Disclaimer: I do not own the characters to Garfield and Calvin and Hobbes.
They are owned by Jim Davis and Bill Watterson respectfully. I do, however, own Dilger, Miller and his Grays.
News up to now was good, very good indeed. General Rats was proving to be a valuable counterpart. He led his division forward in a sweeping attack that had driven back those wretched dogs away from his beloved town, thus, preserving their hold for now. High above, kitty jets screamed highly as they roared off from their airstrip towards the south in search of targets and to aid the advance. Only one of their number had been lost, from ground fire. Other than that, the jocks were having the time of their lives in strafing and bombing the retreating units of Dilger's command whom were utterly helpless to combat them. One even remarked that they looked like little cockroaches down there and they were the exterminators to cleanse the earth of their dirty touch. That job fell to the ground crunchers, regular infantry, whom were hitching rides on passing trucks and tanks in order to keep up. Some even joked that the enemy was retreating faster than they could advance. In order to combat the ambushes that small units were thwarting the drive, aircraft, under ground control, would bomb and strafe the area, then tanks raked it with machine gun and cannon fire. Infantry would then enter to clean up any survivors, usually, there was none.
There was little fight, it seems, left in the dogs the further they drove them back. The ambushes were becoming ill frequent, the routine was proving effective. When one ambush did occur, it was often brief but bloody. A tank rolled with infantry on top, hitching a ride. Molotov cocktails were often used, and the dogs aimed for the open commander's hatch. When one smashed and ignited inside the compartment, riflemen concealed in the countryside, opened up as the crewmen and infantry bailed out. A second tank would come up and pepper the area with machine gun fire. That was enough for the dogs to break off. Anyone too slow or wounded was left behind for dead, it was a sad fact of life.
Despite the growing losses, Dilger encouraged these brave units to do their best in order to stave off the cats advance so he could organize his command for a proper defense. Demolition squads were blowing down trees, creating an abatis, a makeshift barricade or tearing down bridges whenever possible, it bought minutes. Just down the road, Dilger was swamped by all the stragglers, wounded, and cowards whom were struggling to get by in order to preserve their lives. There was little command and control, obliviously, wounded were trampled underneath the weight of others, equipment was abandoned, their was no hope.
"Sir," said one of his aides to a sullen Dilger, "There is little for you to do here. There is a truck close by waiting to take you back to Indianapolis."
"No," Dilger refused, "I will not abandon my troops. There is a way, there always is. Send a message for anyone with a vehicle to bring them up as soon as possible. Anything, trucks, cars, pintos, anything with wheels and an engine."
Jotting it down, the aide nodded in agreement and jumped off, pushed his way through the crowds in the road and made his way towards the truck. Moments later, they drove off. Dilger watched them as they disappeared then he turned his attention back towards the north as the pops of another ambush marked just how close he was.
A tray was slammed into the room, Calvin looked at it to what dim light their was from the feed tray hole. Mush, again. A box of milk this time though, and mush.
"What do they think I am?" he baulked before taking a sip, "A child?" sip.
Tap tap, tap tap
Tap tap, tap tap tap
Oh, the person in the next cell. Taking up his spoon, Calvin sat next to the wall and tapped the same in return.
A series of taps came the response. Earlier, Calvin had asked if there was any information about his friend, Hobbes.
"No"
"Damn" he cursed, sipping his drink. He wasn't going to touch the mush, just the calcium, that is what he needed. So, Hobbes was gone, perhaps forever. Still, he continued to tap back with the other cell mates to keep their spirits up.
There were thoughts of escape up to that time and everyone wanted to take part in it. But how? As Calvin listened intently, the people in the other cells tapped away their plan. It was daring and rather simple. Beginning the next morning, they were to be removed from their cells to begin work on a project of unknown origins. The guards were rather few, it was thought, and they could over power them with the numbers on hand. If their were retraints involved, one was fashioning a makeshift key to free them. Sounded good, Calvin volunteered as did fifteen others. It was settled, tomorrow, they were breaking out.
An hour had passed. At a gallop, Dilger's aide returned with some good news, the first in awhile. Since then, they had withdrew another mile further down the road and thirty of their number, mostly wounded, were left behind and subsequently captured by the cats. Their fate was unknown.
Holding up the message as he pushed his way through the throng, the aide approached a rather statue commander, sitting on a fence at the way side, watching as his beaten command limped by. Their eyes, those of the soldiers, and those of the commander never met, he kept his gaze on the enemy coming ever closer.
"Sir. Sir," the aide shouted, waving the letter, "I have news."
"What is it?" he growled.
