The Purpose of Conflict: Chapter Nine- The Fourth Dacian War IV
20/10/1924/ Central Transylvania, Principality of Dacia / Remains of Imperial Convoy / 15:12
Marshal Tóth stood over the writhing body of an Imperial invader. A captured Luger resting in his hand, unaimed at the dying man despite putting down several other invaders during the combat. Rather than empty the chamber he decided against the easier option of slaughter and put it back into the pocket of his coat. Retrieving bandages and a needle he got on his knees next to the Invader. So hamstrung was the insurgent movement that their leader could not provide a holster or medicine bag.
Delicately rolling the injured onto his back in the manner he would wake one of his children when they were sick in bed. Bracing the soldier to be treated next to the burning wreckage of his tank.
The Imperial had red, white, and black stains across his face and upper body. It is a painful look but not likely lethal. He must have torn his outer layer of clothes when he jumped from the tank. The new experimental incendiary mines the Republic provided them were best used against lighter targets so the bigger vehicle took enough of the initial shock for at least one crewman to scramble out. Now he had to take care of someone who barely looked to be in his twenties. It might be more merciful to end it. But he could not make that decision on another man's behalf. It was only his responsibility alone to treat him.
Tóth stuck the needle into the boy's arm, immediately as the morphine took effect and the movements of pain lessened. He was not too experienced with burns this severe, so he dipped his bandages in the water from his canteen and slowly wrung them onto the chest of the boy. Nothing visibly changed but it did not entice the man to react against the painkiller. Heat still radiated off the damaged flesh but at a lessened extravagance after repeated soakings from the canteen.
The gunfire died out with the end of the fight, and his men were in the process of looting what remained from the cargo or their protectors. He forbade killing unarmed or injured in these situations unless it was an act of absolute mercy. Minutes ago, he had to use the luger to enact mercy on what was left of the tank driver. That ringing sound had stopped echoing off the forest surrounding the road now, the internalised guilt the only lingering reminder to the act. Instead, he could use this medication while others started bringing the loot back to the tunnel entrance.
"Lieutenant." Tóth turned his head to the man who thought he was calling him, mistaken on the rank. The stare put discipline back into the colleague. It was one of the founding men that knew of his old rank. Once a Sergeant turned officer after those devils with magic wiped out the vanguard. Meaning his position was entirely owed to Tóth and could easily be unmade in more ways than the firearm in reach.
The fear that the gun might be turned against him for insubordination was what granted him extra legitimacy. Tóth became a leader through his knowledge of the tunnels and tactics, but it was that threat of brute force which ensured the continued loyalty of his men. Dacia belonged to him, not Horváth, the Empire or that blasted prince. He would not be disrespected by being addressed as a mere lieutenant. "
"Marshal. There's news from a runner."
"What is it?" He stood up from the injured Invader. Scratching the blonde hair on his head and signalling to another green shirt to join them.
"Another three tunnel routes have been attacked. We'll need to draw the raids further back."
"Don't you tell me what we have to do. Unless you think you can do a better job leading us?"
The officer denied it and apologised for his faults. Unaddressed by Toth since he was more interested in telling the grunt to gather the Imperial prisoners that were with the burned man. That was the third attack in the past two days, raided by infantry or those infernal mages that cut through men without resistance or regret. These would only increase as the war went on, in sync with their own assaults diminishing into nothing at all.
There was confusion among his small court of loyalists as to how the Empire knew of the old mining tunnels that dotted the country. In each of these meetings, Tóth would have to bite his tongue and play ignorant. Fully aware of how this development was made.
Hinko, that boy. He instructed him to bury that box out in the field where no one would find it, yet each of their transportation tunnels was being sealed up as he thought. He thought trusting him alone to preserving their backups would be a smart idea. The Imperials must have gotten to him and his family to get those maps. There was no other possibility. He never wanted to go back home while the war was waged but it was the only way to get his old mining maps. If his army found out about his secret he would need more than a pistol to maintain his position.
If the Imperials beat a confession out of that boy there would be hell to pay for the Empire. If not, then Herta could not do anything to stop him from teaching young Hinko a deserved lesson in talking to strangers.
Tóth wrung another section of water over the injured man. The conclusion making him realise the surviving Imperials were at arm's length away; their translator leading the small pack. He stood up and stared into the eyes of each man glaring at him with either hatred or fear.
"Tell them they will have their hands and feet bound when we leave. We'll leave their knives so they can cut themselves free. They can wait for aid and treat their wounded."
The translator acted out his profession, letting Tóth walk up to his previously disobedient officer. Whispering loudly to cull the man's ambition to call him a mere lieutenant again.
"I fought against the Magna Rumeli in the Balkan war. I dug in those infernal iron mines for much of my youth. I won't see our country die at the hands of the Empire. Not after all we've done for it. Not after all I have done."
"What are your orders, sir?" Tóth pondered the options. They could only do as the officer said and retreat. However, there were other factors to take into consideration. The only decent part about Dacia's divided leadership was the ability to promise concessions to another without touching your own resources.
"We need to contact the Federation. Tell the runner to ready a radio for when we're done here. I doubt that idiot Horváth will have the guts to do what is necessary for Dacia to survive. We'll give them whatever they want for support."
30/10/1924/ Outskirts of Lasi, Principality of Dacia / Grassy Field, Temporary 44th Beneficiarius Brigade Camp / 05:49
Brigadier Oscar Donahue surveyed his officers, all dressed to resemble Dacians rather than the Unitary Beneficiarius they truly were.
The aftertaste of whisky lingered on his tongue, yet he still felt the need for another swig when he talked about this topic. They had liberated some vile Țuică from another Dacian settlement, a rancid plum-like drink that went down reluctantly. Even that repugnant filth would be suitable for today.
If only he could reach for his flask in front of his subordinates. He would need it for today's mission.
"After your units pack up get ready to march out. Ensure all company badges and medals are removed. Everything." Donahue paused, all eyes still on him. "If it links back to the Unitary it has to be left with the artillery team."
On that sour note, he shifted topics to one of his sub-commanders. "Have we managed to secure another horse team from the Dacians?"
"I sent a platoon to requisition some from the nearby farms. They should be back soon."
"Good. We can't let those things slow us down today." Donahue knew why they needed the heavy guns, even if they were at times a hindrance for travel.
More rounds of orders circled through the officers of varying ranks, after all, was addressed, they could formally end the meeting. One more significant point needed to be touched upon briefly, with the seriousness it deserved.
"Gentlemen. I don't mind a bit of force to carry out the mission but keep all looting in order. You find anyone on top of a woman you execute them."
There was no protest.
Donahue scratched his moustache and waited for the confirmation to be said aloud. Good, he never liked working with rapists; too inefficient and self-indulgent. "We move at the hour. Dismissed."
They all saluted and returned to their squadrons, not one word said in passing while the Brigadier was in earshot.
Donahue let out a sigh and started the walk back to his tent. Regretful that he shared the space with that idiot guide still within. Now would be the time for another mouthful of whisky. But it needed to be rationed out over the day. He was down to his last bottle and needed it to last the remainder of the expedition. Lest he be forced to drink the sludge produced by Dacian residence.
