It was a scorching day without a breeze, as it had been for the previous three weeks. The road had been stripped of its layers from tyre, sole, and hoof wear, and the concrete had cracked, revealing its original cobblestones. Nature reclaimed her rightful land, and Mother Terra’s weeds seeped into the road’s crevices as newly sown seed roots burrowed into the manmade ground. Throughout the vast plains, there were few sounds or visible shapes of civilisation, except for wheatfields and fences that were too far away to reach, walling off sparse farms on the hills and valleys that stretched into the horizon. In the distance, away from the main road, a few pastures provided a change of scenery, where black and white creatures, along with some brown-furred ones, were scattered on the hillside leading up to a cottage with chalky white walls that blended in with the low-hanging clouds behind it. Outside its farmhouse, a woman and her children, presumably the landlord’s family, were stacking hay and mowing grass when they noticed a group of foreigners marching through their homeland. The mother was overjoyed, and her children greeted the small column of troops with wide smiles, abandoning their rakes and buckets to climb onto their fences to shout and wave at them. A few of the young soldiers noticed them and waved back, bringing enough joy to the boys and girls to last all day until their mother recalled them to work. They eventually disappeared back into the meadows, but the agony of the marching century continued.
Their sweat produced a repulsive stench, and their uniforms stuck to their backs even without bergens, having been assigned the task of escorting a waggon of supplies, yet their spirits remained high. But as they trudged down the road, one became especially irritated, not from the heat, but because of the task he had been burdened with for the past three weeks. Even the hums of century-old hymns and songs could not calm him down.
Hugging onto his rifle, Lev ridiculed his comrade who had turned animal from the burden on his shoulder. “I thought you were from the South, farmer boy.” He kept his distance, not knowing what his words could unleash, but he had always been fond of testing the limits of the brute.
“It ain’t da damn’d sun. Dis banner’s been fuckin’ me o’er.” Struggling to balance the century’s standard he had been entrusted with, Gin’s rage crept into his voice, but when he accidentally bumped into Miklós, the giant’s piercing glare silenced his whining.
Julien looked over his shoulder and tried to moderate his temper to save him the trouble that he would find himself in. “You should be honoured to be the standard bearer. Not everyone can be trusted with it.” But his words were useless, and it did not seem like the brute could be contained.
Often needing to exchange the banner between his hands, which had grown stiff from holding the pole, Gin scoffed and snarled at his comrades. “Yeah, I’d be, chargin’ at the enemy wit dis in hand, but ‘stead I’ve to put up wit dis shite.” Unafraid that he could be disciplined for mocking the colours of the Commonwealth, the brute ranted on when, unexpectedly, he felt the weight of the standard being eased from his shoulder.
Taking the standard into his care, one of the half-blood lancers was able to calm Gin. “It won’t be long now.” Arminius reassured Gin, who remained unconvinced. However, now that he had been relieved of his burden, the brute could not utter another word of complaint.
The air became gritty, and Arminius narrowed his eyes, shielding himself from the dust in the wind and sweat that dripped down his face, but his comrades had not noticed that they were nearing the frontlines until he mentioned it. The clouds were dark in the distance, stained by blood and gunpowder, but no one knew what to expect when they arrived, not even their commander.
Leading his century atop his steed, he leaned back on his saddle, having grown attentive to their conversations, wanting to understand his troops. He decided to chime in before the uncertainties of battle would overwhelm them. “How can you tell, lancer?” Codrington asked, keeping his reins wrapped tightly around his hand as he looked back at the squad nearest him.
They faded into silence and fell back into line, thinking that they must have annoyed the major so much that he had to speak up.
Given the spotlight as the century’s treasured leader, Arminius lifted his head up to address his commander, but he gave a rather innocent answer. “Instinct.” The lancer replied, sounding unsure of the first word that came to mind.
Codrington chuckled at his answer when he repeated it. “Instinct.” But his voice dampened and his smile broke when a memory came to mind. “Instinct was what nearly killed us all when I was just a boy fighting my first war.” He said.
The expressions on his troops’ faces showed uncertainty about how to react, as they were unsure whether his comment was directed at someone specific. Judging by their awkward looks, it seemed that the major had been misunderstood.
Codrington glanced behind him once more, dispelling their doubts. “Oh no, it wasn't Ascot. He was perhaps one of the greatest commanders I have ever served, believe it or not.” The brief grin on his face fell apart again when he turned ahead and began to tell his story. “It was his commanding officers, the stubborn old men, who mistook their experience for omniscience.” The memory of the incident, which occurred twenty years ago, still weighed heavily on him as he recalled.
The major drew out his compass and waited for the due north needle to settle before raising his arm and commanding his troops to turn left. His century deviated from the paved main road and took the rugged path that cut through a wheat field. It had been traversed many times, no doubt by migrants and army contingents. The grass had been reduced to dust and sand, but the well-trodden track, rocky and uneven, was treacherous terrain that every soldier had to be wary of. Surrounded by golden, green fields that were not yet ready for harvest, the century marvelled at how the land and its people were able to thrive in the face of war, but their thoughts were interrupted by the crackle of gunfire that echoed through the sky. The unrelenting march of armies would one day roll over the hills, leaving landowners and farmers to hope that they would be able to receive their final harvest before war arrived on their doorsteps.
Riding onwards, the major let out an accepting sigh and continued his tale. “Although, I must admit, the fault lies with us not being able to convince headquarters of action during the battle.” He could not hide the shame in his tone.
