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The mission looked to be a success. The head control had looked for days for the right time to invade. With Viannor occupied by some assasination attempt or something, apparently, they had given the go ahead to start the invasion of Starblaydia. It would be an amphibian invasion and a suprise attack. The declaration of war would come soon after the attack and then Milchama would be in the war of a lifetime. He hoped they would survive and prosper but that was far from a guarantee.
Starblaydia had the self appointed greatest military in the region. They liked to flex their muscle too much and this had alarmed Gonnenberg. Espiecially with a new unstable leader. Their spies had told them this and that the time was ripe to attack. They felt that they would know just about everything in the inner workings of Starblaydia and the citizens there. The army was just biding its time until the moment seemed right for attack. The moment came yesterday and within 2 hours the entire army was ready. They were launched from Milchama yesterday and were due to land in Starblaydia at any moment.
The planes dropped the paratroopers, the marines went off on their duck landing crafts, all was going to plan, except that the landing was completely uncontested. Nobody was there, except for regular beach patrons. They all looked slightly stoned and probably out of their minds. A man asked if this was Starblaydia. The reply was straight forward, "No man, it's Spruitland. Don't ya'll have maps."
The general looked at the map it clearly said Starblaydia, as there was no other country on the legend with anything close to SPR. As Starblaydia clearly had those letters this definitely was the place they were looking for, but then how did they end up in Spruitland? He looked at the legend one more time, wait, Starblaydia wasn't there and Spruitland clearly was SPR. It looked like the whole Milchamian army had made a horrible mistake.
This post has been edited by Starblaydia on Oct 2 2006, 07:00 PM |
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When his phone started ringing and his intercom started buzzing at the same time, Hans Custers, Spruitland’s Minister of External Affairs, withdrew the clippers from his little toe for a second. That probably saved him from a limp, because when his office door flew open, he instinctively jumped up from his chair.
“Dammit Tom! Knock before you enter! Only my wife bursts in without knocking, so it always scares the bejeezus out of me!”
Thomas Vanderbeek, the Minister of Defense, opened his mouth to speak, but he managed to exercise enough restraint to close the door first. Custers noticed his colleague’s pale face and promptly sat down again.
“My God, you look awful,” he said, sliding open a drawer and blindly digging out a joint. “Have a seat, I’ll light up. Did your wife walk in on you?”
Vanderbeek waved no, both to the joint and to the chair. He took a deep breath.
“Hans… we’re under attack.”
Custers’ hand froze in mid air, his thumb on the lighter. “Come again?” he mumbled, only keeping the joint between his lips through years of practice, not by any conscious effort. It was, however, dangling down dangerously.
“We’re being invaded. We’re…” Vanderbeek forgot about his fake stand-up-straight-as-if-you-were-once-in-the-military posture for a change, and flailed his arms around wildly.
“I don’t believe this crap! We’re being invaded, Hans! There’s like a crapload of troops on the beaches near Jonesville! What are we gonna do?!”
“Sit,” Custers ordered, with a voice that was controlled enough to surprise himself. “We’re gonna light this baby up anyway.” Vanderbeek looked doubtful for a moment, then sat, no, slumped down on the chair.
“In fact,” Custers continued, “I can’t think of a better time than this to light up.”
When he had taken two long hits from the joint and passed it to Vanderbeek, both their hands were shaking slightly.
“This is all your fault,” Vanderbeek said, just before putting the joint to his lips.
“How the hell is this my fault?!”
“You’re the Minister of External Affairs! Obviously you must’ve pissed someone off bad enough.”
“That’s ridiculous! Unless it’s… naah, they wouldn’t start a war over that… Who’s invading us anyway?”
“Hard to tell at this point. The reports that are coming in are still a bit confusing. Looks like it’s the Milchamians, but that’s unconfirmed for now.”
“Milchama? We did nothing at all to piss them off, and I’m sure of that!” Custers said, taking the joint from Vanderbeek again, who winced.
