Talone did not fall asleep. Her eyes traced the little contours and imperfections in the ceiling. It was odd to be alone again.
November
Canales felt weird wearing something other than a uniform. It was not that she did not like her dress, she had picked it specifically because it suited her, but after having her neck chafed by the uniform’s coarse wool for years the soft cotton felt almost unnatural.
“Are you ready?” Asked her brother from the other side of the white door.
“Just a second. How the FUCK does this go on?”
“Miss, there is no need for such language,” a purple griffoness about Canales’ age chastised her. More experienced with fancy dress, she adjusted Canales’ corset, before frowning. According to the acceptable middle class trends, a corset should be used to help a griffoness achieve a lithe, predatory look. Canales had lost all her baby fat in the army, and then enough weight during the months at war that a doctor might have given her a concerned look.
The purple griffoness was one of the two maids in her father’s employment. A well paid senior bureaucrat, he owned a large apartment near the center of Filmont, a medium sized port town. The building was not quite a manor, no matter what the old bird said. Still, it was more than large enough for the family, and almost oppressively empty for Canales after sharing barracks with her platoon.
Canales was forcefully yanked from her musings as the maid pulled the corset far tighter than it had been meant to go, so that it would not hang off her barrel.
“Your blouse, miss,” she said as though Canales had not just let loose with a barrage of curses.
With the maid’s assistance, Canales put on a pink blouse with puffed sleeves and a white collar, followed by a long, broad hemmed skirt that almost reached the floor. While skirts were usually black, that would have been too similar to her coat’s color, and instead she had gone with a dark red design. A white, fur-lined coat and a black faux-leather bag finished the ensemble.
Canales thanked the maid, and grabbed the door handle to open it. She paused.
When Canales had sent the telegram informing her family of her leave, her father had organized a surprise celebration. When Canales had stepped through the front door, she had immediately been told that they would be going to a nearby restaurant. Technically she was expected to keep her dress uniform on for that, but that had felt wrong, just as wearing civilian clothes felt weird. Nothing at home seemed right, and she could tell that was exactly because everything was as it should be. The battlelines were something told of in the newspapers, where actions were described on one page, heroic soldiers on the second, and where the local dead had a single column for themselves.
Still, she could not keep her parents waiting. Canales took a calming breath, and opened the door. Yolanda stepped through to the corridor beyond, and greeted her brother. Their feathers were the same black streaked with hints of gray, but Yago’s throat and chest were of an orange color inherited from their mother.
“Hi,” he said, chuckling at something. Yolanda tilted her head quizzically.
“Mother happened to walk past just as you… said what you said.” Raised prim and proper, Yago was not about to repeat his sister’s words.
“Whoops,” Yolanda conceded, not sounding too apologetic. If she did not want a swearing child, Mother would not have allowed her to go to the army. Still, there might be some awkward glances during the evening.
“Downstairs?” The black griffoness asked instead.
“Yes. Father and Mother should be there soon.”
As they descended the narrow staircase, Yolanda noticed Yago opening and closing his beak several times, as though he was building up the courage to ask about something. She did not have to guess what it was about.
“You want to ask about the war.”
“You don’t want to talk about it.”
“It’s not like I have anything else to talk about.”
“Well, what is it like?”
“Everything’s shit, except for piss. It’s dirty, boring, and sometimes someone dies. Then other times it’s exciting and more people die.”
“Father’s greatest concern is that the war has increased the price of Prench wine. There is some rationing, but restaurants are exempt for now.”
“Of course they are,” Yolanda sighed. She did not buy into the idea that the army made griffons equal. Most of the officers were educated middle- and upper class griffons, and at the end of the day there would always be a rift between the ranks, even if it was bridged in some cases. Field officers could at least see the flesh and blood of supposedly lower griffs. She doubted her father could do that, or even cared to.
Yolanda was about to voice her opinion when her parents appeared at the top of the stairs. Her mother had her fanciest blue dress, while her father wore a three-piece suit. The coat’s long tails trailed after him.
“I’m surprised you’re wearing the dress,” he said. “I was expecting the uniform.”
“It would be a good look,” she admitted. Maybe more so for her father, who was proud to have a daughter carry on the military tradition of the family. For him the tradition had mostly meant bragging about his ancestors, so a daughter with an officer’s stars reflected well on him. “But I figured some change is good.”