His tent was still standing with numerous soldiers scurrying in and out to take away equipment in crates. Those saluting their brigade commander when he approached or standing at attention if their arms were burdened. What well-trained men he oversaw, all chipper and orderly despite the early hour, perhaps even excited for the mission of the day. One held open the tent flap for him, unintentionally letting out the blathering of the curse of this mission.
One final day. One more day with that fool then he would be rid of him.
Their Dacian representative was assigned by Commander Horváth. A local guide and irritatingly enthusiastic boy.
Donahue had served with a handful of guides in the Sino-Albion-Akitsushiman war. Back when he was still in his teens and fought for the old King.
That felt like a lifetime ago, it might as well have been. A life before the Queen ascended to the throne to aid in the Commonwealth's destruction. Before she got the great fleet destroyed in the Russy-Akitsushiman war and had half the army freeze to death fighting communists in the Russy civil war.
This guide, however, was without particular use and was an annoying little toad instead. Thinking of it made him whisper a reminder to himself before entering what was left of his tent.
"One more day Oscar."
He walked into the Dacian harassing one of his men with frivolous questions. Curious about Albion and the war effort of his home. The poor man stayed silent and focused on packaging a small tea set before exiting – visibly relieved to see the Brigadier take his place.
Donahue was greeted cheerfully by the man, given a salute, and wished for a "happy day today."
If only he knew.
Donahue was old enough to be the boy's father and had the mutual features to maintain that charade. Black fluffy hair not yet balding, a thick moustache and brown eyes standing out among fair skin. His flesh is devoid of scars, war experience or the cynicism that tainted his existence since Daqin.
Donahue might feel guilty if the youthful inexperience of Corporal Adebu did not manifest in endless talking. The mind-wandering cost him, shaking his head, needing to ask for the question to be repeated. Not that Corporal Adebu seemed to mind.
"I was just saying that it was unfortunate we can't head south to fight the Imperials. You all brought some impressive firepower. It could really be useful against the main breakthrough."
"You don't think far ahead. If we focus on one portion we will neglect the rest of the line. Meaning you negate the advantages of defence in the mountains." Donahue scratched his face again, preparing to gather the last remaining valuables that he would take on his person for the march. His gas mask casing put to the side momentarily while he disinterestedly answered. "Our orders are to recruit the next village to reinforce that line."
"I know but-"
Donahue cut in prematurely. "End of discussion."
The young officer nodded along, hinting at embarrassment for his desires. "I'm sorry Brigadier. If the orders come from Commander Horváth then we must act as you say."
Donahue confirmed the rare motion of reason from the man, lying through his roughened skin in the process. Not that it would be of any consequence. He might care if the child-minded fool had not pestered him for several days.
He acquired the personal items his men were not permitted to pack up. Speaking further to the pest over his shoulder without turning around. "When we get there, make sure the first thing you do is get the civilians in order. My men can take better care once they are divided into groups."
"Then I am to stay with you, sir?" The Dacian questioned and Donahue sighed. One step closer to breaking his cover earlier than required. Instead, he did that of a soldier: remained level-headed and maintained control of the situation. In a more perfect world, he could send Adebu out of the tent with a boot lodged in his rear-end, but that would have to wait. Instead, he dismissed the Corporal to go bring round the horses.
The gift of silence would not last for long, however. The vestiges of the camp were being taken down; the earlier soldier came in to remind him of this fact. Donahue collected the last of his things and bid the man finish packing up.
The bulky computation orb resting in the palm of his hand, weighing the same as the revolver on his hip. The surface branded with the faces to which his country swore itself. Few of the brigade members were magically able and he often had to take control of both. For today, there would be no need for this ugly metal disk. It could be left in his pouch today, idle like the ridable flight gear left-back in the Unitary.
Not awaiting a response from Adebu and heading to the Brigade forming to march on the dirt road.
It felt nice to be back in the saddle of a horse. In the Daqin war, he only had a handful of occasions as a private where we rode as a cavalryman. It stood out as a rarity from the standard haunting memories of forced marches through all kinds of environments and temperatures with a machine gun hoisted on his back. Mages were still a new and untested tool of war back then. In this era, they were still misused but not to the extent of the Albions and Akitsushimans back then. Each time he was up on a horse it brought him back to his first lesson in Hong Kong. If only he could enjoy it as a Brigadier today, instead of having the Dacian leech riding beside him with a runny mouth.
"I overheard some of the scientific gentlemen a moment ago when getting the horses."
"You did?" Might he be able to rid himself of this meddlesome Dacian due to the loose lips of the auxiliary unit attached for the mission? "What did they tell you?"
"Nothing sir. I was walking by, and they were talking about the artillery guns were going to be using today. I assume they mean we'll do training shots. I must say I'm excited to see them go off."
Good. The researchers had not betrayed the Unitary or Brigade by openly blabbing. If they maintained the coded language he would not need to reprimand any of them.
Adebu continued wishing aloud that they could be fighting the Imperials at the breach to use the guns against the Huns. No longer caring what men of the sciences said about ballistic weaponry or noticing the discrepancy in that event.
"Remember what I said. We are not to question the Commander's orders."
As long as his nationalism blinded him, young Adebu would not ponder the recruitment and labour drive.
The Brigade was ready to move out and at his order, the mix of men, trucks, horses and two artillery guns started westward. To scare onlookers that might happen by it would look like their brave Dacian soldiers were moving out to the war. Their presence here could not be known at all costs. None in the Republic or Entente were aware of the 44th and it was a secret known by few in the Dacian high command. Alternating from pretending to be a Republican or Dacian as their location changed. Today, it was the Dacian burgundy tunic. Hence, he forbade any of the standard battle hymns to be sung by the ranks and shouting orders by the officers or NCOs. It was a shame; he grew accustomed to the rhythms of the Beneficiarius march. Humming it to himself as the memories of happier days returned.
We are the men of the Beneficiarius. Hiya ho ho
Glory-comes for us men who take-it. Hiya ho ho!
Take a step. Fix-bayonets. Hey! Into-the-battle-lines we will go.
Take a step. Fix bayonets. Into-the-Devils-house we will go.
His humming naturally had drawn the attention of Corporal Adebu. It had been a fun tune that Donahue enjoyed that had to be ruined by childlike curiosity.
"Is that an Albion song sir?"
"This will be a long march." He muttered to himself.
"Pardon sir?"
"The song: it's an old tune from the schoolyard." To lie came as natural as to breathe when he was on a mission. That was how he was to survive the next three-hour horse ride. Engaged in storytelling, white lies and pretending to listen or care about the Dacian's life story. At least he was not the only fibber of the two. Mr. Adebu intended to imply he was anything more than a baby-faced youth. No better than Donahue himself was when he joined the army to fight in Daqin. It was while telling the boy of actual war two of his captains rode beside them, speaking over the trotting hooves, mechanical engines, and rhythmic boots.
"Brigadier. Our scouts have reported we're in range of the village. Ten minutes out on foot."