“Damn, that’s not good then,” the Minister of Defense said, and Custers silently agreed with him. If this was about some diplomatic issue, someone blurting his mouth about the body odor of some Milchamian bigwig or telling a dirty joke about whoever the Milchamians thought blessed them for the afterlife, there was a good chance it could be smoothened out with a few official apologies and a free shipment of pot. But if this was an unprovoked attack, that meant they were after Spruitland’s territory and riches, and wouldn’t be stopped as easily. And Custers was sure he hadn’t pissed off any Milchamians lately, hadn’t even mentioned them at all in any of his public speeches, in fact. However…
He pressed the button on his intercom. “Sandra! Get someone to check, ASAP, all the public statements His Majesty made during the last… six months, say. Get me anything that mentions Milchama!”
He didn’t wait for a reply. Vanderbeek was looking at him in horror.
“You think…?”
Custers shook his head. “Doubt it. We screen and censor the Royal Nitwit’s statements pretty thoroughly. But we gotta be sure, something might’ve slipped through the cracks.”
Vanderbeek nodded, but the look of horror didn’t disappear. “This does bring up another point,” he said, taking another hit that didn’t ease his face.
“I know,” Custers nodded. “We better go tell him.”
“They just seem to be waiting at the beach for now,” Hans Custers concluded his three-sentence report to his King, “so I suggest we don’t do anything rash and try to find out—”
“Attack!” King Alfons screamed from the top of his lungs. “Crush those dirty pigs!” He jumped up and over the Royal Couch, his miter flying off, and landed out of sight behind it. A cardboard crunch indicated that the Royal Fall was broken by a stack of empty pizza boxes.
The Royal Head, miterless, popped up from behind the couch for a split second, disappeared again. “Fire in the hole!” Alfons shouted. A crushed Red Bull can went flying across the room, landed at the Ministers’ feet.
“Very impressive, Your Highness,” Hans Custers started, “but if we could just –”
“Ta ta ta ta ta ta!” Alfons popped up from behind the couch with a toilet plunger, sprayed the room with imaginary bullets. “Kill’m all! Ta ta ta ta!”
His Majesty glanced up, realizing something, then plopped down out of sight again. “My helmet! Those dirty bastards stole my helmet! Ah!” He appeared again, his miter back on his head. He stepped from behind the couch, suddenly looked all business.
“General!” His Majesty walked straight upto General Bilzen, Commander of the Spruitland Army, who had joined Vanderbeek to give his King a status report. He looked like he’d rather be face down in cow manure with mortar shells landing all around him.
“Get me a tank!” the King bellowed. “Let’s go kick us some Milchamian ass!”
“But Your Majesty,” Custers started. “You can’t—”
“You keep your yellow talk to yourself, Minister! Go hide in your bunker, and leave the fighting to the real men! I’m in charge of this army, and I’ll damn well lead from the front! I’ve been playing Counterstrike for years, I’m ready! What kind of tank do you have for me, General? An Abrams? A Tiger?”
“Erm, I’m not entirely certain, Your Highness…” General Bilzen looked pleadingly at the Minister of Defense.
“I’m sure we’ll find His Majesty a suitable battle vehicle,” Vanderbeek said, dipping the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.
“Well let’s go then! Move out, General!”
“Sir yes Sir!” General Bilzen clicked his heels together and saluted his King. Alfons returned the salute, promptly knocking his miter backwards off his head.
Less than two hours later, twenty-odd garbage trucks rolled north towards Jonesville. Wooden planks were hastily applied to cover the front window, leaving only a slit for the driver to look through, and the compactors had been stripped from the back to make room for troops. Each “troop compartment” held about a dozen members of the Royal Spruitland Army.
“Would’ve been nice if we had actual uniforms’n’stuff,” one of the soldiers mused, lighting up a joint.
“Hey, be glad we have guns at least,” a burly sergeant in jeans and a t-shirt replied, holding up his shotgun. The guy beside him had a pair of .357 Magnums, another one had a deer rifle. In another truck, some captain had gotten hold of an Uzi. Everybody envied him.