They offered no further comments, instead joining their offspring in the atrium. They took their hats and stepped out into the cool evening. The occasional car drove up and down the streets, shaking on the surface of granite blocks. Fancily dressed griffons went about their business. It was clean and safe, two words that Yolanda had not used in ages.
The restaurant her father had picked was a short chariot drive away. Its facade was covered by colorless windows framed with flowing frame colored bronze, matching the greenish tint of the furniture inside. The quartet was guided to their room and handed the menus.
Yolanda made her order without much thought, picking the meal her claw happened to land on. Fish and something.
“So,” her father asked, with some humor in his voice as he twirled his mustache. “The war hero returns home. When will we see a second star on your collar?”
“When someone decides to give me one,” Yolanda answered, and took a sip of her drink, avoiding the comment about heroism. Her father did not allow that.
“According to the papers you destroyed a tank with a grenade, that should have gotten you something.”
Yolanda raised an eyebrow. She managed to make the delicate movement look aggressive. “The only tanks I’ve seen were on our side.”
“Well that’s what the papers say!”
Yolanda’s mother reached for her husband, calming his excitement. “I think there was a misunderstanding of some kind.”
“Well you surely destroyed something.”
“An armored car, but that was ages ago.”
Judging by her father’s face, he had no idea what the distinction was. Before he could ask more questions, Yolanda countered by asking what had happened at the home front. She listened with one ear to the barrage of rumors and workplace drama, smiling occasionally at the stories she understood.
The salads were brought in, but that barely paused the conversation, and neither did the main course. Here dining was an experience to be drawn out, and Yolanda fought against the instinct to gulp down the food as fast as she could.
“Also, Yolanda,” her father spoke. “I am meeting with a couple of former officers this week. I was hoping you could come with me, help me connect with them.”
“Well, I’ll see what I can do,” Yolanda gave a non-answer. Likely one of his father’s business ventures. “Just let me know what we are getting into.”
“Oh yes, just some associates I need to make a good impression on.”
Oh yes, business ventures, Yolanda thought.
The rest of the meal passed with meaningless talk, as Yolanda’s parents tried to probe her for details, and seemingly tried to connect with her. She returned the favor as well as she could, her training on manners resurfacing. But she could not shake the feeling that they were living in two different worlds. Still, she could feel her mother’s and brother’s love under their efforts, and even her father loved her in his own manner.
The family left the restaurant for the chariot waiting outside. As she was climbing into the chariot, Yolanda spotted a griffon looking out of place in the fancy neighborhood. She squinted her eyes. He seemed familiar.
“Excuse me for a moment,” she said to her parents, and before they could protest, the black griffoness was gone.
“Greendown!”
The griffon stopped, surprised to see Yolanda behind him. Greendown had also traded in his uniform for more comfortable clothing.
“Holy shit, lieutenant-” Greendown began, raising a claw for a salute. Yolanda interrupted him. “No, don’t salute me on leave. What are you up to?”
“There’s a bar nearby. Doctor’s Cellar, the best cheap place around. I’m not taking the long route to avoid the rich places.” Greendown answered, and watched as a small grin appeared on the corner of Canales’ gray beak.
“Mind if I join you, Sergeant? I feel like causing a scandal.”
November
Doctor’s Cellar was a dingy, low quality bar, and as such a griffoness in a fancy dress was a weird sight that instantly caught everyone’s attention. When Canales joined the half-drunken singing that vaguely followed the music coming from a record player, most griffs lost their interest. There were dozens of soldiers on leave in the bar, wearing their dress uniforms, and Canales’ nonexistent singing voice immediately revealed her as one of them.
The heavy smoke of tobacco filled the air, and both Canales and Greendown had contributed to it with a few smokes themselves. After the initial rounds of drinks and taking part in the drunken revelry going on around them the two had moved to a more secluded corner of the large room, from where they could mostly see the bar desk, and a small stage standing directly next to it.
“Say,” Canales chuckled, a slight alcohol-induced warmth on her cheeks. “Do you think we’ll see a dancer on that stage?”
“One in a leotard?” Greendown chuckled and chugged down a part of his beer. “Preferably shaking her flank at the audience?”
