Jaegars, Part 2
Benedict swore as he shoved his spyglass back into his pocket, dropping down onto the ground from his lookout position. Breathless, he sprinted to Captain Roland, currently surrounded by his lieutenants, trying to decipher his exact location amidst these godawful hedges. "We're found," Benedict breathed out.
Captain Roland looked over with tired eyes. "I'm sorry," Benedict gulped. "They must have seen the glint from my spyglass. They are headed directly to our position now."
They and their platoon had been operating virtually independently from the larger army, within these hedge rows where clear lines of communication and supplies were often hard to establish. For days, they had been avoiding reestablishing contact, chased by a relentless force that crept up to them despite their best efforts. "The reserves have come to reinforce us," Benedict said, clarifying the issue.
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"Lieutenant Kriegsmesser, at your service, sir!" the giant officer with an effeminate face who seemed barely of voting age said with a clockwork salute. He was tall, taller than Benedict and Roland, in fact, but he was thin. Strong legs, but a pianist's hands. What the fudge kind of name is 'Kriegsmesser?'
"Highborn," Roland muttered, quietly. Kriegsmesser flinched at that--perhaps he had good hearing? "At ease, officer," Roland quickly added.
"Sir! I have been dispatched to lead a squad to reinforce your platoon!" the young lieutenant said. "We have been trying to establish contact for days!"
"It's easy to get lost in the hedges, officer Kriegsmesser. Let your men rest."
Kriegsmesser saluted once more. Turning around, he barked out an order to the new recruits, letting them join up where the rest of the platoon were entrenched. They marched away in unison, as if they were part of some royal parade.
"They are going to get killed," Benedict mumbled.
"I know," Captain Roland muttered.
"They are going to get *us* killed."
"I know."
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Surprisingly, their predictions do not, in fact, come true. Kriegsmesser turn out to be somewhat competent and, once his trainees mingle with the others, they quickly lose the stick-in-the-mud-******* attitude drilled into them by instructors. They joined with a larger unit, currently besieging a town.
"I win, sir," Kriegsmesser said even before the dices stopped rolling. To pass the time during their watch, he, Benedict, and Roland had agreed to play a game of dice. So far, Kriegsmesser had won five times in a row. Roland looked at the dices--his dices--with hatred he usually reserved for deserters. "There has to be some kind of trick to this?"
"I'm just naturally lucky, sir."
"Must be those highborn genes or something," Benedict quipped.
"They are coming," Private Reinhardt, the enlisted man on watch says, peering over the edge of his foxhole. Dangerous, perhaps, but it is night and dark provides all the cover he needs. Across the field, they see a row of lights. "What's coming?"
"The lights! They are coming closer!" he hisses out. "Looks like a night raid!"
"You aren't seeing anything," Roland says. "It's autokinesis. You're seeing the involuntary muscle movements of your own eyes. Those lights aren't going to come any closer than they are. It's a fudging town."
"You know medical science, sir?" Kriegsmesser says, head tilted, eyes wide.
"I'm going to bed before officer War Knife here robs me of my last cigarette rations. He doesn't even smoke. I bet he'll trade it all for some French girls once we take that damned town. As if he needs to trade for anything to get girls with that build and face."
Lieutenant Kriegsmesser face flares, but says nothing as the Captain walks off to a makeshift officer quarter. "Man," Reinhardt says. "I can swear those lights are moving!"
"Well, if the Captain says it's nothing, it must be nothing," Benedict says, cleaning up the table. He turns to face Kriegsmesser for a moment: "So, uh, Lieutenant, sir? How did you win five times in a row?"
His sentence is punctuated by familiar *pop pops* of artillery opening fire, somewhere behind them. The field between them and the town erupts into a wall of fire.
"I think the high command thinks Captain Roland is full of ****," private Reinhardt says.
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Next day, they find the town abandoned by its defenders, so they just simply walk into the town. The field outside is burnt and full of craters. It is also completely devoid of any sign of dead French soldiers. A lieutenant from a different platoon, likely the man who called in the artillery strike, seems to be arguing with whatever the Communard equivalent of mayors are in the village, shouting angrily at the other man with the help of a translator.
"What do you think they are saying?" Reinhardt asks Benedict. Benedict turns to Lieutenant Kriegsmesser. "Sir, can you hear what they are saying?"
"Do I look like I speak French to you?" Kriegsmesser replies.
"I mean, you are a member of the aristocracy and all, sir." Lieutenant rolls his eyes.
"Okay, okay," the Lieutenant says, clearing his throat. "So first, Lieutenant A says: Excuse me, translator? Tell the man we come in friendship." He says it in the most obnoxious fake Prussian accent possible--barking and angry.
"And the translator's like: Dude, if you don't show my boss a single dead French soldier, he's gonna fudge you up and your village!" he says in the most informal and rapid fire Ruhr dialect. Reinhardt begins to giggle.
"And the French guy's like: Ribbitty ribbity hon? Hon Hon guette?" He says this in the most effeminate, high pitched voice possible. A few of the other soldiers begins to crack up.
And the translator's like: "Sir, the French people love the fact that we are here. They love freedom and capitalism and thought that the fireballs last night were some wicked display. You killed a lot of dirt. The dirt was very evil."
In the distance, they see the so called Lieutenant A turning to the translator. "Translator, I think I just pissed my pants," Lieutenant continues in harsh barking Prussian. "Tell the nice man that if he doesn't show me one dead French soldier, I'll look very stupid and other officers will laugh at me."
The translator turns back to the Frenchman. "Dude, throw me a frigging bone here," the Kriegsmesser narrates. "Are you sure nobody died last night? No natural causes?"
"And the Frenchman's like: Ribbitty ribbity hon? Ribby ribby."
"And the translator says: Hey boss, this guy's really bummed that he can't save your career, but check it out! You can have his daughter's hand in marriage!"
The Frenchman picks up a nearby baby goat and hands it to rather bewildered looking Lieutenant A.
"The hell are you imbeciles laughing at?" Captain Roland interrupts the soldiers. "Sir! We were celebrating our victory over this town!" Lieutenant Kriegsmesser spins to face him, heels clicking, hands up in a clockwork salute.
"...At ease," Captain says. "Well, if that is all that you were doing, continue." He walks off.
"You know, when you first arrived at this platoon, I thought you were going to be a stick-in-the-mud newbie," Benedict says, dropping formalities and going against discipline. "But you seem to be quite the two-face."
"I think I just learn quickly."
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Here's someone who didn't learn quickly enough: Private Reinhardt.
He had killed a few people. Clean kills at a distance with a rifle. Then he'd go on leaves with Benedict and they'd drink and chase women until the next assignment.
But then he broke. Shellshock.
Benedict had a theory on what went wrong. Reinhardt, even if he acted like a idiot sometimes, was always thinking and worrying about some things. He used to talk about why the war started, how it started, how it would end, who was right, who was wrong, etc. Who could blame him? The Federation was supposed to generate a new, selflessly rational breed of people.
But how can you think like that, and still be cognizant when you zero in your sights on a target and pull the trigger? Benedict gave up on empathy long ago, letting himself ride the murder-high as he hunted down his targets through his scope. He hated himself for it, but at least he didn't break.
"I'm sure he'll be fine," Lieutenant Kriegsmesser says. "It can happen to the best of us."
What he doesn't say: It always happens to the best of us. Too many people are breaking. Federation is getting its ass kicked.
And soon enough, all that'll be left will be the dregs. People like Benedict and Kriegsmesser and Roland.
