It was a scorching summer with boiling heat, without a hint of pleasure from a whiff of breeze. The sound of the sea that was caressing was a memory of three weeks past, and in its stead then was the sun blaring his flares with echoes of laughter. Melting, the road had been stripped of its layers from the constant wear of tyres, wheels, soles, and hooves. The concrete had cracked and the original stones which laid were revealed. But after decades of being concealed without air, once it had known the touch of freedom, it began to erode from time on its unstoppable course. Nature retook her land, with Mother Terra’s hair reinhabiting the soil that washed over the path, and the weeds and rainwater that seeped into the crevices of the road. The roots of new sown seeds tore apart the relic of the past that was reminding of movies on apocalyptic worlds where humans had become extinct in the wild. Across the vast lands uninhabited, there remained barely any sounds or shapes of civilization except for the wheatfields and fences, too distant to be seen, walling off farms noticeably sparse. Over the hills and into valleys, stretching into the horizon of the borderlands of forests, their lands only came to an end according to what seemed most natural. Off the main road, in the distance, there were a few pastures for a change of scene, with black and white creatures, and some with brown fur too. Sprinkled on the hillside that led up to the cottage that was a chalky white, blending with a low-sailing cloud behind. Outside a farmhouse, a woman and her children, the family of the landlord who was nowhere to be seen, were stacking hay and mowed grass with mud on their hands, though they had stopped in their work upon hearing and spotting the commotion that had come to visit their lands. In a line, they stared at the road, for whoever foreign came by served as a source of entertainment. There was a sense of gladness in the lady’s heart even from afar, whilst her children grew smiles. Dropping their rakes and buckets, they climbed onto a fence and balanced themselves by locking their legs against the logs, shouting and waving for the column’s attention. Few had taken notice of their surroundings but some soldiers saw and waved back. It was enough to bring a day of joy to the boys and girls who watched the century’s march despite their mother’s calls. Shrinking through the countryside of peace. Only when they had disappeared into the meadows’ waves that the children returned to their chores. For the troops, their agony continued.
The sweat from their many bodies created a stench that was moist and repulsive, their uniforms sticking to their backs even without bergens, blessed with the aid of a wagon of supplies. However, spirits were still high despite the hellish three-week march. Though for some, it seemed, the season was too much to bear as their paces slowed until their footsteps were more like the dragging of their feet. One was particularly disturbed, but not by the heat that they all shared. Even the hums of hymns and marching songs among the century could not soothe this brute whose easily-riled head had begun to steam.
Hugged onto his rifle, Lev daringly joked beside the soldier turned animal, “I thought you were from the south.”
“It ain’t da damn’d sun,” Balancing a pole that reached for the clouds, despite its thinness, even Gin struggled keeping it steady. “Dis banner’s been fuckin’ me o’er.” He scowled, ready to unleash his anger to burn their colors to cinder.
Turning to his flanks in search of one who would better be suited carrying such a bulk of weight, he found his candidate over his shoulder, always looming over. With large hunks of flesh, the monster, the giant, was finally of use to him.
“‘Ere Miks, ‘ave at it.” Gin offered out the banner that bore the resemblance of a little flag beside Miklós.
But the demon turned his eyes and leered calmly down upon him. The purple of his iris pierced into his soul, threateningly, that spun Gin back ahead, minding his own steps as he shuddered from the cold.
“You should be honored to be the standard bearer.” Julien tried to moderate his temper, even if he knew it was unlikely that the brute could be contained. “Not many are trusted with it.”
Setting the pole onto his shoulder which ached, Gin scoffed, often exchanging the banner between his hands. “Yeah, I’d be, only if der’s glory to be had.”
A hand came upon his banner, alleviating its weight that startled Gin. His fingers unlocked and his fists let go, allowing the standard to be taken into another’s burden.
“It won’t be long now.” Arminius reassured him, though his comrade was still unconvinced. “A few leagues away at most.” Feeling the grit roughen on his face as they marched, he narrowed his eyes from the blow of dust and the sweat that dripped from his lashes.
