Divine Spirits
The men of Bacrot had every faith in the Lieutenant since that spring day long ago when a daring youth rode into the village square, telling tales of glory and debauchery. It was undeniable. His gift-of-gab led to more than just a few enlistees putting name to paper. The reasons for signing on were as varied as the men themselves -- adventure-seekers, treasure-hunters, hopeful politicos, restless sons... It mattered not. They were all here now, in the very pit of hell. Five decades of war. One would assume this sufficient time for plenty of glory and even more debauchery. It felt more like business than pleasure though, as numbers and names flowed into each other and 'The War' consumed an ever increasing percentage of the lives of those still living in this nightmare on earth. There may have been an untouched field, a pristine city, something to have escaped destruction. This was the hope of the Lieutenant's men, that they would soon be able to see these marvelous sights and live life on their own terms once again.
Venice perhaps? Or maybe an island hideaway. One could dream, could they not? It was a dream immeasureably better than the reality. It crossed everyone's mind what once-familiar places must be like now. Each passing day made it more difficult to imagine and more special when a tale could be found in the form of a person lucky enough to have been there and still remember. Family? The Lieutenant considered his men family and he knew they felt the same toward him and each other. Being 'of the same blood' took on even greater meaning between those who willingly had gone day-to-day putting their lives in each others' hands. Half could scarcely recall the countenances of relatives, it had been an eternity.
A solemn mood blanketed the ranks of the men from Bacrot. The coming battle was one they were sure had been repeated over and over across the continent. Names were different, yes...but the situation was the same. More often than not, the results were the same too. But it could not be this time. It must not be. Once proud allies who could not be beaten, were indeed beaten. The realms of the Russians, Poles, and Turks overrun. Even the mighty Habsburgs were vanquished, on this continent and on three others. Rumors of resistance in Scandinavia still floated but could be neither confirmed nor denied since the last of the German states had fallen. These thoughts and countless others swirled around in the collective consciousness of the Lieutenant's men. But there was precious little time for such daydreaming. The massed forces of France were strung out throughout the Alps. With control of the seas long-since decided, this was it, the final act in a macabre drama. An alarum broke the silence. The order to march passed down the ragged line. The Lieutenant led the way atop his prized Arabian - a reminder of past deeds and brighter days. A creek crossing. A dozen hills. An abandoned hovel. The line slowly ran into stragglers from another contingent and stories were exchanged. It was as everyone had feared. The enemy had created a breach in the French position and were pouring through. Several homeland villages were under attack or worse. Everyone looked to their commander, hoping to reinforce their mettle with some of his own. But what they saw mortified even the hardest veterans. For the first time anyone could remember, the Lieutenant had the look of hopelessness.
General Greene sat upright in his chair, beads of sweat dripping off of his brow. He squinted at a line of light seeping through the window just as a loud knocking continued at the door. "Enter," he grumbled. "Report." As the soldier delivered his mantra of bureaucratic hogwash, Greene wondered to himself just how long he had dozed off in his office. That peddler of spirits must be made an administrative aide immediately, he mused silently. Like every such briefing, he paid little attention and distributed the expected nods and hand waving. Something caught his attention though - even though he couldn't figure why. An underfunded privateer had washed ashore near a Portuguese trading station far to the east of the Ottoman sphere of influence. He told fantastic tales of a civilization wealthy beyond all imagination, somewhere in the middle of the vast unknown...
The men of Bacrot had every faith in the Lieutenant since that spring day long ago when a daring youth rode into the village square, telling tales of glory and debauchery. It was undeniable. His gift-of-gab led to more than just a few enlistees putting name to paper. The reasons for signing on were as varied as the men themselves -- adventure-seekers, treasure-hunters, hopeful politicos, restless sons... It mattered not. They were all here now, in the very pit of hell. Five decades of war. One would assume this sufficient time for plenty of glory and even more debauchery. It felt more like business than pleasure though, as numbers and names flowed into each other and 'The War' consumed an ever increasing percentage of the lives of those still living in this nightmare on earth. There may have been an untouched field, a pristine city, something to have escaped destruction. This was the hope of the Lieutenant's men, that they would soon be able to see these marvelous sights and live life on their own terms once again.
Venice perhaps? Or maybe an island hideaway. One could dream, could they not? It was a dream immeasureably better than the reality. It crossed everyone's mind what once-familiar places must be like now. Each passing day made it more difficult to imagine and more special when a tale could be found in the form of a person lucky enough to have been there and still remember. Family? The Lieutenant considered his men family and he knew they felt the same toward him and each other. Being 'of the same blood' took on even greater meaning between those who willingly had gone day-to-day putting their lives in each others' hands. Half could scarcely recall the countenances of relatives, it had been an eternity.
A solemn mood blanketed the ranks of the men from Bacrot. The coming battle was one they were sure had been repeated over and over across the continent. Names were different, yes...but the situation was the same. More often than not, the results were the same too. But it could not be this time. It must not be. Once proud allies who could not be beaten, were indeed beaten. The realms of the Russians, Poles, and Turks overrun. Even the mighty Habsburgs were vanquished, on this continent and on three others. Rumors of resistance in Scandinavia still floated but could be neither confirmed nor denied since the last of the German states had fallen. These thoughts and countless others swirled around in the collective consciousness of the Lieutenant's men. But there was precious little time for such daydreaming. The massed forces of France were strung out throughout the Alps. With control of the seas long-since decided, this was it, the final act in a macabre drama. An alarum broke the silence. The order to march passed down the ragged line. The Lieutenant led the way atop his prized Arabian - a reminder of past deeds and brighter days. A creek crossing. A dozen hills. An abandoned hovel. The line slowly ran into stragglers from another contingent and stories were exchanged. It was as everyone had feared. The enemy had created a breach in the French position and were pouring through. Several homeland villages were under attack or worse. Everyone looked to their commander, hoping to reinforce their mettle with some of his own. But what they saw mortified even the hardest veterans. For the first time anyone could remember, the Lieutenant had the look of hopelessness.
General Greene sat upright in his chair, beads of sweat dripping off of his brow. He squinted at a line of light seeping through the window just as a loud knocking continued at the door. "Enter," he grumbled. "Report." As the soldier delivered his mantra of bureaucratic hogwash, Greene wondered to himself just how long he had dozed off in his office. That peddler of spirits must be made an administrative aide immediately, he mused silently. Like every such briefing, he paid little attention and distributed the expected nods and hand waving. Something caught his attention though - even though he couldn't figure why. An underfunded privateer had washed ashore near a Portuguese trading station far to the east of the Ottoman sphere of influence. He told fantastic tales of a civilization wealthy beyond all imagination, somewhere in the middle of the vast unknown...
) but have decided to give the whole thing a shot. In all likelihood, I'll run my story and its inhabitants into the ground. Should be fun. 