"Good." Donahue motioned his charge. "Take the Corporal and ride ahead. Find the mayor and start gathering the civilians in order." He turned again to the boy he was ridding himself of. "I hope your fellow countrymen are as eager as you are."
With a salute they galloped ahead, leaving him with a mild buzz, thin patience and the other captain.
"Has the forward team set up a perimeter?" It was confirmed they were all ready and in hiding. "Well done. Inform your artillery team to set up here. After we pull out you'll have clearance to engage. It's the standard Dacian protocol."
The men saluted each other and parted ways on horses.
They were starting on an incline down to the town with the big guns on the high ground. The Brigade all knew the process of events. Most silent like Donahue himself, walking down toward the objective. The cause of the silence varied. Anticipation, excitement, nerves. Oscar felt a lot of these at one point in the past. Since taking command of the Brigade, it was only contentment that was in his chest.
There was a mission to be done and he was happy to do it. Jobs like this should not entice a more radical display of emotion. He trusted his men to manage the same. Regardless of how they would feel, they always acted to the standards expected of them. They were loyal above all else.
The prospect of liberating wealth for themselves was do doubt a good motivator.
Donahue steered the reigns out of the marching line and directed the animal to run faster. Striding past numerous clusters of men and trucks. Picking up other horse bound officers to join his sprint into the town. All the heavy and experimental equipment were peeling off to set up outside the village. The scientists would be there with a skeleton crew of soldiers for physical labour. The majority of the men would be sent upon the village for the first phase.
The ill excuse of civilization encapsulated the spirit of Dacia: the product of backward politics. Few two-story buildings, unorganized street markets, primitively arranged wood and stone buildings. The church steeple the only tall structure visible from a distance – that too worn down with white chipped paint.
Oscar was not a fanatic for the ideology of the Unitary. If Mr. Arcand was given control of Dacia like he was Albion the huts around him would be remade into clay brick, tiled roofs with running water and electricity. But this sorry camp was a lost cause. Let them, and Dacia serve as an example for others to do better.
The town square was the only area granted the gift of cobblestone bricks to make up the ground. What a standard they had reached. Corporal Adebu and his Unitary riders were at the forum, the native talking with what could be the village mayor and staff or town elders – both were as backward, tribal, ultimately disposable.
Donahue scratched his moustache again, just as Adebu realised and waved to him like they were friends. Beckoning him over ever irritating and childlike. He rode closer to the group of mounted men and their audience; all in the shadow of a worn-down metal statue of an old Dacian hero pulling his sword from the sheath. Prominent among the group was the mayor in a passible suit and tie. Revealed to be bald when he took off his bowler hat for the highest rank.
"The Corporal tells that you Unitary men are here to help Dacia."
Speaking in the Dacian that he knew Donahue got down to business. He had no time or desire for pleasantries – Beneficiarius men were expected to be professional while on campaign. "What is the population of this town?"
The old man answered without incident or protest to his insolence. Informing that they had just over six hundred inhabitants. Most of a healthy age, most young adults.
His time with the Brigade on garrison operations in the colonies and around the world taught him one thing: poverty increased breeding. Garrison orders in the Unitary Congo State, covert ops in the Rumeli Afrika against the Invicta Pact. Secret missions into Bharat, Akitsushiman Daqin and South America. Wherever they were the poor would mate like rabbits. It made them perfect test subjects, numerous, replenishable and unwanted. It was just a culling of the population for progress to come through.
The Congo colony was a curious and continued stain on the prestige presented by the Unitary. Purposefully kept as a secret where no one in the world was to know what happened within. Some of his enlisted men confided that they did not know why they had to come to Dacia for this mission. He grew slightly tired of the lack of understanding. They controlled the human resources of the Unitary Congo; it would be irresponsible to waste a potential slave workforce. It was wiser to risk danger and smuggle themselves into Dacia.
"We need to split up the civilians. Group them by age and sex. The men to work with trenches and become militia. The women, children and elderly stay here to provide for the army."
The mayor inquired further but Donahue held his tongue in place.
The elder's staff around him buying in to the order if reluctantly. The power of a military uniform and stern attitude could often have that effect. Dacia's own military had ruined its reputation in their greedy pillaging campaign, a blessing and curse at the moment. The latter manifesting as the mock-politicians were noncommittal in providing the most basic of answers.
"Corporal," Donahue spoke from a position of frustration, staring directly at the curious elder. "Tell him that my men are arriving and they will help separate the people. Men by age and health, women, children and elders into their own groups." He sighed before continuing to talk down at the cowed man. "Things will go smoother if you help organise the process. I don't want any of my men to get hurt. Am I clear?"
Age, health, and sex. Demanded in clear terms and imply they comply immediately.
Adebu translated and the elements of the local government relented with all the will of resistance.
A glance of the surroundings showed the sea of Dacian red. Soldiers filling into the unimpressive square. The government shared words amongst each other and then agreed to his terms. Misunderstanding that he was asking and not telling them to act. The mayor returning with a cheerful voice not needing translation.
"We will eagerly look to work with you as you say Brigadier."
"Start organizing the men into groups here. We will take them north into the fields in thirty minutes. The rest can be left here. Convince as many as possible no matter what you have to say. Every passing minute and missing pair of hands benefits the Empire."
He was experienced enough to know there would be resistance. If the Dacians had not hindered public support there would be less civilians hiding, ignoring orders, or running away. It was prominent to get as many in the first attempt and then root out the remaining factors. Happy civilians were complacent and more trusting in their own leaders than foreign troops pretending to be native. Making the mission easier and less dangerous for his men. Who would shoot someone in possible self-defence while wearing a smile?
The Brigade never failed a mission nor incurred unnecessary waste. Now that they were inside the village self-censorship could be loosened. Officers and men directing civilians, the environment or each other. It would be a gradual process but one they had done before and were well versed in.
Donahue turned to one of his subordinates: Major Hackenthorn, one of the handsome varieties that had a stern expression to match the features. Barely into his thirties and already experienced as respected as the old guard of Daqin, trusted to lead the mages as an informal second-in-command when Donahue worked on the ground.
Speaking in a hushed form to him in Albion. "Go with the mayor collect any census data they have. I'll be with the scientists, so send a runner to inform me when you have everything." The final part whispered not in case the guide was not too busy talking with the politicians. "Don't blow cover until I give the order."
They saluted each other but Donahue was stopped by the same man with another question. "Do you have your mask sir?"
Donahue swore. Feeling for the large metal cylinder container that was not resting on his side. "I must have left it in the tent." This could be a problem. If their leader was seen as imperfect it would erode his authority. If true, the fellow Beneficiarius did not let on that Donahue was failing at his role of leadership.
"Take mine sir. I'm staying here anyway so I won't need it."
Donahue thanked his fellow man of rank. It was an honest mistake and treated like one by the man, if not by Donahue himself.
Near two hours later the flask was again in his hands and pressed to Donahue's lips. Half of its contents inside his body. If it ever impeded his performance he would quit until the job was done. Instead, it was more like an early toast to a job still underway.
