April 9, 1836 - Southwest of Naggiar
Dust, dust, dust. If Edel Wagner was at all bothered by the insidious haze being thrown up by hundreds of Gallian men on the march, he gave no outward sign of it.
"Hey, Sergeant!" one of the new privates called. "How long are we going to have to march back here behind the 44th?"
"For one thing, we've only been marching in this position for the last two hours," Edel shot back. "For another, you always complain about everything anyway. So stow it, Private Regard."
Suitably chastened, the Private marched along with no further comment.
Wolffe dropped back to march alongside Edel, glancing back over his shoulder. "Sheesh, give the kid a break, Edel. Don't you remember your first long march?"
"Yes, but I didn't complain about it nearly as much as he has," Edel said, his attention still fixed on the ranks. "As a matter of fact, no one here complains as much as Regard does."
Wolffe snorted. "Well, that's certainly true. But there are always a few goldbricks in every squad, you know?"
"Is that any reason for me to tolerate them?" Edel asked irritably, finally turning back to face the other sergeant.
"No, but just lighten up, 'right?" Wolffe remarked cheerfully. "No reason to be serious all the time just because you're the only doctor around here."
"'Lighten up'?" Edel repeated acridly. "In case you haven't noticed, I am not only the sole field surgeon moving up with this company, but I am also the Staff Sergeant of a combat unit. There is no place in that equation for the action of 'Lighten up'."
Wolffe shrugged and sped up his pace to escape Edel's glare. After a few minutes of maintaining his black mood, Edel sighed. It wasn't Wolffe's fault, really. It was simply the fact that being the only soldier with any form of proper surgical training (field hospitals didn't count) for miles around happened to make for a rather stressful situation, one that was aggravated with his associated medical responsibility for other's lives. Coupled with the responsibilities of being the only Staff Sergeant in the company, the load tended to place Edel on edge whenever the unit was deployed.
The state the unit was in certainly didn't help. New equipment had been hastily issued barely hours before the march had begun. Uniforms maintained their sharp creases, while stubborn remnants of packing sawdust still clung to the odd rifle.
The unit was now beginning to enter a series of marshlands formed around the fork of two rivers Edel had never even heard of. Men cursed as the gluey mud started to suck at their boots. Cheslock tramped over to Edel, struggling with the weight of his heavy grenadier's equipment in the mud's vacuum. "Imps picked a great location, forcing us to march through this shit. We'll still be dripping this crap by the time we get to them." The man paused to wrench his boot from a particularly deep patch of muck, muttering darkly to himself. "It's odd though. The Imperial brand of stupid isn't very partial to defense."
"True, but we did chase an Imperial garrison out of Gallia last year. Perhaps they've finally wised up," Edel said with a rare smile. It wouldn't do to alienate Cheslock as well.
"I liked them better when they were idiots," Cheslock spat, taken aback at his superior's rare levity.
Edel was about to reply when one of the privates marching in front of them slipped and fell in the mud. A foul-smelling puddle cut off his string of oaths.
"Sarge, you think we'll sink further if we try to rescue the guy?" Cheslock asked as they walked over and reached to pluck the man out.
Edel didn't answer; his mind already on the battle ahead. Will the men really be alright? We're completely...
"-unprepared!" Ehren Gunther bellowed at a hapless engineer standing in front of half-completed bulwark of sandbags. "If you slack-jawed dummkopfen don't pick up the pace, the Gallians will eat us alive!"
"We already outnumber them sir...I don't see why it matters," the engineer muttered mutinously.
"Why does it matter?" Gunther proceeded to tell the engineer, in highly original and explicit ways, just how the Gallians would proceed to make it matter to him very much indeed.
"Hauptmann Gunther . . . a word with you, if you please." Franz's soft-spoken voice came from behind Gunther as the engineer turned back to his work.
"Just one moment, sir," Gunther said as he clambered out of the trench. "What can I do for you?"
"Well, I came by to see how things were, but you seem to have them admirably in hand. If you don't mind me asking... do you intend to put Feldwebel Czherny out of a job?" Franz asked as an amused twinkle appeared in his eye.
"Oh, I was just . . . instilling some vigor in the man, sir," Gunther replied with a sheepish grin.
"Very well, carry on then," Franz chuckled. "In all seriousness though, let the noncommissioned officers do their jobs, and focus on your own. The command structure is there for a reason, you know."
"I'll keep it in mind, sir"
"Good. On the purpose of my visit, how are the fortifications coming?"
"Fairly well, sir. Most are completed, and the rest should be finished by this evening. As we hold the high ground, I can guarantee that we'll give the Gallians a warm welcome."
"Very good Hauptmann. Keep me informed of any developments from the forward pickets. As you were."
Gunther clicked his heels smartly. "Sir!" He turned back to the trenches as Franz rode away. The Colonel was an acknowledged master on the defensive. If the Gallians wished to take his works, they would have to pay dearly for them. Gunther intended they would never get anywhere near them.
Authors Note: Thanks to Markal and Chiemiangel for the beta.