“444th Craft Battalion”
“Frankly, General, this has been a mistake,” the adjunct said.
The Adjutant was prim, with a neat bun and dress uniform a cut above standards whenever she wore it. But her demeanor, though curt and to the point, was contrarian past the point of tolerance, as far as the general was concerned.
The general stared down at the battle lines of the operating theater. The 444th, affectionately renamed into ‘The Burning Words’, was an experiment, sure, but by all metrics, it was a wildly successful one.
“Adjunct,” the general began. “Casualties are down fifteen points. Hell, ration consumption is down thirty. My supply lines haven’t been touched by enemy artillery since integration, and you’re telling me this is a mistake?”
The adjunct shook her head. “These are just the trees.”
“I’m a general. I’m only ever concerned with the forest.” He pointed at a pile of spreadsheets placed haphazardly down on the huge oak table next to the artillery lines. “These metrics are the forest.”
“And there is more to a forest than the trees on its surface!” she said, stepping wildly out of line with her tone, and she knew that — feigning a cough into her hand returning to the position of rest. “Sir,” she continued. “I know you understand this, but the wizards, what they’re doing, it’s coming at a cost beyond the things you can measure on the spreadsheets.”
The general sat up in his chair. The field tent was grim, they always were, but he kept it clean. The XO’s desk was empty and had been for some time, as he’d been slain in the HoneyComb Dilemma a few months back and was yet to be replaced. He saw the fire in the adjunct’s eyes. She’d a full bird on her chest and wanted the desk. This was her way. He knew this.
The general took in a large breath. “What are these costs?”
“You haven’t been down with the troops.”
“That’s your job.” He said. It was his job, too, there was no doubt, but this Bitters War was taking its toll and he as a general could only be in so many places at once. So he left that job to the adjunct. “But what’s going on then? Tell me.”
“The troops,” she continued. “Morale is low. We’re winning, gaining ground more than we ever have — but I’m hearing scuttle regarding five attempts in the last two weeks.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, sir.” The adjunct said as she moved up to the battle map. She pointed a finger down at a pewter figure of the number eight. “Eighth platoon is a small infantry unit accompanied by radiomen, etc., etc., but they’ve been running, as you can see, sir, with the fourth. The… special platoon.”
“The witches and the like.”
“Yes. There was one attempt there. Another with sixth, fourteenth, and seventeenth,” she said. “And these elements all support a special platoon”
The general nodded.
“And there’s more,” she said. “They aren’t eating, on the whole. They aren’t writing to their loved ones back on the home front. This was what alarmed me. I checked with the postal unit and they all said, regarding the concerned platoons, that none of them had penned a letter since about a week or two after the integration some months back when we were still behind the Votunne line.”
“By god…”
“And, sir,” the adjunct said, looking down as she spoke from rest. “You gave me permission to communicate with SuppComm in regard to matters such as this.”
“Right.” The general nodded. SuppComm was short for Support and Logistics Command, who, alongside Strategy and Tactics Command, and Intelligence Command, represented the whole of High Command back in Mondrigo. All under the thumb of the Leader. “What did they say?”
The adjunct’s face went pale. “They said nothing. To push forward. That they were aware of the situation at hand.”
“And?”
“To ready all medical staff to the supporting units. That they’ll need it.”
“By the Leader’s hand…” the general cursed. A bead of sweat dropped on the battle map.
“I’ve… I’ve spoke with other adjuncts and XO’s. They’ve made similar observations in the four Ethereal Combat Units. We’re winning this war. The ECU’s are the reason. But we are underestimating the cost.”
“The cost is their lives.”
The Adjunct nodded.
The general collapsed into his seat and sighed. “These special units, some of them send great conflagrations dozens of miles into enemy supply lines beyond our intel capabilities to target. Others cause confirmed cases of sickness, diseases we haven’t seen in centuries, to ravage enemy lines while we sleep. And some still raise the corpses of enemy combatants to fight again, clearing minefields, or drawing enemy fire. So many battlefield applications.”
“And it’s costing us our men.”
A red silence held the room in a tight grip.
The general stared at the pointed hat, representing the 13th platoon, a wildly successful special unit applying ethereal combat near his plate of old steak and potatoes from the night before, him too driven by stress to even finish it.
The general took in a deep breath, picked up his pushing stick, and guided the pointed hat figure up a few hundred yards into the enemy line.
The adjunct stared wide eyed. “Sir, we should retire these units. Communicate with high command. This is too dangerous to — ”
The general held up a hand. “That’s the terrible truth about this business, adjunct, in case you forgot,” he said, removing the eight from the board.
“The cost of war has always been our men.”
