Update Ihavenoidea
James Russell whooped as he fired yet another shot into the advancing Ethiopian charge. The rest of the company did, too. They had placed themselves on an easily defendable ridge, and the Ethiopian charges were simply destroyed before they even came close to the British line. They were doing well, extraordinarily well. Far better than most of the other companies in the regiment.
A more correct assessment, however, would be three regiments. Though the whole brigade was under the orders of Brigadier General Robert Barnes, the incompetent Colonel Wallace Scott managed to give orders to seven thousand and five hundred of its men.
And all of them were regretting it in this latest wave of Ethiopian attacks.
A second round of fire ensued as the
crack-crack-pop of discharging rifles could be heard through the line. This group of Ethiopians decided that they had had enough and began fleeing back downhill. African blood, as red as any white man’s stained the grass.
“Shouldn’t we attack now, sir?” Now that it was Captain Nathaniel Fisher, James had to call him ‘sir’ from now on. He himself had been hastily promoted to corporal when recruits fresh from the Cape arrived a few months ago.
“No, we cannot.” Nate replied. James noticed that he looked unusually pale.
“Are you all right, sir?” he asked with genuine concern.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. It’s just that-” He shook his head. “Never mind. We can’t attack, Corporal.”
“Well, why not, sir?”
Why not, Nate? “The entire company is itching to attack. Everyone knows we’ve been retreating for too bloody long. They’re weakened. If we attack, we could throw back the entire Ethiopian assault!”
“We can’t attack, James,” Nate replied as firmly as he could. “We can’t attack. Direct orders from Colonel Scott himself.”
“I’m just-” Nate suddenly stopped and nearly fell down.
“Are you sure you are all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” Nate sighed. “Why do they do it?”
“Do what?” James was puzzled.
“Fight. I mean, come all the way here, just to fight us. Just to charge up a hill and die. All for what? Some bleak desert.”
They both thought about this for a moment, enjoying the relative silence that had been scarce for weeks. They were only interrupted when a messenger was heard running up to the company, yelling “Captain Fisher! Captain Fisher!” all the while.
“What is it, Private?” asked Nate. The poor bloke had to run the entire distance between wherever he was coming from and here. Horses were scarce in the 22nd.
When he caught his breath, he continued, “Captain Fisher, Colonel Scott requires your company at,” the messenger unrolled his map and pointed to a spot on it. “Here, sir. He’s gathering men from all over the field.”
Nate looked over the map. “Very well,” he said, turning to James. “Corporal Russell,” he said with a hint of a smile on his lips, “Gather the men. We’re going on a brisk walk.”
A thirty minute walk to be more precise, nearly two miles to Scott’s main encampment. It seemed as if the whole regiment were all assembled here, and rumours began flying about the reason why they were all here. But everyone became silent when Colonel Scott stepped onto his podium -an old wooden crate- and began to speak. More specifically, they became silent when he fired a round from his own pistol into the air. He was in full field dress, which he thought would make him look commanding and confident but actually made him look like a peacock. He spoke like one, too.
“Welcome, my friends, and my brothers-in-arms! For many months, we of the 22nd Regiment had faced down the savage African in battle. For many months, we have suffered through bleak deserts, thirsty plains, and treacherous climate. We have felt pain over the losses of our friends and comrades.”
“
We?” was the silent whisper heard through the regiment. Scott didn’t hear it.
“But it all ends today! For today, the war shall end!”
If rolling eyes made any discernable sound, the noise would have been deafening.
“For you see, my loyal soldiers, today we shall take the fight to the enemy, and capture the Emperor in his
own camp, cut out his lying tongue, and send it to London as a gift to Queen Victoria! We will have one glorious battle, and we shall win it! For without their emperor, the Ethiopian army will turn into a chaotic mob and we shall overcome them easily!”
James Russell shook his head. Colonel Scott was proposing that the entire regiment attack the strongest part of the Ethiopian Army with everything they had. Did he really believe that would work? He looked at Nate. He didn’t know either.
“Nate?” James called into the smoke and chaos. The attack had failed miserably. What was once, long ago, any sort of coherent battle line was now a disorganized mob fleeing from the battle as hard as they could. Or trying to flee. The scene was much too chaotic for just straight fleeing.
“Captain!?” Only the crackling of sporadic fire and the grunts and cries of men as they fought hand to hand answered him. James really was lost. He had no idea where the Ethiopians were and where the British were. He didn’t think anyone else did, either.
“Nate!” No one would punish him for not addressing an officer as ‘sir’. Not here, not in this chaos. To his surprise, he met a very surprised Ethiopian soldier armed with nothing more than a spear. With visibility extending to about twelve feet, that meant that they were very close to each other.
Instinctively, James brought around his rifle, bayonet attached, and lunged for the Ethiopian’s face. His opponent tried to dodge, by bad luck receiving a gouged eye. Unfortunately for the Ethiopian, he made the mistake of dropping his spear to cover his eyes and howl in pain. James then upturned his rifle and struck the side of his opponent’s head with the stock. He could hear a disgusting crunching as the butt of the rifle went into the temple.
Then, he could hear a groan. He was sure it wasn’t the Ethiopian soldier. He would be either dead or screaming in pain. No, it was someone else. Could it be...
It was! There was a soldier, lying on the ground several yards away. Unmistakably British, and unmistakably Nathaniel Fisher.
“Nate, are you all right?” James asked even when he knew the answer. Nate had been shot in the stomach, a painful way to go, and extremely unlikely, given that less than a tenth of the Ethiopians actually had firearms to speak of. Of course, the ratio was higher among the Emperor’s personal guard, but still.
“I’m fine, James. I’m fine.” Nate sounded delusional. He looked delusional, too, with a smile plastered on his face despite the extreme amounts of pain he must have been feeling. His eyes were hooded, as if he really were dreaming.
“Come on, Nate, we have to get you back to the camp. We have to get you fixed up.”
“I can’t do that. I’m going home, James. I‘m going home now.”
Nate must have been feverish, imagining things. “Nate, Coventry’s thousands of miles away. You’re in Bechuanaland, and you’re injured. You can go home when you’re better.” James hoped.
“No, James,” he replied, still with that dreamy look on his face. “I’m going
home.”
With that, he died, and James finally understood. Hoisting his cooling body, James began walking towards what he thought was the right direction, weeping all the while.
I got nothing. Should I cut out the lame fight scene? Or was it not lame? Why am I even bothering? If you're reading this, you have at least 2 pages to go.
As you may/maynot have noticed, I am updating the screenshots backwards. So somewhere on page 8, my screens are bulky, but now they are thinner and have more sex appeal.