The men were efficient as always and had the Dacian males digging more than enough "trenches." But it meant they were too occupied with shovels to notice that they were constructing their own graves – too wide and deep to be an effective protection for warfare. By this point in the process the victims were acutely aware of their fate. Indeed, some were unconscious of reality, but most were enjoying the ignorance in servitude. The tents were set up accordingly for privacy during testing and Donahue's consumption.
The scientist instructed him to put his mask back on as "The test is about to commence Brigadier." Politely giving thanks to him after Donahue pulled the rubber seal once again. Through the two glass holes the Dacian restrained to the chair could be seen wearing his own mask – modified accordingly.
"Whenever you're ready Doctor."
It was moderately difficult to speak clearly with the apparatus squeezing his face, so a thumb up felt an appropriate addition. Reciprocated by the lab coats around him. The doctor turned a valve a large tank and a hissing sound reverberated around the tent. Hummed in with frantic penwork by other researchers as the gas travelled through the tube into the subject's mask. The set-up had several lights set on him for the observation team. Donahue would never know if the subject was blinded by the lights or if his thumb up was the last image seen before the eyes rolled backwards.
Frankly – he did not care. It was a waste to concern oneself with irrelevant matters.
The subject kicked in his chair as he was forced to breathe in the substance. Muffled screams, coughs, and unintelligible blabber the last sounds made. The restraints would not give, and each push made by his wrists only served to dig the leather braces into his skin. Hair and sweaty skin becoming paler under the light until the struggle stopped and the man fell limp. The death marked by the clicking of a stopwatch. "Twenty-three seconds."
"I think the longest one so far held out for a minute." One of the scientists commented to be answered by another. "Fifty-seven seconds to be exact."
The gas was turned off, but the scientists continued their frantic writing within the confines of their masks and gloves. The protocol was for a short wait so they would not have the dank-greenish yellow threaten their lungs. The corpse spasming periodically in the bent-over slouch position.
The new gas was branded the name Blackwing. The apparent best chemical weapon for modern war the boys back home and around Donahue could create. A title more silly than threatening to him. Now they could empty these ticking time bombs and not haul them back to the Unitary. He always made sure his tent was as far away as possible from wherever they stored these darn things. Best to get rid of the substance now.
"Would you like the honour Brigadier?" The Doctor prompted him after the allocated wait period expired. Naturally inclined to follow polite requests. The rubber gloves provided by the team made touching the subject more tolerable in a luxury rarely afforded to soldiers in the field. He carefully pushed the cadaver into an upright sitting position and pulled off the modified mask.
"A pale discolouration of the skin." Donahue began calling out the observations as the lab assistance before him did on the previous test subjects. "Slightly foggy eyes. Extensive mucus buildup. No visible blisters. Blood in the mouth, likely from the coughing."
He touched the subject's cheeks as directed and a stream of near-black substance came out from the mouth and down onto the soiled shirt. "Correction: blood pooled in the mouth, likely from the coughing."
Donahue continued to poke and prod at directed parts. Hair not loosened. Pupils are almost non-existent. Nostril's bleeding. Ears clean of blood. The mask had a collection of snot, blood, saliva among various other substances pooling together. The concoction was emptied into a bucket almost filled with donations of the previous subjects.
The mask would need to be cleaned; a task Donahue did not oppose doing despite the implications of his rank. However, he was needed elsewhere for the moment and one of the staff would need to fill in.
"Get the subject onto the operating table. Let's see if he's any different on the inside than the other age groups."
"I'm confident the gastrointestinal disturbances and bleeding should be greater considering the time the agent took." The Doctor answered the Brigadier while more entertained by his own words.
Two of the white coats stepped forth and hoisted the subject into their arms, a third coming to take the filth-ridden mask away from the Brigadier. He said something through the mask, unintelligible mumbles – a sacrifice worthy to prevent the smell of this tent and its experiments from choking them.
"Pardon?" Donahue leaned slightly closer to the scientist holding the mask.
"Can you help with the previous subject sir?" He had to speak up but was now understandable.
Might as well. Better to be useful before taking his leave.
The opposite side of the tent was the surgery theater hidden behind a retractable curtain. A blood-stained slab held up the bodies while they were cut up, poked at, and harvested for later studying of the effects of the new weapon. As time was against them they needed to be crude on some parts of the procedure. The nature of their patients thankfully made the initial and final stages easier to manage. The empty chest cavity of the previous surgery did not require stitching, just storing the broken off ribs and whatever meat they did not intend to preserve.
With the Doctor's assistance, Donahue carried the former subject through a rear flap to a sectioned off pit. Hidden from general view by a makeshift fence. The Dacians that dug the hole were the first to occupy it. Each subsequent test added another body of varying age to be accompanied by a dose of petrol. Shuffling over he could see the fuel glistening on the bodies, apparently, no flies could brave the toxins. They counted down and tossed the body down to join its brethren. The three-meter hole was already half full of the refuge of necessary progress.
The scientist retreated but Donahue called him back, another mumbled sentence but one that made the lab coat spin on his heels.
"Take these gloves back with you. I need to head back into town now and make sure everything is being mopped up properly."
The man pulled off the gloves and exposed Donahue's skin to the warm midday sun. Orders on how long the science teams were to conduct themselves was given and reluctantly accepted. He knew this type was the kind to need another reminder of times or that they were in a zone marked by the artillery guns. They were children in a candy store. But it served the Unitary and the wider purpose of human efficiency, so Donahue found no grievance with it.
"Now, bring my horse around."
"But I-"
"Now!"
The intellectual scrambled through the fabric wall perimeter that hid their hole of experiments. Donahue picked up and poured out the half-full petrol can over the new addition to the mound. The smell must have been combating the blood and rot for a foul result. The old fumes of the dead managed to give him a headache back in Daqin, so he was pleased he did not have to participate in non-consensual huffing.
"Brigadier. Are you sure this thing can see with a mask on?" The Doctor was back and calling for Donahue on the other side of the opaque fence. Leaving through the same hole in the structure to see his horse still wearing the gas mask he put on him, the reigns in the hands of the Doctor.
Animals were no different from men. Each and a purpose, abilities, and limitations. Most could be trained to be vital to the world. Others meanwhile had other purposes – they were called livestock.
It did not matter if the horse could see, only that it could fulfill its purpose and its sight was necessary for that.
Although that analysis would be rather abrupt to the inquiry if the horse could see the world or not. The horse could see, and the scientists could continue the experimentation for the time, that was all that mattered; not if one man could intellectually stimulate another.
The doctor returned behind the fence and Donahue started on his trek, picking up some of his subordinate Lieutenants along the way back to the town. Now able to peel off his gas mask and breath the relatively clean air. The grazing fields were riddled with holes, trucks and tents. Behind closed tent flap other tests on variations of the gas or experimenting with existing chemicals. Those still unaware of their fate were digging, those who were more observant were kept in line by the men with guns. The remainder undergoing the process that would put them in a hole.