“Where was this battle fought?” Arminius curiously asked, sure that his comrades were as equally intrigued as he was.
Codrington sighed and looked over his shoulder, expecting that everyone had heard of it. “Ekkleßing.” He said, and his troops’ eyes widened in astonishment upon realising that their commander had fought in the battle that changed the fate of the Commonwealth. “There was a road that only locals knew of, and we could have lessened our losses if only they’d listened to Ascot’s advice, but they didn’t and… he was young and naive like we all were.” Righting himself, feeling the cold memories of that year pinching his spine, the major told them.
Guilty of being of the blood of the Commonwealth’s enemy, Julien stayed behind Arminius, fearful of the wrath that he might incur if his commander found out that a Danner was among his ranks.
Unclipping his shako from his saddle, the major patted down the dust from its hide and straightened out its evergreen plume. It had the ornate plate of his old regiment’s badge adorned on the fore, imbedded with a cross and little martlets around it, which shone when he rubbed it with his sleeve. “Ascot marched our regiment under no orders, attacked the Danner’s rear, and all was going well until their marshal, Hannes the Omnipotent, brandished our defeat.” He tightened his chin strap and embroidered himself a look that befitted a commander of a Commonwealth century, maintaining a calmness when he neared the end of his story. “If our comrades sallied out too, perhaps we’d still rule the waves and Ascot would be a general waiting on his pension.” Codrington smirked when he dreamt of how their lives could have been different, but he was not so bitter that he failed to move past it.
The century arrived at a stream that ran through the field, and across it was a single bridge, which was made of a bundle of logs tied together like a raft. The century continued onto the trail that reappeared on the opposite bank, running alongside the stream that wound downhill, but the smell of death intensified. The earth’s texture was like dust. It was so infertile that no seeds could grow. They marched around a hill, through an old forest that had been cut down for the sake of war, but the century could not imagine what war was really like until they reached the base of the hill, where the stream ended at a lake, the sound of flowing water fading into soldiers’ voices.
Waggon and hoof tracks led them through an opening in a wall of stakes and palisades, where a patrol was resting after returning from an expedition. When they saw the century march by, they paused and stared, unsure of where they had come from. The foreigners assumed that the luxury of uniforms would have been reserved for elite troops, but the one hundred soldiers were barely men and women, already capable of marching in formation and synchrony. The century observed that only one nationality comprised the army they had intruded on. As they looked around, they noticed that the majority of the others were not wearing uniforms like theirs, but this detail seemed insignificant in comparison to the fading embers in their hearts. All they could see were desperate levies waiting to return home. The aftermath of a recent battle lay before the white tents that lined the encampment from one end to the other. A new wave of wounded stumbled back from the frontlines, reminding many of what they had seen on the night of the blitz two years ago. What little innocence remained in them vanished when the smell of rotten flesh—the decay of corpses—filled their nostrils while their gazes were fixed on the influx of soldiers requiring surgical attention. Arminius stared at a drummer boy who had gone rabid from pain, held down by his comrades over a plank of wood beside a roaring brazier while a surgeon sawed into his arm with a wire. The saw finally broke through the cartilage, and blood splattered on Arminius’s face. He did not appear repulsed but rather tired of the sight.
Suddenly, a sergeant hurried towards the century and halted beside the mounted major before he demanded their orders and papers. Codrington raised his hand, and the century came to a stop as he reached into his inner jacket pocket, which contained a letter. He reached down for the sergeant and handed him his orders, messily written by his superior, who was no doubt enjoying a cup of afternoon tea in his mansion, detached from the war. Although it was written in the same language, the sergeant struggled to read it, but when he did manage to make his way down to the signature on the bottom of the page, he returned the papers to the major and found that his commanding officer was already standing at the foot of the ridge, ready to bring news of their allies’ arrival to high command.
He saluted the major and gestured him to move along before he pivoted around and marched off. “Major Zhorzh Kozhringtun, Kommandskimangy Hundreddrëtengsichs Austschralesachsonger Kentöä, reportsche kombatscherëdä wit hundreder soldëri! (Major George Codrington, Commander of the One Hundred and Thirty-Sixth Austschralesachsonger Century, reports combat-able with one hundred men!)” In the Bohemer dialect, the sergeant declared.
The century marched on, without a blink of rest, but it looked more likely that they were being sent to the frontlines. Sensing that Arminius’s skills were better used in battle, Miklós offered to bear the standard, which the half-blood was more than glad to relinquish.
“If I may, I would like to burden you with some advice that we would have done well to know twenty years ago.” Codrington spoke again when he ordered his steed to walk on to the undivided attention of his lancers and soldiers alike. “If you were presented a choice to heed an order that would mean certain defeat and another choice to act out of your own volition that could mean victory, do not take the latter. Do not risk your lives for a war that is not ours to fight.” The major warned, but it seemed unlike him to speak in this manner.
Most of his troops thought nothing of it and nodded, but there was one lancer who was stirred by his words. He wondered why he would say such a demoralising thing right before battle, as he felt a droplet of blood sliding off his cheek, which he instinctively wiped off with his hand, leaving a red smudge on his palm. Its scent projected the remnants of a distant memory, but he snapped out of it when he felt a hand land on his shoulder. Arminius turned his head and saw Julien holding onto him, realising he was holding up the rest of the century. Awkwardly, he marched on, but the thoughts never left him even as he stepped into the blood of the battlefield.464Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJsiPwFPg9e
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