“Attack!” someone shouted in the distance, barely audible over the roar of the truck engines. The soldiers winced simultaniously.
King Alfons had refused to take place inside the cabin. So he was sitting on top of the first truck, one hand on his miter, the other waving around a sniper rifle, screaming profanities and battle cries all the way from New Brux to Jonesville.
“What I’m really glad about,” the soldier with the deer rifle said, “is that we’re not in the lead truck.”
“Amen to that!” all the others agreed.
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Somewhere in the Milchama government, an exchange occurs between Tim Gonnenberg and Uri Hatzagov:
"The invasion has started."
"Excellent and how has it been so far?"
"Horrible"
"Did the Starblaydis have a good response or something?"
"No, there was no response at all."
"So then we're going to beat Starblaydia!"
"No"
"What?!"
"Ummmm.... sir, we didn't actually invade Starblaydia"
"WHAT!!!!!!!! YOU BETTER HAVE A GOOD EXPLANATION FOR THIS!"
"Yeh, we actually, ummm, invaded Spruitland, but it looked like Starblaydia on the map. Just look at the legend there is no Starblaydia."
"Wow! Your right but how come you guys didn't notice until AFTER THE INVASION!"
"Don't ask me its not like I'm the leader"
"Ummmm yeh you are the leader."
"Damnit. Well... ummmmmmmmmmmm bye" *runs away*
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Back in Spruitland.
Considering he hadn't had any orders to stop, the Milchama army kept on plunging forward. The beaches had already been taken and they were setting up the armies. Considering he didn't have a good map of the place he had no idea where anything was but he had apparently already captured a major coastal city called Jonesville and a minor part of his left flank had captured New Frigobox. These would be the base of operations and Kelchin knew that this would be the base of operations from where they would spring all their attacks.
From advance scouts he heard that the capital was near and finally got a map that showed him where he was and how close the capital actually was. Kelchin started looking and considering the pitiful military here, he already had his plan in mind. He was just about to start the orders to take over all of Spruitland when the phone rang,
"Kelchin!"
"Yes"
"Don't attack anymore. Keep where you are."
"Why sir? We're about to take over New Brux and win"
"We don't want another Collonie, just stay where you are."
"Oh come on"
"stay, Stay! STAY! Ok?"
"Ok"
"Thank you"
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Back in Milchama Hatzagov had no idea how it had gotten this bad. How could the entire army not notice that Spruitland was there? Seriously they had over 2 million troops but yet nobody could notice that one error.
Oh dear what a terrible military, I guess we indoctrinate them a little too well. We tell everybody just think about war and they saw that it looked like Starblaydia and went to fight. That had been his goal yet it was backfiring and in a bad way. Gonnenberg finally caught up with him.
"Seriously HOW THE HELL DO YOU MAKE THAT MISTAKE?"
"I don't know sir"
"What do you mean you don't know! You're the head of the whole goddamn army!"
"So? It's a big army I can't control everybody"
"Yes you can!"
"No I can't, its just impossible"
"Considering this was the most important mission in Milchama military history and you screwed it up, in a big way"
"Ok, so?"
"You suck, You're fired."
"No I'm not. You appointed me, if I go down then you go down."
"F---! Your right. Well then pull everybody from Spruitland we'll try a mass invasion again soon."
"Ok sir but are you sure you want to do that we could screw it up again?"
"I'll take that chance."
"Ok sir"
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General Nathaniel Bilzen started to regret having chosen a career in the military. His wife would throw a fit if he came home as a corpse. And he very much preferred to keep his wife happy at all times, he didn’t much care for microwave dinners.
He could’ve retired last year, but didn’t. That, too, he started to regret now. But he had only been 62, and he quite enjoyed his cushy deskjob that allowed him to ship off large chunks of the nation’s military funding to his private bank account. Not that the military received much funding at all, but it added up over the years. Even if he did have to share it with the Minister of Defense.
“Shouldn’t our troops be wearing uniforms?” King Alfons asked, flat on his belly beside him.