“Seems like that kind of place. And I wouldn’t mind if it was less than a leotard” Canales observed. She had been pleasantly surprised when she found the place had white wine in its stores, and even though it only had one variety, she was happy to get herself drunk off of it.
Greendown’s chuckle turned into a burst of laughter. “That would be Red Hare’s thing. Three blocks down the street.”
“So you have been there?” Canales teased.
“Yes,” Greendown answered bluntly. “Drinks are pretty bad, but the dancers are cute.”
The two griffons had not explicitly agreed to anything, but there was a mutual understanding that the discussion would not leave the table. As a former section leader and second in command they had learned to understand each other’s thoughts. And as the evening dragged on said thoughts and talk drifted back to the war.
“How’s it been like to be a platoon leader?” Greendown asked.
“Different,” Canales answered. She downed the rest of her wine, swaying slightly from drunkenness. “More difficult, but I’ve managed. It’s a lot less personal with more griffs to lead. I’ve had to give more responsibility to the squad leaders.”
“Including Tasca?”
The whine that left Canales’ beak belonged neither to an officer or a fine lady, but it perfectly described her sentiment regarding the dead weight in her platoon. The only plausible explanation for him was that there had been a lack of corporals, resulting in lowered standards and Tasca’s promotion by default after three years.
“Including him.”
November
Senior Corporal Elena Wingerni shivered in the crow’s nest, leaning against the guardrail. The light brown griffoness had raised the collar of her navy-blue pea coat to shield herself from the wind, and in place of the navy cap she had a warm wool hat. Her friend stood next her in the cramped nest, watching the starboard side of the ship. Cold wind blasted at the two, but it was something they just had to bear. Elena comforted herself with the knowledge that snow hadn’t yet started falling, so she was not dealing with the winter coldness just yet.
Almirante Griselda was an old protected cruiser, meaning it had only an armored turtleback deck deep inside the hull to protect its most important parts from enemy fire. The lack of protection came with the benefit of speed, and Griselda was incredibly fast for a ship of her size. Although Elena had heard of some Equestrian battlecruisers being almost as fast. The ship’s upper decks were covered with wood, which was still unbearably cold in the autumn sea. Behind the two griffons three chimneys belched black smoke into the clear night sky. It was a moonless night, which made spotting anything even harder.
On the other hand it made it easier to deliver supplies to Fort Esmeralda keeping the Northern navy bottled in its little bay.
“Nothing,” her friend grumbled. The coast was on his side, and the chances of anything being in that direction were slim. “Just land.”
“Then you can dream of what to do when you get there,” Elena laughed, resting her head on her elbows. Unbeknownst to her, her younger brother was doing the exact same thing in Griffonstone on the last evening of his leave.
Far away she spotted the silhouette of a lighthouse. Elena chuckled to herself. Her shift was ending soon, and then she could get back to her bunk. She clearly needed it, with her mind Cand eyes playing tricks on her. The griffon shook her head and returned to watching the horizon. She spotted another lighthouse. Ice flooded the griffoness’ veins. One illusion was something. Two needed a closer look.
Elena leaned into the brass voicepipe of the crow’s nest. “Watch, nest.” When no answer came she repeated the call.
“Nest, watch, speak,” came the voice of the Watchmaster on the bridge. He sounded grumpy.
“Spotted something out of place, bearing three-three-zero. Requesting additional eyes that way.”
“Request received, relaying. Keep an eye out.”
Elena could only hope he had taken her words seriously. She looked through the large binoculars attached to the side of the crow’s nest. They were not worth much in the darkness, but she needed any help. Taking the right bearing with a naked eye, she peered through the binoculars.
There were structures out there, maybe two miles away, and her tired brain had substituted them with lighthouses. She looked lower.
Those were waves breaking against a hull.
“Hey, have a look.” Protocol was to have someone else confirm a sighting whenever possible.
The two griffons shuffled about, and the pale red sailor had a look.
“I see it,” he grimaced. “Watch, nest.”
“Watch here.”
“A ship spotted, bearing three-three-zero, distance less than a nautical mile. Double confirmation.”
There was silence on the other end of the pipe, but Elena was an experienced sailor that had served her entire career on Almirante Griselda . The old admiral’s soul had just stirred. There were no friendly vessels in the area. And just as Elena had felt the old admiral awaken, she felt as she readied for the first blow.