"Sir, they are coming," coming up to his side.
"I think you are rather late for that," Dilger teased.
"No, sir, trucks. Several good humans have offered their semi trucks to transport us."
His eyes turned wide then fell on the little pup. He took up the letter and read it himself. Reading it, eyes only, it was true. Seven semis were on their way, in fact, they were already here. Their giant engines roared as they pulled up and came to a stop.
"Hop on!" the driver exclaimed to the excitement of the soldiers whom clammered into the trailers. They were sardines crammed inside, but there was enough for the majority of the command to be moved several miles down the road, to where was yet to be determined. The last to climb onboard was Dilger whom sat in the passenger seat of the lead truck.
"Where are you heading?" the man with a giant gurth covered with a flannel shirt, light beard, and red baseball cap asked calmly.
"That way" the commander pointed.
Lumbering off, a detachment of wounded took position across the road to lay yet another ambush while up above, three aircraft circled about like buzzards. They could see the trucks and began to go into an attack.
Gunning the engines, the drivers put the petal to the metal to gain speed as the aircraft pounced on them. Guns firing, they scored several hits on two of the trucks and there were casualties. With the trailer doors open, the dogs fired back with their small arms. It was pitiful but it was better than sitting their enduring it. The planes quickly circled about and came on again, this time they dropped three bombs. As they pulled up, the number 3 plane rocked violently. Lieutenant Gulf looked over his shoulder to see his number 1 engine aflame. Damn. He broke formation and returned to base where he crash landed. The airfield was temporarily out of action for now. That would change once the second one was completed.
The bombs he and others dropped all missed their targets. Aside from rocking the trucks and the panic of tipping over, the dogs were unaffected. The other two planes broke off their attack, out of fuel, leaving the dogs to fall back.
To where now became apparent. Reading a map, Dilger found that there was an irrigation ditch close by. The cats had crossed that before on their conquest towards the capital, now it lay dormant.
"Take us there," he told the driver, pointing to a mere line on the map.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
"Yes, we won't go any further."
When the ditch came up, the drivers pulled off the road. When they stopped, the dogs jumped out.
"Hurry up! Move." officers shouted, pushing and kicking the back sides of soldiers. To where? Into the ditch they cried. Are they nuts? Perhaps. Get in. The ditch was empty, bone dry. Many were parched of thirst and sought to quench themselves by going towards other irrigation ditches, only to come up empty.
Soldiers lined up, dressing their ranks, getting themselves organized. Machine guns were placed to cover the flanks, ammunition was distributed, and the wounded or those to ill to carry on were loaded back onboard the trucks as they drove off towards the capital, promising to return with supplies and more troops.
As they milled about in their hole, Dilger stood behind them. His voice was hoarse, but he mustered up enough to speak loudly, "Dogs! Fellow soldiers. This is the last line. We will not go back any further! We will not be pushed about by tick covered felines. If we fall, we fall here than retreat any further!"
A joyous roar broke out, "Not one step back."
At the same time the dogs were rallying, Garfield was in recession. He still had not removed himself from the confines of his war room.
"My leader, we are still working on your weapons. Scientists have just completed the warheads and the bodies are almost finished as well."
Still unsatisfied, Garfield sighed and slumped backwards into his seat. Messengers came and went with news of Rats counter attack. It was ticking towards dusk and he had progressed over seven miles beyond enemy lines. It was a great day, a time to dine and celebrate, and yet, the leader refused to even drink water. When a message arrived from the general, asking for additional reinforcements to tie up his flanks and request permission to halt and dig in for the night, he did not send out a reply. No additional troops were ordered out to assist. Rats had only 20,000 soldiers and two battalions of kitty tanks encountering stiffer opposition. Twenty five of his tanks were smoldering at the way side, crew members slain as they attempted escape lay suspended from their hatches.
"My leader," he continued, "They are also working on your second project. They are working faster than any other group."
Rapping his fingers on the table, Garfield sighed as he remembered what his second project was. It was rather silly, science fiction, but he threatened to shoot the scientists if they did not finish it soon.
"Tell those fools, the portal must be open by tomorrow," he commanded.
"Tomorrow, sir?"
"Yes. Tomorrow"
"sir, they just commenced with the project today. They cannot…"
"I said tomorrow!" slamming his fist onto the table.