“Erm… yes, but they’re being cleaned, Your Highness.”
Bilzen was wearing a uniform, as were the handful of officers in the Army, but the order form for the troop uniforms had conveniently disappeared into the wrong drawer. That, too, the General regretted now, but it couldn’t be helped. He was glad he had been able to scrounge together enough weapons, at least.
“Milchamian bastards,” the King muttered. “Invading us on laundry day!”
Bilzen peered through his binoculars, hoping His Majesty would leave it at that. Old Alfons had lasted longer already than he would have dared to bet on. With the King’s gung-ho kill’m all attitude, Bilzen had expected him to rush straight into the first bullet the Milchamians fired at them. But the long drive on top of a garbage truck, screaming all the way, had cooled down the Royal Enthusiasm somewhat. And when they had finally got a sight of the Milchamian tanks, rolling towards them in the distance, the King had eagerly accepted Bilzen’s recommendation to “retreat and reassess the situation.”
That’s what they had been doing since yesterday evening: run like hell for a few hours, then stop, make camp, and wait for the slower steamwaltz that was the Milchamian army to catch up with them. And then run again. All through the night and morning. Some shots had been fired back and forth, but nothing that could be called an actual gun battle, and nobody had been injured so far. That in itself could be considered a success.
How long they could keep doing this, Bilzen didn’t know. They were in a farmland area now, inbetween the little towns of Clarksville and Smithsville, south-east of Jonesville, which was now in enemy hands. Before long, they’d be reaching the city of Eyck, and then their backs would be facing the Royal Lake. Then what? Swim? Bilzen didn’t dismiss the thought imediately. There was a tiny island in the center of the lake. It’d be a hell of a swim, especially for a man his age. But he kept himself in decent shape. He thought he could make it.
He suddenly focused, as he saw movement through his binoculars, in the forest about a mile down the gentle hill they were laying on. He waited a moment, then saw it again: a helmet and the barrel of a gun peeking out from behind a tree. Then another, from behind the next tree. Then a third, fifty meters to the right. A recon squad, most likely, but the main force wouldn’t be far behind.
“Alright, they’re here,” he whispered, though there was absolutely no need for that. “Let’s get back to camp.”
He started sliding backwards from under the bushes they had been using as cover. King Alfons and a burly sergeant with a shotgun followed his example. The sergeant – Ziegler was his name, or something like that – had been appointed as the King’s personal bodyguard, an honor he clearly would’ve denied, had he been given a choice.
They crawled until they were over the rim of the hill, then got to their feet and trotted the last three hundred meters to the farmhouse they had claimed as their temporary base of operations. Soldiers were scattered all over the yard, some just hanging around in little groups, others kneeling down and peering into the distance in a way that, with a little imagination, could possibly be described as “defending the perimeter.”
In the open barn, Major Westerveldt, Bilzen’s second in command – or third in command, if you considered that the King was actually leading the army – was sitting at the “command post”, a foldout table and chair, with a laptop and a bunch of maps. The farmer, an old guy with barely any teeth left in his mouth, was talking to the Major, leaning on a shovel.
“Report?” Bilzen asked the Major as he entered the barn, ignoring the King and his bodyguard on his heels. Westerveldt stood, saluted, sat down again.
“All scouts returned, Sir, presumably undetected. They report several armor divisions moving in from the north-west, and infantry coming in from the north-east. They should be here pretty soon.”
Bilzen nodded, silently acknowledging the urgency in the Major’s last sentence. He was about to give the “pack up and retreat” order, but then the farmer coughed, drawing his attention.
“Scuse me, Kernel, and Your Royal Majesty, erm… I was wonderin’ if you lot will be staying for lunch?”
“Pardon?”
“’s All the same to me,” the farmer said, shifting his weight nervously, “but the missus needs to know now, cuz she’ll need to slaughter a few more chickens’n’stuff…”
“Ah, I see. Well, tell her not to bother, Mister, erm, Farmer. We’ll be moving on shortly.”
