They are at it again.
Excellent!
On Tuesday, in preparation for the Blue’s arrival, the Red’s began molding the landscape more to their liking. I have a perch high on a hill, far enough away to avoid being noticed, close enough (and downwind) to sense what is yet to come.
It only is a matter of time.
By sunset, the Reds arrive with a caravan of supplies. Their fires are too numerous for their numbers and their meats too old for their tastes. The Reds have a ruse in the making.
So do the Blues.
One day ago, the Blues stripped the field of rocks and replaced each with a shallow hole filled with sharpened wooden spikes. If the Reds attack at sunrise, these will be difficult to see.
Until it is too late.
Behind the Blues, their slaves have removed all of the trees, not for embankments or ramparts. No, the Blues have a most delectable premise for the conclusion of their stay.
That many trees, of that size, each cut half as long as the previous, each paired with a hole a third in length of the first, means only one thing.
I call it dinner, the way I prefer, for me, forever.
They call it crucifixion.
I am not leaving my seat for this show.
Sunrise brings the war cries of the tastiest morsels of meat. The blues begin with a morning barrage of arrows aimed at the flanks of the Reds.
The lines of the Reds, fortified with buttressed shields from the dark of the night before, hold the center. The Red Commanders have witnessed Blue tactics before.
My experience with these two groups indicates a large number of filets for the taking.
I only have to remain patient.
The morning continued with a series of ballista shots, infantry advances, and a flurry of horns (most annoying) signaling nothing. I seek higher ground for reconnaissance. I smell another deception in the making. The Blues are busy in the rear guard. The Reds are advancing their supplies.
The first night begins with light exchanges of arrows. The center is now fortified, impervious to cavalry (not as tasty as one would suspect), and devoid of campfire light (from both sides). Should this meek exchange of hostilities continue, both sides might withdraw before a decent tally is recorded. For my time spent weighed against the potential benefits, such a military decision would be most distasteful.
My anticipation for the savory, unseasoned, and slow cooked is at its apogee today. I see a few tender morsels in the Purple “no man’s land” which might suffice should both sides resign.
For now, I will seek the slumber of the anxious and await the outcome of both commands.
The morning brings with it my old friend; fire.
For fire accelerates the bloodlust of user and target alike. Fire tenderizes the raw to the delicious. Fire distances the squeamish to rear guard stories fit to for children and the injured.
I love fire and lust for its presence.
Apparently, the Reds agree with my thoughts.
The first of the catapults release no less than 26 balls of exploding fire into the unprotected rear guards of the Blues. Aimed precisely to fall short of the monuments of crosses, but overshooting those in full gear, on alert, at the ready, without the sleep they so desperately deserve, the balls hit their targets with the accuracy of mathematics.
The second barrage crossed the barricades of blues to annihilate the mobile archer forces on the perimeter, leaving the center, filled with Blues, ready to break ranks and charge.
Precisely as planned.
For the next six hours, the melee of arms, confined to such small confines, became as exhausting to watch as it was to conduct. The Reds had the upper hand from the onset, but the Blues found sanctuary behind the pits of sharpened sticks that took so many of the Red’s forward progression.
And so many of their lives.
As the Red’s advanced to aid their trapped comrades, the Blues sniped (Oh what a wonderful human word!) those in close proximity to once again even the odds of diluted manpower. The sunset found both sides at less than 30% functional and half again that for morale.
Here, the darkness becomes the demon you mock during the light. Here, every sound foretells the coming of Death Incarnate. Here, in the dark, silence makes the mind fear a man’s own heart beating.
The dark makes me salivate. I see infernos emerging from both supply depots. The wafting aroma of the recently deceased cleanses my palate of the miserable tripe to which I am accused of nourishing myself.
I am a connoisseur of delights, not a scavenger of morsels not fit for disposal. I study the human condition and provide the service of lustration in the fields of battle eliminating the need for absolving the remains to burial, or worse, unchecked pestilence.
Egad! The thought of that arrives …
“Lieutenant, I got the vulture with my bow! It isn’t much to eat, but considering the circumstances, it might feed 10 or more.”
“Well done soldier. Well done indeed.”
Andy Betz has tutored and taught in excess of 40 years. He lives in 1974, and has been married for 30 years. His works are found everywhere a search engine operates.