The lie that they would survive if they complied was always effective. It trained them like the animals' humans truly were. They would rather keep to the "promise" and hurry along the process willingly. But the orders were non-negotiable, and no witnesses were ever to be allowed.
Once passing into the peripheral of the town for a second time he saw noticeable improvements. He permitted a runner to return and start the salvaging process around an hour ago. As expected, the orderly chaos was there to greet them. No matter where in the world the Brigade was sent it was the same. Broken glass and furniture were laid on the streets. Nothing off value was to be found among the debris or in the hollowed-out houses. Raiding pairs or small groups saluted the officers, some showing off their spoils with glee.
Donahue had to halt when one of his men stagger out of a house with a woman in tow. One of the unit's Alsatians biting along her waist Attempting to stem her screams of pain and vulgarity with kicking and harsher yanks at her hair. Before he needed to step in a lance corporal of the brigade came out, wrestled rings off her fingers and executed the screaming banshee with his bayonet. The steel pierced the neck and stopped resistance into low gulps that poured out onto the dirt road.
So was the end for animals that could not be trained: used for a profit then discarded.
After shouldering the rifle, the lance corporal saluted Donahue, and his escort, greeting him in the polite manner expected of him.
"What have you two got there?" Donahue motioned to the new items and a rough sack each man had on their backs.
"Might be gold I think sir, shinny like it." He held it up into the light for a better view but could not convince his partner of the value.
"Can't be gold. If you had two gold rings would you live in this dump?"
Donahue beckoned the lance-corporal over to pass the jewellery up and did the same motion towards the sun with one of the rings. In his own hands, he could tell this was a fool's metal. "I think it's a fake lad. Not much money but you might be able to pawn it back in the capital if you're lucky."
Donahue pondered what the rest of their spoils were while passing the valuables back down. Nothing unexpected for a town of this variety. Brass candlesticks, food, alcohol, fine bits of cloth, hunting knives, and pocket watches among the movable wealth in their bags. It was not much but always better in the Brigades treasury than left behind.
"Have all the civilians been put in order?"
The man nodded as he pocketed the jewellery. "They've been put away in the church sir. We're just taking care of the stranglers as we find them." He kicked the corpse in the side for an example to qualify his expression.
Donahue returned the salute to his men and continued back to the town square. The mild scent of smoke was able to swim into his nose now that it was free of the infernal mask. More Brigade members were lining the street as the smell gradually grew. The smells strength matching the professionally lax discipline the closer he went to the town square. Jewellery worn over uniforms, brass and silver candlesticks hoisted up as an aquila standard. Bottles of alcohol being sampled and traded for the purpose of finding the best variety, that ceased when Donahue reminded them to remain professional while at work, that it could be saved for the celebrations afterwards. Confiscated firearms, clothes, and paintings all being haled towards the square. If it were not nailed down his men would take it for collective and private stashes.
The state always got the lions share from these endeavours but what soldier would say no to a well-organised sacking. When done to their procedure, it was remarkably easy and efficient.
Proof of concept came when Donahue entered the cobblestone step town square. Some of the musical members of the Brigade enacted their talents with liberated instruments. The same song of the Beneficiarius talent.
Take a step. Fix-bayonets. Hey! Into-the-battle-lines we will go.
Take a step. Fix bayonets. Into-the-Devils-house we will go.
The song sung over the bustling audience seemed to reciprocate the entertainment as they worked. The public forum was in a much better condition. A series of trucks on the perimeter being loaded with creates of whatever was deemed valuable by the looters. Most soldiers working on that source of labour or returning with new loot. A large group separate to their comrades were enjoying themselves outside of the church entrance by talking, smoking, or brutalizing inhabitants that attempted to escape. Donahue was thankful for the prompt band for providing a counter to the indiscriminate howls of the livestock.
The centrepiece to this celebration of efficiency was a controlled but roaring bonfire that nearly surpassed the height of the ugly statue. The structure's base converted into storage for the fuel: worthless furniture, confiscated clothes off the backs of the cattle, and the documents from the town hall they needed to remove from history. Men gayly discarding garbage and challenging themselves to make the inferno as large as possible. Eventually to be outdone but an activity to occupy the moment.
At the base of the statue where the village elected mayoral-shaman was with Corporal-idiot and the major who loaned out his gas mask, clipboard in hand keeping records of their work here today. Major Hackenthorn saluted Donahue and took off his borrowed bowler hat when the elder man approached. "That bloody guide has been acting up sir. He keeps demanding to speak with you."
At least Donahue was not the only one annoyed with that Corporal. "Where is he?"
"Set aside in the town hall. I imagined you'd want to have a word with him before we pull out."
That brought out a crude smile from both men. They were cursed to house and feed that guide since they arrived in this country. It was almost unbelievable that they would soon be rid of him. No more words were needed, only confirming that the man would be brought over to the worn-down statue. Donahue dismounted his creature under the same statute and freed it of the facial cover. Feeding it some of the treats he kept on his person while waiting for the imminent arrival of that boy. His attention naturally shifting up towards the only impressive architecture.
The statue was well worn from the elements. Gawking up in the typical stern face sword wielder that was always in fashion. Donahue did not know who the face was carved up there. Some long-gone hero immortalized as a savour for the people the 44th were currently beset upon.
Where was your hero Dacia? Stuck here welded to the stone podium in a lifeless form. Someone of substance that had his accomplishments squandered by unfit descendants. They could not maintain his image properly and allowed it to chip away and rust.
The Brigade was doing this figure a favour, saving his name from being associated with the rot of a backward society.
Donahue absentmindedly reached for the flask in his tunic. He already had a spring in his step on top of a healthy fog but desired another sip. The men were busy loading cargo or on guard duty, they would not see if he indulged just a little more. Thinking of the deeds which were necessary to the world made him want to warm his throat. Donahue was willing to go for another but was interrupted by the pest that never seemed to make himself an enjoyable child to be around.
"Brigadier Donahue!" At least this would be the final whiney shout that would be endured. Even in panicked anger, his Albion was commendable. "What are your men doing? Why are they holding us, prisoner? What about the new Dacian recruits? What is going on?"
Donahue dismissed the escort shadowing both men. Was the young man so foolish as to believe all this commotion was unknown to him? The naivety of this man – this boy. The dedication to superiors was admirable if fatal. His country men were being slaughtered yet he still trusted Donahue.
"There will be trouble when Commander Horváth finds out. What will we do?" Tears started to form in the corner of Adebu's eyes at the plea for answers.
It was not a threat but a warning, the Corporal still thought they could remedy the situation with more talking. Had he learned nothing from his time with the Brigade? They were men of action. They took orders and kept to them regardless of difficulties.
"The Prime minister won't have to concern himself with the Unitary."
Mr. Adebu started to stutter out more but was cut off by the more assertive of the two.
"What happened here is another instance of the renegade Dacian army looking to enrich themselves in the chaos of war. As has happened before and will likely happen again before the Empire crashes through here."
Donahue found his fingers inching closer to his belt, the young boy cowering further, now unable to resist the urge to cry at what was misunderstood to be cruelty. Begging for clemency and "mercy." At least Adebu had the self-respect to stand on his legs rather than grovelling his captures feet.