“One moment, General,” the Royal Stomach intervened. Bilzen bit his tongue and took a deep breath before he turned around to face his King.
“Chicken sounds nice actually.” Alfons licked his lips. “We’ll be taking you up on that offer, farmer!”
“But Your Highness, there’s no time! We need to retreat, the Milchamians will be here soon!”
“Then let them! We’ve been retreating all night, it’s no fun no more! I’m hungry! We’re staying!”
And with that, the King turned around and strutted out of the barn, onto the yard. General Bilzen sighed deeply. Major Westerveldt started shivering violently. The farmer put his shovel against the wall.
“Guess I better go tell the missus, then.”
“Prepare to stand and fight!” Alfons was shouting in the yard. “This is our Alamo! They shall not eat our chickens!”
The entire Royal Spruitland Army – all 250 of them – was dug in along the rim of the hill. The farmer’s tractor and plow had taken care of most of the digging, or they would never have been done in time. Just over an hour after the recon squad had been spotted, the first line of Milchamian infantry appeared on the edge of the forest, almost a mile from their position.
General Bilzen had specifically ordered not to fire until they were within range, but naturally, the Royal Enthusiasm was impossible to temper. His Majesty had fired a shot with his sniper rifle as soon as he spotted the enemy. A medium sized branch had come crashing down from a tree. With a little luck, it had landed on one of the Milchamian soldiers’ head. Probably not.
The Milchamians had, of course, immediately taken cover in the low brush of the forest. Since then, a tentative gun battle had erupted, with the Milchamians firing most of the shots. There were only a handful of sniper rifles in the Spruitland Army, and they were pretty much the only ones returning fire – King Alfons’ rate of fire was about three times that of the others, but they were probably three times as far off target as well. Occasionally, one of the other soldiers took a few shots with a pistol or a shotgun as well, but that was mostly out of boredom.
Bilzen wondered why the Milchamians didn’t just rush up the hill. They must know they outnumbered them about a hundred to one. Not much later, he found out. It hadn’t been reluctance. It had just been patience.
A battle tank as big as a house calmly rolled out of the bushes into the open on the far side of the forest. It stopped not more than two meters out, and the turret slowly swung in their direction.
“Keep your heads down!” Bilzen shouted to the men around him. “Take cover!”
“Take this, you dirty bastards!” Alfons yelled, firing off another shot. Bilzen thought he actually heard the bullet twang on the metal of the tank, and was mildly impressed. Then he pressed his nose into the dirt.
The tank’s main gun boomed, and a split second after that, Bilzen felt the earth shake a little. He looked up, and saw dirt spraying twenty meters in front of him. The shot had landed short. The tank’s turret adjusted slightly.
“Join the army,” Bilzen murmured, keeping his head down. “Serve your country. Travel to exotic places. Meet exciting people. Get your head blown off by them.”
The tank gun boomed again. The shot went far, this time. Bilzen had imagined the shell whizzing past his ear, had actually felt the air displacement in the hairs of his neck. He had almost jumped up to run away, only barely managed to control himself.
“Stay down!” he yelled again. He glanced around. They were all obeying them, staying as close to the ground as possible. Even King Alfons. None of the Spruitlanders had taken off running. Braver than he had expected. Or all frozen in fear, perhaps.
After the second shot of the tank, the mortars joined in. Not a huge amount of them – about half a dozen, Bilzen figured, though it was hard to be sure – but it was enough to push the Spruitlanders’ noses even deeper into the dirt.
Occasionally, Bilzen lifted his head for a brief moment to glance down at the forest. He knew the Milchamians would storm the hill eventually, but not quite yet. They’d keep pounding them for a while longer first.
Mortar shells landed all around them, spraying dirt and leaving basketball-sized holes in the ground. After a while, Bilzen wondered how long it had been going on. It seemed to have been hours, though in reality it was probably only minutes. He wished he had checked his watch. He glanced around again. None of the men in his immediate vicinity had been hit, but he couldn’t see very far. An apple tree was on fire to his left.