The protected cruiser had two armored turrets, both bearing a pair of six-inch guns, and with a frightening grinding that coursed through the vessel the turrets rotated. The watch had taken the warning seriously. Likely Commander Grimwing was being roused from her sleep, assuming she hadn’t already taken control, and the sleeping griffons were pulled from their bunks to bring the ship to battle readiness.
The first shot did not come from the mighty turrets.
There was a flash and a boom as one of the six three-inch guns on the ship’s port side fired. Two and a half seconds later the night turned to day. The gun had overshot, but against the backdrop of the falling flare she could see another ship, already turning away from Griselda , whose searchlights were coming to life.
The great beams of white light tracked the fleeing ship, illuminating the gold dagger it bore on its black ensign.
The completely unarmored cruiser Grostchapel had no desire to stand and fight. The rest of Griselda’s cannons opened fire, deafening Elena with a wall of noise. She could see the sea boil around Grostchapel , pillars of water exploding upwards where shells fell, but none scored a hit. The admiral was old, and she lacked proper fire control mechanisms, leaving every gun to do its own thing.
It was not effective, but it looked amazing.
The wonder lasted for a few more minutes as Grostchapel tried to slip into the night, her own guns blazing away. An even older ship, she had no chance of hitting from such a distance. Then something massive streaked past the crow’s nest with the sound of a runaway locomotive. Elena hit the deck in blind terror, her friend falling on top of her.
Something had just overshot the ship.
The two climbed up, trying to look for what had fired at them. A ship’s performance came from all its parts working together, and the greatest incentive for cooperation was the fear of death. No individual sailor could surrender when the fighting got too fierce, and most would either live or sink with their ship. And just trying to do something kept the helpless fear at bay.
The two grabbed the railing as the crow’s nest swung hard to port, the ship maneuvering in the same direction to make itself a more difficult target. Instead of following the zig with a zag like Elena expected and braced for, Griselda kept turning.
Flame and smoke flashed in the distance. Sea splashed where the old admiral would have been had the captain corrected the course earlier. These were accurate shots.
The dread filling Elena turned to outright terror as the searchlights spotted the third combatant, only to turn off across the ship. Commander Grimwing had seen the same thing as they had. Whereas Grostchapel had been utterly helpless against Griselda , the admiral had now found someone that overmatched her, and every other ship in the navy.
Griffons had never been masters of sea power, and had no interest in that. Still, a deterrence needed to be backed by strength.
Rey Grover was a domestic design, and the only armored cruiser in the Royal Griffon Navy even before the war. Named for the Kingdom’s half-mythical founder, she carried two times Almirante Griselda’s crew, and many times her firepower. What had flown over the two sailors in the crow’s nest had been a ten-inch shell from one of Grover’s main guns. Had it hit them directly, the two would have been evaporated before the shell could even explode.
And if the ship decided to turn its side to the old admiral, she would be torn apart by Grover’s broadsides, where every single cannon was larger than anything Griselda carried. Her rear turret firing, Almirante Griselda fled, abandoning her mission. The operator of the wireless telegraph had already sent a hasty message to the rest of the AGS aligned ship in Luna Ocean. Now its operator was signaling for Fort Esmeralda, to let them know of what was happening.
Fort Esmeralda’s wireless telegraph operator perked up as his headset beeped a series of high-pitched sounds. His free claw moved automatically, scribbling the morse code on paper.
Lady to Rock. Almirante Griselda was calling them. Grostchapel and Grover spotted southeast of the fortress. The message listed the exact location of the two ships and when they had been spotted. The Lance Corporal wrote everything down, and prepared to write a clear transcript of the message to his superiors so they could read it in the morning. It was a shame that the two enemy ships had managed to slip past them, but what could anyone do about that? The network around the fortress was broken, leaving it as a lone link of a broken chain. The griffon returned to his duties, ultimately unconcerned by things he could not affect.
November
Talonico sat at the desk in the squad’s barracks room, pencil resting at the end of a finished letter. He had already penned one letter to his family earlier, and now a second one to Silvestro was ready. It had taken time to know what to say. The one for his family was superficial, mostly meant to calm down his parents.
It was Silvestro he poured his heart out to.