This was nature: the animals best suited for survival through strength, intelligence and will were to dominate those who could not.
The service revolver on Donahue's belt was nothing over Mr. Adebue alone. The brigade's efficiency and Unitary's planning allowed Donahue to divulge in this moment of self-medication.
"And sir." The Corporal opened his mouth to speak but was unable to find the ability to do so. A final gift of compensation. "That is all history will ever know of what happened here."
The button on the holster was unfastened, Donahue cocked the hammer and aimed the revolver at the pest's head.
Adebu's neck violently snapped back. Bits of matter flying backwards to disappear onto the cobblestones. The body went in the same motion. Stiff until contact was made with a thud on the ground next to the statue. The hole where a left eye once was leaked that familiar-coloured liquid. The mouth is only open enough to display rows of white teeth undisturbed of violence.
Donahue leaned against the statue's stone base. His eyes still going over the disaster he caused. The metal gun in his hand was shaking and rattled until he forced it back into the holster. The dryness on his tongue needed to be relieved. The water canteen never registered as an option, both hands holding the flask to his lips to create a gulping sound.
This was nature. It was, it had to be. It was efficiency. They were ordered to leave no witnesses and this one was nothing more than a nosey, chatty overly curious, frustratingly cheerful factor in this mission.
It was a waste of effort to construct it any other way.
He only shot him once in a guaranteed kill – it was a simple and logical act. The increasingly empty flask was padded back into place. The thoughts of that weakling were pushed away. Back to the job at hand. They had to remove the last of the value from this dump, finish the tests then remove this evidence from the earth. Then they could go back home.
Donahue took the reigns of his horse and led them away from the site of the dead man and closer to where his men were loading the trucks. Absentminded action uncertain until the bowler hat Major presented himself, no worse off than when he condemned that Corporal.
"Sir." He produced a bottle of whisky and presented it as a gift. "A farewell gift from the mayor. I had one of the men put it to the side. Call it an expense cost for your leadership."
Donahue thanked the man for his foresight and charity. Thankful that there was something for the trip back home besides whatever Țuică they could scrape together. It was tempting to take a sample right now, images of Adebu's disfigured face still lingering in the recesses of his mind. He knew better. The men could grow resentful if he made no effort to hide his drinking and flaunted it openly. The leaders of a group often had to suffer the most for the sake of success.
"Thank you, Major. Tell the men it's time to get rid of that annoying sound. We should start wrapping up before we lose more daylight."
"We can make our own daylight when we test out the incendiary shells when you give the artillery the go-ahead sir."
Donahue forced himself to chuckle. "I can't think of a better way to light up the night Major."
With another crude smile, Hackenthorn saluted Donahue and ran towards the church. Some of the other infantrymen realized what was about to happen and followed to engage in the coming fun. Donahue watched the soldiers crowd around and cheer at their orders. Some taking early steps and shooting their rifles blindly through the door to hopefully hit something on the other side. An act of disobedience immediately curtailed by the major and to later be punished for stepping out of line.
Bottles of oil or liquid deemed to vial for consumption was haphazardly distributed and thrown against the wooden planks that made up the walls of the church. Like the bodies from the pit, the new coat soon glistened against the white paint. All it would need is a spark and that ever-present screaming originating from the structure would be silenced permanently.
This was the natural way. That was why a minority of his men were acting with such reverence to this part of the mission that could translate into euphoria. Most just laughed along and made humour from it but it was not his place to tell others what they could find amusement in until it broke the rules.
The group cleared away from the structure and all eyes were then on him. Even the men loading the loot were waiting for the Brigadier to make the call. Only the band continued their task of providing an ambience with the marching hymn.
Seeing no reason to hold off the climax to the event the thumbs up was presented and the square erupted into a cheer. Drowning out the meagre sounds from inside. One of the bottles was lit with a rag extending out from the neck and tossed against the church and the building went alight in seconds.
The resulting fireball sent some of the soldiers to retreat from the heat, but most stayed at a safe distance, contributing to the sense of joy that was now allowed to persist unimpeded. Some shooting up into the air, others into the burning church, all singing along to the rendition Beneficiarius unofficial anthem.
Donahue himself took part in the singing, unable to contain the glee he felt in this job. It was an extension of his philosophy in action, proving how his worldview was correct. Other men were dancing with each other in the glow of the fire. Others just stood around and enjoyed partaking in unison. The motivation to drink faded as the men in unison repeated the familiar chorus as the steeple crumbled and fell into the structure and made the fire explode once more in a spectacular display of fire.
We are the men of the Beneficiarius. Hiya ho ho!
Glory-comes for us men who take-it. Hiya ho ho!
Take a step. Fix-bayonets. Hey! Into-the-battle-lines we will go.
Take a step. Fix bayonets. Into-the-Devils-house we will go.
31/10/1924/ Central Moldovia, Principality of Dacia / Abandoned Iron Mine Entrance / 08:12
Tanya pushed her non-mechanical boot against another insignificant rock at the mine entrance. Bored with the circumstance beset upon her.
The benefit to this war was the continued safety away from the Rhine and Norden fronts. It frustrated her somewhat. The Dacian front was to be a learning experience for her battalion. This mopping up operation was necessary to remove the insurgent problem but one that took time away from opportunities in the field. Something to ease them into her organised work environment before they were to fight an actual enemy.
But now they were all taking a crash course in resistance suppression. A total waste of their potential if not for the current situation. Leaving them as the only ones capable of stomping out all the nests dotted over the mining country.
After this final stronghold, they were to take part in the final stretch of the campaign. It was almost humorous, to protect her person from war she had to charge headfirst into the next battle. Tanya would smile if the ordeal were not overwhelmingly counterproductive. She could only curse Being X in the moment, unfortunately; the time would come when she could spite him by surviving this war.
Tanya kicked another rock to make herself feel better. This one landing in the surrounding woods that camouflaged the mine entrance to the mock cell headquarters. Not far off from the landing sight was Neumann chatting with Grantz. The pair ceased their activity once they noticed the small blonde observing them. Tanya did not mean to come off as an authoritarian who cracked down on simple talking, how could she be frustrated at them when they were all equally bored with this mission.
Turning to the hole in the side of the rockface-hill was Serebryakov and Private Kropp laying the final wire.
"Are the charges in place?"
The Adjutant was the one to answer. Handing off the spool to the man. "Yes ma'am. Second Lieutenant Grantz and Lieutenant Neumann saw to it personally."
"Good, I don't want to waste more time correcting our own work."
Turning towards the officers in question they were back to talking, Neumann leading the conversation with Grantz nodding along when applicable. With their flight suits they blended in well lying against the trees. Whatever the topic Grantz listened intently. Unfortunately, for them, they were still on duty. Doubly so as she would not let them slack around when she needed something from them.
Tanya yelled for them to present themselves before her. A more daunting action if her voice was not that of a little girl. Quickly they had sprung to their feet and were at attention before the well-hidden cave entrance. She permitted them to relax their stance and repeated the topic of explosions.