Garfield was fuming mad, his tanks were just fuming smoke and flame. One of them lay smouldering on the road. Wilcox was on point of his squad. He approached the tank with fear. It looked like a giant hammer had hit it, front end smashed and scorched. When close enough, he reached out and touch the back end, the engine compartment, it was hot to the touch. Moving towards its bow at a crouch position, Wilcox could now see down the road. Off in the far distance was a cluster of cats, standing on the road, all looking to the south, unaware. If they were close, their hundreds of comrades had to be as well. Convinced the way was blocked, Wilcox returned to the sergeant to notify him of the news.
"Damn", the sergeant cursed, "We cant go around them we might as well wait
here."
His followers looked at him puzzled. We cant break through this line. We will have to wait till dark before we can make another attempt to get back to Dilger.
Groans began to rumble. It was hot and there was no water. Close by were three dogs, cut down in a retreat.
"I bet they have water", said one private, dehydrated, tongue dangling from his open mouth.
"Don't even think it", the sergeant growled thinking the same thing.
"We need water, perhaps they have some food on them as well", Wilcox nudged at his side.
He gave in. Crawling on his knees and elbows, Wilcox scurried out. He ignored the notion that a sniper was out there, possibly taking a bead on him. Didnt matter. He made it to the bodies and found one canteen rather quickly. Holding it in his hand, he felt the warm liquid draining through his fingers. Damn, it was punctured. Crawling over to the next one, it was empty as well and there was no food in his haversack. A cat must have be
here. One left, this time there was half a bottle full left. Better than nothing. With a smile, the Dalmatian returned with his booty. The squad was rather upset to the fact that it could have been more, but they split up what little there was between them and flaked out and waited as the war went on with out them.
This is bad, Dilger moaned as he looked at his line. It was not the best in the world and he was fearful that this would be the last battle. Even wounded were put into place. If they could carry a rifle, they could fight. What ever thought he had, the German Shepard kept it to himself. Fear was contagious in the battlefield. One hint of fear and the ranks could break.
Sitting down in a pile of dirt, the commander looked at what was in front of him. A field separated his irrigation ditch and a pair of rolling hills just beyond. This place was good. The vegetation here was green and abloom. Must have been feed plenty of water from the farmer. Where he sat now must have been a corn field, judging from the kernels some were picking up and eating raw. The semis were empty now and were sent back to the rear with the many wounded and told to bring up rations and above all ammunition. There was precious little left. A general lack of any heavy weapons besides a few bazookas and machine guns gave a sense of dread.
Stretched out in a long thin line, with perhaps one soldier for every five feet, Dilger waited as the first tanks rumbled up. Undetected, the dogs waited as they drew closer. Next came the infantry directly behind.
Officers were heard shouting above the roar of the engines to dress the lines. Units were jumbled up in the move and they sought to clean it up. There was no hurry or excitement in their voices. They tasted victory. To everyone's surprise, the cats stopped right before the entrenchment. Tanks were parked and crews came out, soldiers were on parade, in formation with rifles slung over their shoulders. Scouts and a few patrols were sent out
to make contact and the dogs were waiting. What few antitank weapons there were on hand were taking aim at their targets. Some mines were there as well.
A sheet of flame and the cats tumbled back in horror.
Just as quickly as the cats redressed their line, it came apart. Some sought shelter behind the tanks as the crews brought their guns into play.
BOOM
BOOM
The 37mm cracked again and again. Their aim was the muzzle flashes of the rifles. Dogs were well concealed behind the growth. They merely dropped down into the ditch and avoided the heavy return fire. Cats could not do that. One fell over there as he attempted to run towards a tank. Another turned coward and tried to flee, but was gunned down by a security officer.
The dogs aim was pure. Three tanks were struck and burning with intense heat. Even 500 feet away, Rats claimed to feel the heat as the ammunition began to be set off.
Take your battalion and attempt to flank them, Rats ordered the jittery officer whom relented in his request to move back towards the hills.
Were going to be alone out there, sir, replied Captain Hawkings
Do it! I have spoken. We will give you support. he turned to another battalion commander and gave him the same order to march on the other flank. This pincer movement, it was hoped, would punch through the line, isolate this strong point and overwhelm it. What tanks were left went into action. Moving parallel to their enemy, tankers concealed the soldiers as they began to move. Firing white phosphorous shells, the battalion moved towards their staging area. It was an ad hoc movement, just keep going. Some were not even part of the original battalion, they just moved where everyone else did. It was fear and panic on a grand scale. Private Du Mont, an alias from his real name, Spot, was hiding behind a knocked out tank when the call came to move out. Looking around, he saw officers sprinting off, grabbing the shoulders and arms of those laying prone to avoid the enemy fire, berating them to get moving or be killed. It was only natural that soldiers bunch up in battle. There were seven others with him, hiding when an officer came and yelled to follow him. This they did. Running right behind the officer, Du Mont kept his head down as bullets whizzed right past his head. So much so that he looked down and stared at the floor. All he could see was his feet which felt like jelly. Suddenly, there was a great wind that picked him up and hurled him directly over the officer in front of him. His world went blank. When he awoke some time later, a medic was there applying bandages to his back and hip.