“Sil
I am happy to hear that you found an apartment all for yourself. Maybe I should have also become an electrician, there seems to be a high demand for you lot. Then again I would not have had the aptitude for it, and I would have shocked myself to a grave before the teacher even had a chance to yell at me.
I write these words before heading out to the front once again. We have spent the last few weeks training and resting, and death has not been present at every moment.
Back when we were at the front we lost griffons almost every day. We had to keep up with the daily routines even when there was always a chance that a shell might kill you without you ever realizing it. Battles were worse. One from my squad was wounded, and I worry for her. My old wound still aches, and I think hers will too. The pain keeps returning to my nightmares every now and then.”
The next part had taken the most thinking.
“I had mostly gotten used to the safety, but there was an accident. A poorly thrown training grenade exploded near me. Knocked me down, but had it been a little closer, the blast could have injured me. In a battle it would have killed me, and I could have done nothing. Maybe it was good preparation, because I will have to fear soon again. And added to that fear is misery. The winter is late, and that means it will be even harsher when it finally comes. Cold eats griffons alive.
I am sorry to start with such dreary words, but I need someone to read them. There are few happy things to write about here. So please tell me how things are at home. Tell me of the autumn rain hitting the streets, of how leaves fall to the ground in a gentle breeze. Tell me about your work, of the griffons you see there.
You remind me of the world beyond war.
Love, Nico”
Talonico set the pen down and folded the letter. He grabbed his greatcoat and left to pass the letter to the garrison post office.
November
Captain Agosto was regretting her plan. Huddled in the back of torpedo boat 029 the artillery captain struggled against the need to vomit, unfamiliar with the rocking of the waves. The torpedo boat was part of a larger formation, organized for the particular mission. The dark shapes were barely visible around them through the gaps in the mass of griffons.
Most of the torpedo boat’s crew had been replaced with sailors from the sunken Reina Catalina . In addition to the complement of thirty needed to crew the boat, another thirty had been shoved on board, filling the boat to the brim. Among them was Agosto, to ensure that the raiding party would get the correct ammunition if they had to leave in a hurry.
“Final approach!” The message traveled across the passenger, and everyone braced or grabbed anything bolted down. Agosto followed suit. Engines roaring, the boat accelerated to its top speed, cutting through the waves. Agosto’s stomach sank as the vessel took to the air, crashing down after a three second flight and continuing its ride. Behind the flotilla of torpedo boats a quartet of warships opened fire, their guns lighting up the night. Far away two cruisers screened the raiders from enemy patrols.
Through the roar of engines and booming of guns Agosto could hear the distorted wail of a siren, and flashes of explosions as shells rocked the island.
The raiders’ success now depended on the naval guns. If they could suppress the defenders, the torpedo boats could make it to the supply harbor untouched. If the guns were left untouched, they would be massacred.
Tracers from a machine gun whipped past them.
“Prepare!”
The boat aimed for the gap between the breakwater and the edge of the harbor. Their route had been planned so that the final approach could be made in a direct route. Finally the boat’s weapons came to life. Ahail of machine gun and autocannon fire suppressed any potential defenders hiding among the crates or in the nearest buildings. The harbor was three hundred meters wide, and about as long, with enough room for two cargo ships, or a dozen torpedo boats.
Just when it seemed that they were about to crash into the wall the driver reversed the engine, slowing the boat down. Before they had come to a halt, the first sailors were spreading their wings.
“Catalina!” Cried the griffon at the bow of the vessel as she jumped ashore, invoking the name of the sunken cruiser the crew had been taken from. A shotgun blast splattered her brain into the sea.
Heedless of their friend falling to the cold sea, the rest of the raiding party swarmed the docks. Pistols and revolvers blazing they cut a swathe through the disoriented defenders who had not expected an attack.
Agosto rose last, escorted by a pair of sailors armed with machine pistols, similar to her normal one, but with an additional wooden foregrip, an extended magazine and the possibility of automatic fire. Both sailors had a gray helmet with their ship’s name written on the forehead.
They marched through the stone yard littered with bleeding bodies. Agosto had never before seen so much death. Once in a while she had been hit with counter-battery fire, but never there had been so many in one place. Steeling herself, Agosto walked past the corpses.
Beyond the harbor’s buildings rose a steep cliff some twenty meters tall, with a winding path rising to the top. Griffons too were forced to follow the path, designed so that defenders could lay down rifle fire on attackers from higher up, while anyone stupid enough to fly would be instantly cut down. That had worked before the widespread adoption of grenades.