"Yes, Major." Neumann was expectedly the one to answer. "It should bury any Green shirts coming from the other side of the mountains. Then the rest is up to the Limeys."
Tanya finally had a reason to put a smile on her face and warm compliments on her lips.
Dacia was everything she wanted and more. The comparative safety gave her battalion risk-free training and opportunities to cooperate with others in their profession. All circling back to the main objective of keeping her alive.
There remained some lesser tunnel sites, but Tanya was confident in passing those off to the 27th. They were to work in tandem after all. The Invicta Pact to do what amounted to repetitive grunt work while she refined her men in the meantime. Now her friend of Gabriel could experience the funs of guerrilla warfare. She laughed internally at the idea it was a punishment for the events back at the Tóth residence. Juvenile payback she had no intent of taking seriously.
Lieutenant Stuart's conduct at the farmhouse had brought them answers at the cost of unnecessary paperwork and a future headache for the military police. Stories of a soldier shooting and killing a civilian would likely proliferate while the real story would be lost to convenience. The positive was she was able to enlist Visha to assist in the paperwork. Usually, the variants are too tedious for her but not too challenging for the Adjutant.
The thoughts of her own ingenuity were cut into by the untimely warmth and vibration of her computation orb. Neumann, Grantz and the lingering Visha were witness to her stern smile turn perplexed in a matter of seconds. Tanya had no rational thought to confirm it, but her gut sank at the incoming message.
"Major Degurechaff." A cautious voice came through. Tanya knew this would be hazardous.
"What is it Lieutenant Koenig?" She sent him out to scout the surrounding area. Ultimately unnecessary, but it paid to be careful. After the first fight they had learned the Green shirts were fond of ambushes.
"There's something I think you should have a look at."
Tanya tried to pry a description out of the officer but could only be answered in uncertainty. If only Rinehart had not idiotically allowed himself to be shot. He would offer a condensed summary rather than bidding for her in few words. Why did she let all the other radio operators go with Weiss or Hanover?
"What's so important you needed to call? Green shirts?"
"No ma'am. At least I don't think so. Its…" Koenig trailed off. The subordinates around her leaned in to hear the unusual exchange. "It's a town – I think. But everything is gone."
"Gone how?" This might be more than a simple, spirited enemy.
"Dead." Stated unnervingly in the calm characteristic of her man.
Tanya looked up from the red glossy orb and tried to piece together what was relayed. It seemed there was no other alternative aside from berating her man over the communication formula. The Salaryman disliked those unnecessary scenes of drama and that habit carried over into this life. It would also get her away from the blast that was soon approaching, just in case there was an accident, and someone blew themselves up. Better they lose an arm or leg than her.
"Hold your position. I'm coming to see for myself." With the coordinates relayed Tanya signed off, immediately back into the role of bickering orders.
"Neumann," he perked up for her following words. "Stay here and destroy this cave. I'd hate to take Grantz away from you before you finish your conversation but don't let that distract either of you. Serebryakov," the owner of the name awaited the orders in the same manner as their comrade. "I want you with me. Let us see what mystery our scouts have found themselves in."
Three more men were taken with them, and they were flying off to the provided coordinates. More than enough human shields in case there was a legitimate threat lurking in this supposed town.
They were silent on the flight; she and the fellow officer heard the description and were consequently burdened with it. Fear, curiosity, excitement, how much each factor was playing on each of them was guesswork to Tanya.
So long as obedience was maintained, and order kept they could make whatever they wanted of this situation. Tanya would assume however their private thoughts collectively turned negative as the smokestacks appeared in the distance.
"What is that?" Grantz's voice echoed through the orb while Tanya focused on finding her scouts on the horizon. One of Koenig's scouts flagged them to their spot hovering above the site in question.
The thin lines of grey and black fog crept upward in wavy lines into the tranquil sky. From this distance a burnt smell was already touching the inside of her nostrils. Visha was already suppressing a groan from flying against the wind and into this smell. It only grew as they joined Koenig's unit above what he claimed to once be civilization.
Her Lieutenant explained their process of discovery was primarily done by the smell of smoke before they saw it. Leading them to the charred circle burned into the earth. From above the outline of a town could be guessed at. Lumps of scorched stone possible remnants of buildings having collapsed from external forces. Streets akin to lines collecting the debris that was deposited by change. Most likely littered with inhabitants that were swift enough to evacuate their homes but could not continue the effort to the city limits.
Tanya remained silent while the group around her discussed theories, swapped questions or simply pointed out interesting scenes among the wreckage.
What was the purpose of such an act? It was a deliberate action witnessed below. No natural or accidental act would cause the destruction of an entire town. There had to be elements among the citizenry that were deliberately preventing the containment of the blaze; or worse, enticing it to spread. Overheard assessments from her men were gradually marching to the conclusion she already knew.
What, or she should say who caused this? Hoodlums or local criminals allowing an act of arson to grow out of control. Unlikely. There was no power on earth that would compel citizens to let their possessions turn into charcoal. There had to be a significant presence that stopped them from playing firefighter or removed them pre-emptively. The Empire's army had not reached across the mountains so that removed them as an option. That left only other organized collections of men armed and "trained" in violence. One already recorded to have partaken in this sort of events.
Tanya signed, noticed by her men that now awaited an order or insightful comment. What a gift to have such keen students. If the renegade elements of Dacia's army had scorched their own town then it could be assumed food and valuables would have survived the fire. Civilians not harmed in the looting might still be present in the greater area – not that the scouts reported any in their search. What kind of army would surround an entire town to kill fleeing masses? It was as inefficient as the entire crime displayed before Tanya.
Dacia was yet to fully embrace the industrial revolution but that was to highlight opportunity as much as their failures. The Salaryman knew when to remove unfruitful elements in their staff, it was that logic that sent her into this world after all. But was that to mean the fired man was to be thrown in front of that train? He was a waste to the company however, that did not mean it was an enduring leech to the development of humanity. If that fired employee had not devalued themselves further by becoming a murderer he might have taken the opportunity to improve with his family at home as motivation. Nothing would be gained by forced disposal of that man and so it would stand the same to be true for this former village.
Overlaying the entire scene, the fluttering white ash that eerily mimicked snow with a pungent odour. None had reached up to their height, but Tanya was about to stain them all in the residue with her next order.
"What should we do Major Degurechaff?" Visha was the one to softly approach her on this matter.
"Everyone, get your orbs out and record everything you see. Were going to investigate."
Tanya would be cursed to add this to the report. She might as well get a full picture for a proper story so the bureaucracy could gloss over it themselves. If not a waste of time it might make the propaganda department happy to have some material to work with.
Rather than fight through the rubble infested streets Tanya led them down to what appeared to be the public square. Marked by a distinct emptiness of the congestion on the streets. Defaulting it as the only place to stand that would only cake them in a modest amount of soot and ash. Tanya had not had a proper bath in several weeks and scraping refuse off her person and equipment was a frustrating idea.