His comrades had not noticed until the lancer had brought it up to mention. When the wind picked up, it was warm and sharp, blasted from the clouds that had become heavier. It was as if the sky was falling, sunken by a dark plume of smoke. But ahead, the commander was a sight of composure. In lead and riding, swaying atop a creature tired, leaning back on the saddle which was hooked with a swinging shako, he had been listening and had listened every day to them who would surprise him with their stories and experiences. The major had grown attentive to their conversations, perhaps intrigued too, and for once, he decided, that he might as well chime in before the uncertainties of battle were cast before them. Not with a single thought of wanting to boast but to understand more of his own century who he had barely known for twenty-one days. Since their arrival on the continent, marching was all they knew, without a blink of rest.
Keeping his reins tight around his hand, he shook his other to warm his blood again and asked, feeling the same change in the air too, “How could you tell?”
The squad had faded into silence and fell back into line. Upon the beginnings of what felt like any conversation with Ascot, the lancer’s comrades muted themselves and let him answer in the spotlight.
Innocent in his expression, Arminius was the only to tilt his head up to address his commander. “Instinct.” The boy gave a carefree response.
But rather than angering or saddening him with a reminder of his past, a chuckle ignited out of Codrington who returned with a smirk. “Instinct.” The major loudly repeated but softened his words and smile into that of a soldier who had been traumatized by his mistakes. “Instinct is what got us all nearly killed.”
The troops’ faces were in disbelief, thinking that he was indirectly attacking another when a light popped into the commander’s head who thought, judging from their awkward looks, that he had wrongly phrased his meaning.
Knowing that they mistook his words, Codrington looked over his shoulder and affirmed, “Oh no, not Ascot, never.” The grin fell from his face as he steered himself ahead once more. “But the old men who stubbornly held onto their island.” He retold the same story that the former cadets’ instructor had repeated many times over, until which, it could not have been a lie.
Drawing out his compass, sealed within a glass case, the major needed not any markings except for the red paint of the needle pointing wherever it was that was due north. The pointer turned to his left, and at an angle, he raised his arm to command. His century diverged from the main paved road and turned, following on, onto the soft field path. It had been trekked through many times, no doubt by fleeing farmers and army contingents. The grass had been reduced to seeds and the track had been trodden over for years until it had become rocky and uneven, hideously shaped from the dried hunks of mud molded when the earth was still wet. Every soldier had to be cautious, else they place one wrong foot on the narrow path and they would fall into the irrigation ditches that lined the corridor down a field of wheat. All there was around was a golden green. Not quite ready for harvest but their time was soon near. However, that year, it would be determined by luck for whether harvesting season would ever come. The gunfire crept overnight and the thunder would one day roll over the hills of the lands. Landowners and their farmers hoped to receive their last reapings whilst the soldiers of the century who marched through their toil sought to guarantee that chance.
“We were never told the whole truth…” Arminius mentioned, looking at his comrades who were half focused on their steps and half distracted by the wheat that some had never the chance to admire so closely, and told, “Only the aftermath.”
Riding onwards, the major gushed out a sound of a displeased sigh. Not against anything in particular but maybe it was to himself. “Because it is embarrassing, really, to tell it to someone who does not understand.” Codrington admitted, failing to omit his shame in his tone.
The clouds scattered and were washed away. In replacement, there was a putrid smoke, that paired with the hot summer day, was reminding of a scent of barbecue. Those who knew best knew it was nothing of the sort. Those who did not, who were blanketed with a chastise mind, would soon be stolen of any innocent passion of soldiering.
Codrington took a deep breath and exhaled all his troubles that had imprisoned him for two decades, knowing it was better to take his hatred and annoyance and translate it into words rather than hide it within himself, “There was a road that only locals knew of.” Straightening his back which felt the cold memory pinching his spine, the major recalled, “A backdoor into the rear of the Danner army.”
Reserved to himself, Julien kept behind Arminius, fearful of the wrath of his commander if he ever knew a Danner resided among his ranks. For long, Arminius had been consumed by the story and had forgotten about his fatigue. When he noticed his friend retreating behind him, he was suddenly reminded by the aches of bearing the banner. Nudging Gin, he shoved the standard into his helm again without ever asking and freed himself of the struggle in trade of another’s suffering even if it would reignite the brute’s furnace.
“It would have won us the battle or the war, perhaps.” Shaking his head, Codrington imaged his past yet his eyes were fixated on reality. “But he was still young and could not discern between the right and correct.” said the major.80Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnnaq2n2cb1