What happened? he asked him.
"You beat the captain in the race", the medic joked.
When the battalion was ready, the captain looked over to see what his soldiers would be facing against and did not like it. A solid line of green with sharp points of dogs battling it out. This was not going to be like before, he thought. They were not going to flee. There was one radio that was still working and he put in a request for air support. Hopes were high that those jocks would put a few bombs down the gullet, but to their horror, the planes could not be raised and they soon disappeared back towards the north, out of fuel. Damn. There were still tanks though, and they were chattering away at anything that moved.
WOOSH
BAM!
Another one went up in flames. The crew never had a chance.
Damn, could not stay here any longer. Either attack or retreat. The place was open and they were taking fire, accurate at that. An officer at Captain Hawkings side was shot through the head. Never giving a whimper, he just slumped forward into the soil. Alright then. Jumping up to his feet, Hawkings sprinted towards the nearest tank and ordered him to charge for the foliage.
"Are you nuts?" the tank commander shouted.
"Do it! Keep firing. Well be right behind you," Hawkings yelled, red in the face.
The commander was still reluctant to do so. It was certain death to go forward, but he did it. Speaking into his radio set, the tank lumbered forward with two others closely behind. Behind this wall of steel, the infantry came up, using the tanks as shields. They made up, closer and closer, 100 yards then 50 when a tank was hit directly and exploded with a giant ball of yellow and red flame. Fragments tore into Hawkings face, neck, and chest. He went down severely wounded and the attack was stalled. His radio man was also killed. The cats retreated, but the tanks kept going forward, oblivious to the fact that their support was gone. In rapid succession, these last two were destroyed and every crew member killed.
Over to the right, there was no luck at all. Their attack never materialized. Soldiers were laying prone, avoiding the fire, and not one was firing back. Why? No officers. Every single one was dead and sergeants were trying to keep everything going. Seeing them, General Rats descended down and personally ordered the highest ranking cat he could find to get it going.
"I can't" the sergeant whined, "They refused to budge."
"If you don't get this going, I will personally shoot you." producing a pistol.
Gulping hard, the sergeant turned and gathered up all of the other sergeants. Together, they rallied the soldiers to get them going and finally got under way and were promptly shattered. Seven times this battalion surged forward in a wild melee. Yelling an awful scream, firing wildly without support, they were easily gunned down every time they came up and never once would the cats so much as touch the enemy lines. Seven times they came up and were thrown back as many times, each time, they inched closer, but after the seventh time, there were too few left to carry the line and they hunkered down, using the bodies of their slain, laying up to three deep in some areas, for cover and to await night fall before withdrawing. Seeing his foe being cut down by a giant scythe, Dilger begged for a chance to launch a counter attack. He prayed, crossed his fingers, and hopped, skipped, and jumped around inside the line for a chance to hit them back.
Rats was thinking the same thing. Just a chance to hit them back. "Just one more", he thought, "and we can break that line". For him, it was put into motion with the last five functioning tanks he had. He watched them from a knoll from afar as his soldiers went in. Cannons booms and machine guns chattered as the line surged forward with remarkable beauty and precision. Officers did their job in ushering their soldiers on, dressing their lines, sergeants kept the ranks from breaking, and the tanks shattered enemy strong points with their 37mm guns. Dense smoke from burning grass shrouded them 200 yards shy of the enemy lines, and it was there that Rats lost visual contact. None of them carried hand radios. All he could do now was wait and pray all the while, medical personnel, completely overwhelmed, were removing the immense amount of wounded to be taken back to Muncie.
Five thunderous booms shook the country side one after the other. Good lord! What happened? Five funeral pyres, generating enough heat that it illuminated through the smoke. Where were the troops? Gone like the wind. They were swallowed up whole in the abyss of battle. Sad. So sad. Several of the staff began to weep at the injustice of it all. So many a good cat were put to waste. Allies lay dead or dying all around them and despite the promise of victory, there was none to be had. It was all in vain.
Fighting to hold back his own tears, Rats turned to his staff, issue an order for a withdrawal. Were going back. he staggered onto his aching paws on .
"Where to, sir?" one of them asked.
After a brief pause, Back to Muncie. he said quietly before lumbering off down the north slope of the hill.