They were hit with the smell long before their boots hit the cobblestones. Already, Visha was gagging, appropriately as there was an odd smell that combined itself into the ash flakes floating around them. Some variant of chemicals that faintly intermixed with wood and what was likely the town's residents. Maybe a chemist took up shop here and had a concoction waft in the area as a result. It was a convenient exclamation to an unanswerable question.
Tanya ordered them to pan out and record their findings, engraining still images onto the memory of the orbs before their retinas. All faced with similar-looking scenery on the outskirts of the forum but undoubtedly vital for the historical record.
The stones crushed under each step taken. Tanya already had a fair amount of soot building on the bottom of her gear and could feel ash settling in her hair. Maybe she should have stayed in the air, citing some desire to observe them all simultaneously.
Near where they landed was a peculiar lump of rock. Carved into a base it housed nothing atop but metal rods, melted down to a dull. Tanya walked up to the strange display but found her answer to that minor mystery quickly. Camouflaged with a layer of settled ash was a man-sized metal chunk.
Whipping away the white substance confirmed it was a statue of some kind. Any effort made by the architect ruined as it was melted down in several areas. The outcome being its toppling and damage besides the perch in which the figure was to watch over.
It was not impossible that the fire was so great it burned the stones she stood on, evidently, that was the case since the evidence was below her. But to burn a statue, it was an unusual deed to partake in. Usually, it would be knocked down and crushed into pieces, not doused inflammable substances, and put alight.
Tanya looked around but found no more evidence of foul play. The next step was taken finding what her eyes failed to with an unpleasant cracking sound. Peering down to her metal flight boot, it had connected to the ground at the expense of a bone; brittle and susceptible to the damage she unintentionally inflicted. The rest of the body was on the side of her footwear. Tanya's eyes finding the knee, then the blackened moulded remains of the pelvic and chest region. A final stretch of matter leading upward towards a disfigured head, the left side seemingly missing.
A classic execution against the base of a statue. The fitting end to cruel dictators by rebels who possessed an artistic flair. Rather inappropriate to do in a looting scenario.
It was an unnecessary display Tanya knew she did not need to waste her time on. The man or woman was deceased, and nothing could be done for them. A minute spent here was one that could be spent on anything else. In her departure from the centre, she wandered aimlessly, still contemplating the egregious action this all was. The only contribution made being her footprints into the ground that imitated fresh snow too well. Gradually finding her Adjutant paired with Lieutenant Koenig. Planted in front of a ruined building, their conversation growing louder as Tanya approached.
"A church maybe? It's sort of long like one's back in Kiel. Orthodox churches don't have a different design to them right?"
"I wouldn't know Visha." Koenig looked away from the unknown site. Begrudgingly returning his eyes to what was worthy of another look.
The pair heard the crunch of a child-sized boot and turned to see their commanding officer, both wearing shock and fear in their eyes.
"Major Degurechaff!" Visha called out in surprise seeing her this close. Fighting for a moment than standing in front to block her sight. "I don't think you should see this Major."
"That is not your call to make Serebryakov. Now if you would please." Tanya made sure to come off as strict in her tone. She beggingly had to keep Visha in her company for the remainder of the war. The half-Imperial had her charm but would grow more annoying to work with if she got into the habit of restricting her major. Wisely, Visha relented and stepped aside while remaining close to Tanya and Koenig.
What a world they lived in where a child could be sent to war as an officer but could not view something deemed inappropriate.
The blackened skeletal frame of a church existed in concept rather than vision. Whittled down to sticks barely standing its own weight among piles of rubble and melted globs of metal. The roof, walls and pews were consumed as fuel, leaving the stone base and subjects Visha attempted to hide as the evidence of their existence.
Tanya winced at the sight. Not something standard for her age but a sentiment that was genuine. The Dardanelles, Norden and the Rhine had given her witness to real human bodies being treated as playthings for depraved mechanisms and creations. Regardless of the preparation, the stack of charred corpses was an unfavourable thing to bear witness to. Not completely new, unfortunately, but the quantity and arrangement had not been seen before.
Stick figures, all curled or stretched into the position they passed away in. Black bodies to match the wood with jagged bones twisting in any direction they pleased. Facial expressions extinguished with empty divots into the head where eyes and a mouth could have once been. Some displayed dramatically large holes in the wrinkled leather of flesh, indicating a cruel form of mercy offered by the captors. They stretched far back into the interior of the building with the largest concentration near the remains of the door frame. Implying their only exit was blocked from the outside. Tanya saw further proof on the fingers of the corpses closest to her position. The flesh on the hands noticeably diminished and giving way to bones that likely continued to scratch on the door; a failed attempt to create an exit.
The three were all aware of what they were viewing. That some of the figures were no bigger than the major. But no words needed to be wasted in explaining it, none likely worthy to enrapture the cruelty of their demise.
There must have been upward of a hundred at a guess. No doubt more in that count alone and many more in the streets, homes and businesses surrounding them. The battlefields they were all familiar with too were glorified gravesites. This town however was the most apparent in recent memory, however.
As apparent as the crime was, Tanya guessed it was her responsibility to state the obvious. They should not spend all their time in this trance when there was still work to do and a war to fight.
"They locked the civilians in the church then set it on fire. Probably got as many as they could for efficiency. Then they must have shot at them."
"I guess they didn't think the fire would be enough." Koenig awkwardly pulled on the rifle band slung over his shoulder. Possibly conflicted over the dual abilities of his own weapon.
"Perhaps, or they were impatient and wanted to get the grotesque show over with." The older soldiers at Tanya's sides were looking down at her. She could see them in her peripherals, but each looked away when she looked in their direction. It would be best to walk it back a bit from that comment before they questioned how much she really knew.
"It's nothing but savagery. If nothing else we can be emboldened to ensure this never has to happen again."
Both were satisfied and reaffirmed her take. Let them be pleased with minor moral confidence, whatever it took to keep them motivated.
"I think we've seen enough of this. Finish off the photos from your orbs and let's get out of this place. We still have a war to win."
A/N:
So here is the first attempt to make this story rating mature rather than teen. I have kept it at a T rating for now since I do not assume this will be a problem for readers or the site. The guidelines are frustratingly vague as it marks "adult themes" as needing an M rating, but as to what that exactly means is a guessing game. My current assumption is what was written above is acceptable and will change it if pushed into doing so. Furthermore, I learned about the war crimes of the world wars when I was younger than Tanya from religion class so that is another reason I am not changing anything.
I would like to apologise for a mistake I made in chapter six in which I said Dacia had a king. Since it is a principality it should have a prince as the head of state. This error has been corrected and will remain so going forward. In a weird way, it has inadvertently helped me with the story in a minor way. You will see what I mean in chapter eleven.
Next chapter we will wrap up the combat in Dacia (finally eh) and then we should spring into the remaining canon events of the story. To be completely honest, I did not like the Entente campaign as it played out in the canon. So I am doing some things differently but things are staying largely the same.
I am not talented with music so the lyrics for the song Wir sind des Geyers schwarzer Haufen, it is not perfect sync but I hope it is close enough.
Thanks again for reading.