The few defenders trying to set up a machine gun were killed quickly. Griffons streamed past the bodies. The sailors were all eager, but unused to fighting on land. Individuals followed whichever griffon had been their superior on their ship, but said superiors clearly had no idea what they were doing. The concept of infantry tactics seemed to be beyond any of them.
Coming at the end of the group, Agosto was not instantly killed by the stiffening resistance. She could see a dark field ahead of her. The captain had looked at the schematics of the fortress before the attack. The harbor was the weakest link in the defenses, but it was not completely neglected. Normally the approaches were protected by mines, but deciding that was not enough the engineers had added a simple stronghold to watch over the prepared path.
Beyond the field the ground would suddenly slope up, and dug into that slope was a moat surrounded by barbed wire. Anyone foolish enough to dive there for shelter would be killed by machine guns held in concrete bunkers, their sights running parallel to the moat. In a fully manned fort there would not be a single weak spot to exploit, for beyond the moat would be a trench with defenders ready to greet anyone that made it past the moat, and a trio of turrets housing a three-pounder cannon. In an undermanned fort however… According to the latest reports the guns had not yet been installed.
Beyond the thin line awaited the open backs of all the strongpoints on the island, with their casemates of ship-killing eight-inch guns and the ammo vaults underneath.
A flare shot to the sky, revealing the swarm blue-clad sailors running towards the barbed wire. Ahead of them sporadic rifle fire rippled across the trenchline.
There was an explosion among a group of sailors, cutting down several of them with fragments. The sudden flash of fire and smoke caught several griffons off guard, but not Agosto.
“Cannon!” the Captain yelled, sending griffons to cover. Another shot smashed into the ground, scattering dirt and grass over the prone griffs. An unlucky sergeant whimpered as a fragment buried itself into her back. Agosto noticed both explosions were small, limiting the caliber of the firing weapon. When the third one came, her experienced ear guided her to the origin of the shot, and she spotted the silhouette of the weapon against the night sky.
“Three-pounder, to the right!”
The sailors took that as their cue to attack, rising to overrun the gun. Seeing their intent, the enemy switched tactics. Instead of an explosive shot it fired a canister shot, turning the weapon into an oversized shotgun. A terrible hail of steel slammed into the brave idiots, and Agosto saw one jerk back from the force of the shot before keeling over.
“Commodore!” Agosto screamed as bullets whizzed past her head. The senior officer heard her shout and turned to look.
“Tell your troops to stay put, I’ll deal with the gun.”
Agosto crawled towards the gun, not bothering to see if the Commodore had listened or obeyed. Her bodyguard followed just behind her. The gun crew was clearly focused on firing as many shots as they could, and had not set up security for themselves. The weapon was hidden behind a small embankment, providing plenty of cover from the sailor’s bullets.
“Grenades,” Agosto whispered.
“Don’t have any,” her escort answered.
The Captain cursed. In that case they had to gamble. “Get right up to the berm, get ready to jump over.”
The trio got up to the berm undetected, slightly to the right of the cannon blasting away. In between the high-pitched barks of the cannon they could hear its crew talking, passing orders to one another.
“Get ready. Three, two, one.”
At the last word she bounced over the berm, pistol held ready and a prayer on her beak that the enemy was not looking her way. As she landed, her sights drifted to a young griffon turning to look at the sudden thump. Agosto pulled the trigger. Her bodyguards followed suit. They emptied their magazines in seconds. The bodies of the gun crew slumped over and around their weapon, dead.
“Give me more ammo,” Agosto ordered, and pulled one body off the gun's breech. The body was missing an eye, which was splattered on the cold steel along with much of her brain. Nausea welled inside the Captain. She dropped the corpse and grabbed the handwheels used to aim the weapon. As an artillery officer she was expected to have a basic understanding of every cannon in the army. The short barrel turned towards the muzzle flashes in the trenches.
“Here’s the ammo.”
Agosto opened the breech and pushed the shell inside.
“See how it works?”
“Yeah.”
She returned to the sights, grabbed the firing lever and pulled. The cannon spat out a shell, the barrel slamming back on its rails and dropping the empty cartridge. Some rifles in the trenches fell silent.