Signals and verbal orders were given over the din for the withdrawal. Wounded, those able to walk did so, those too severe were stowed onboard vehicles, crammed like sardines, and the dead were left where they fell.
Rats corps was horribly shaken but they were still alive for the most part. There was some dismal about being forced to go back into the trenches. Still, they had won themselves some small sense of victory in driving back those wretched dogs. For their blood, they must have inflicted thousands of casualties, numbers that would take weeks or months to replace. Once more, their great leader was taking in more followers and it was only a matter of time before another counter offensive would take place and thus end this siege. Flanked by the harsh fields and the scorching sun from above, the cats marched, or lumbered forth. The hard surface road was terrible on their raw padded feet. When trucks were available, hundreds climbed onboard to hitch a ride back, but most were stuck to walking. Rations were unavailable. Having gone for a full day without food or water, many also rummaged through the kits of slain comrades or dogs to quench their hunger and thirst.
Marching past the burnt out depot, heaps of bodies lay about, frozen in place by rigamortis, some with limbs stretching for the sky. Ghastly sight that many closed their eyes or turned away to avoid but they could not avoid the sharp smell of burning flesh and hair. Their only sense of haste was to get clear of the mess, other than that, the cats pace was real crawl. Casual walk and trot on the road, some even fell out to rest in the shade of trees to remove thorns from their paws. The rear guard was moving back slowly, but the dogs seemed to lack the will power to attack. Why? They have suffered as well. Dilger, though survived this battle, he was battered almost to death. His command was on the verge of total collapse. Losses were heavy and they had held on only by their finger nails. It must have been luck of Gods good grace. A few patrols were sent out and found only dead cats to their front. What cohesion remained was used to organize a proper defense, wounded were removed, and supplies brought up. Everything was a mess because of the surprise of the attack. Much of their equipment was lost, medicine, ammunition, and weapons. It would be hard to have these replaced.
"What do you see?" Miller asked.
Propped on a fat rock, looking through a set of binoculars, Private Hays of the Grays took a glance of what looked like a giant slung moving towards town at a snail's pace.
"I think it's a slug" he remarked, removing the piece from his eyes. They were far away to the north but could see the dim fires of the tanks to the south.
Taking a look for himself, Miller was surprised to see it.
"What do you think it is?" Hays asked his commander.
"That, my friend, is the great feline race," Miller replied with a smile. Hays smiled back and continued to watch them. If he looked harder, perhaps he could see Dilger as he tried to be everywhere at once, the great German Shepard tried to clean up the bloody mess that was the army. Those semi trucks had kept their word and returned to the trench over loaded with supplies and other necessities, including tables, medicine, lights, and tools to set up two field stations to care for the wounded. However, there were only four vets and a handful of volunteers challenged by 2,000 wounded, counting the enemy wounded that were left behind. Luckily, they were also given several quarts of whiskey. A nip every hour was enough to keep them awake as they removed bullets, covered burns, and stitched cuts. Food was available, not a feast, but enough to savor their appetite for the night. Some beef and fish and water. Fires began to pop up despite the order for a black out. The smell of cooking meat filled the air as the soldiers grouped up to share what they had, to tell stories, and to have a shoulder to lean on. So many were lost this day, friends and family. From the country side came the song, "Home Sweet Home" as they thought about a place of safe haven, solace from this nightmare.
Outside the trench, the wounded and dead cats were helpless. Many thought that patrols would come along and kill them out of revenge. Beating them to the punch, some tok their own lines rather than be taken prisoner. Tanks, brewing up, began to explode as their ammunition ignited, sending up a shower of metal and flame, illuminating those trying to crawl away back towards home. Others could not take it. Either unwilling to die by their own hand or unable to, they begged their foe to do it.
"For gods sake man, kill me and end my misery", one screamed to a passing dog.
For some reason, despite the hatred he had for the cats, and the killing that he had done all day, the dog could not do it. He couldn't pull the trigger. Relaxing, he went back to his line and came back with a blanket, wrapped up the cat in it, and carried him back to a vet to care for him. Along the way, he died.
One of the last actions to take place came when the sergeant, Wilcox and the squad came up from the north. The first officer they met was Dilger whom was less than thrilled to see them.
"Where in the hell have you been!" he screamed, "Were all of you frolicking in the flowers?"
Tired, hungry, raw, and at his wits end, the sergeant replied, With all due respect, sir..blow it out your ass".
When night finally put an end to the mayhem, the dogs had not moved a single inch from their lines. Instead, they hunkered down, licked their wounds, and prepared to try again to cat on Garfield and his followers….