“Reload!”
While the sailor clumsily reloaded the cannon, Agosto rose to the berm, waving to the sailors’ leader. “Commodore! Get your griffs moving!”
The message seemed to make it through, and the wave of northerners rose again, charging the outnumbered defenders.
After firing a second shot Agosto decided they were too close to the enemy for her to dare a third one.
“Let’s get this thing moving.”
Its back open, the fortress fell a few hours later. Shaken and surprised, the garrison could not mount an organized defense. Small groups of prisoners were escorted to the main signal tower at the center of the island to an ever growing mass. With the fort deemed secure, Captain Agosto headed for the main magazine. The trench there showed some signs of fighting, but nobody had died in it. Finally the captain reached the door to the magazine, guarded by two griffons with shotguns hanging off their barrels.
Agosto was about to step inside when something caught her attention. An overwhelming stench of shit and blood reached her, even more powerful than anywhere else at the island. She turned to look, and saw a pile of corpses huddled in the corner of the open area around the door. Something about them seemed off, and after a moment she realized that there were no blood trails. The bodies had not been dragged there.
“What is this?” the Captain asked, gesturing at the corpses.
“We executed them. Ensign’s orders,” one of the guards responded nonchalantly.
“Executed?” Agosto repeated, as though she had not quite heard right. She marched to the griff, raising her talon “Senior sailor your name, inside this building are artillery shells, each of which weighs a hundred kilos. If you deprive me of the physical labor of the prisoners, who do you think will carry the shells?”
The sailor seemed to pale as he realized the answer.
“So go tell the Commodore that I want the prisoners to stay alive.”
The sailor ran off, realizing it would be best to get out of her sight. Putting the display of incompetence behind her, Agosto pulled the doors open. The hinges creaked slightly, and then gravity took hold, dragging the doors outward. A smile grew at the corners of the Captain’s beak as she beheld what was before her. The floor simply disappeared, going down for several floors. At the bottom of the underground room were crates. Thousands of large wooden crates, each of which housed a shell that fit her guns.
The last hints of her dismay at the events outside left Agosto as she looked at the stockpiles, her mind running the numbers. Spread out below her were enough shells to last months.
The fighter soared through the sky. Its latest challenger spiraled down in flames, leaving behind a trail of inky black smoke as it plummeted to the ground. Greta Silverbeak giggled as a gust of wind tossed about a paper plane hanging from her plane by a string. She sat in a wooden mockup of a monoplane, tied to a wooden post outside the school’s dirty white main building.
It was recess, and two dozen hatchlings were busy running amok in the schoolyard. A few hatchlings were climbing in the trees, but most were playing war in the grassy field surrounding the school. A simple wooden fence separated them from the empty field outside. Holding sticks like rifles, they dashed about, shouting and screaming and running in circles.
“You don’t want to play with them?”
Miss Stela, their teacher, had snuck up on her. The yellow griffoness had wrapped a thick woolen scarf around her neck. Dressed in a simple brown coat, Stela’s head swiveled around as she tried to keep track of the goings of every hatchling under her care.
“I’m good,” Greta answered.
“If you say so,” Miss Stela said. “You have been there for quite some time. If anyone else wants to go, let them.”
“Yes, Miss!” Then to Greta’s delight, she saw a cow approach from around the school’s main building. “Amanda!”
The cow, brown and white in color, wore a simple white dress. She had wrapped a red kerchief around her head, covering her short mane. Greta was jealous of the cow's thick coat, which always kept her warm.
“Hi,” Amanda waved at her. To Miss Stela she said. “Everything is ready for the next lesson.”
“Thank you, dearie.”
Greta thought it was weird that someone as old as Amanda went to school with the little hatchlings. Why hadn’t she ever learned to read? Maybe she should ask her dad. He had said that cows were often treated poorly. She had no intention of asking Amanda, she was already so busy. As the clearly oldest student, she had some extra responsibilities to take care of. Amanda didn’t seem to mind, which Greta couldn’t understand. It took time away from her recess!
Her thoughts were interrupted by a low rumble. From the clouds emerged the black shapes of planes. Two. Four. Ten. Twenty.
Greta cheered, wishing she could fly among the planes. Stela’s face darkened. Although they were far from the front, the war still made itself known.