Then the tank gun boomed again, and the earth shook violently. Bilzen felt himself being lifted up from the ground. He landed hard on his back. He felt sprays of dirt landing on him, but he couldn’t hear it. His ears buzzed. Damn, that one was close. Too close.
Someone was pulling on his arm. He looked up, stared into the old farmer’s face. The man was saying something to him, but he couldn’t hear it.
“What? I can’t hear you! What?!” As his hearing slowly returned, the farmer repeated what he had said.
“I asked: wing or leg, Kernel?”
“I’m a General, not a Colonel!” Bilzen shouted, mainly because he had no idea what the man was talking about. The farmer shrugged, shoved something greasy into Bilzen’s hand, just as he looked aside and saw King Alfons, huddled down in his ditch, take a bite from a chicken leg. Sergeant Ziegler, next to the King, was covered in dirt and staring at his own piece of chicken as if it was a Rubik’s Cube.
The King noticed Bilzen staring, grinned widely, triumphantly raised the chicken leg into the air.
“This is what we’re fighting for, General! This is what makes it all worth while!”
Bilzen was secretly hoping the King’s arm would be blown straight off, right there and then. It didn’t happen. He felt the lump of grease in his own hand, threw it away. It was a wing.
After another eternity of eating dirt, the bombartments suddenly stopped. The silence was eery. For several seconds it seemed like the world stood still. Then came the sounds of cloth scraping over sand, soldiers moving, crawling to their knees, peering out over the edge of their ditch. Bilzen did the same.
“Get ready!” he shouted, knowing the Milchamian attack would be coming any moment now. He peered out over the ridge, towards the forest, and blindly reached for his double barreled shotgun, that he had dropped several minutes ago. “Keep your cover!”
The next two minutes or so, the only thing Bilzen heard was the sound of his heart beating, and the occasional click-click of a gun being loaded or checked. It seemed like the longest two minutes of his life. He was almost relieved when he saw Milchamian helmets pop up above the bushes.
It wasn’t a perfectly synchronized charge, but it was impressive enough. In a not-quite-straight line, the Milchamian soldiers stormed up the hill. Fifty meters behind them, a second line of soldiers. The lines would melt together into an unorganized charge before long, Bilzen knew, but it was impressive while it lasted. Bilzen heard their battle cries, even from almost a mile away.
“Stay down!” he urged his troops. “Wait until they’re close!”
“Charge!!” King Alfons yelled. Following his own order, His Majesty climbed out of the ditch and rushed forward, one hand on his miter.
Bilzen looked around in despair. None of the soldiers followed the King. Some got up, hesitated. “Stay down!” Bilzen yelled again. Everyone followed that advice, dropped to the dirt again. Everyone, except Sergeant Ziegler, who climbed out of the ditch with a look of determination on his face.
Eddie Ziegler realized he was climbing out of the ditch, and cursed himself in every language he knew. If he survived this, he was gonna look for another job. Something nice and cozy. Ice cream vendor, maybe. Screw this army bullsh-t.
He scrambled after the King, who had a fifteen meter lead, going on twenty. Every cell in his body told him to turn back and dive for cover again, but he couldn’t. He wasn’t an ice cream vendor yet. At the moment, it was still his job to protect the King. And no matter how crappy a job that was, he had to do it to the best of his ability.
How he was gonna do that, he didn’t know. He was still holding on to his shotgun, but the enemy was still three quarters of a mile away, so he wouldn’t have to use it for a while. He heard a few shots going off in the distance. Some of them landed nearby, but none were terribly close. That reassured him some, but not much.
The King was fast for a man of his age and physique. Ziegler wasn’t gaining an inch. But he had to keep running, had no choice.
Then the King dove forward, slid on his belly for a meter or so, aimed, fired a shot, and scrambled to his feet again. Ziegler saw his chance, headed straight for his target, visualized himself diving towards the Royal Legs and dragging His Majesty to the ground.
Then a shot sounded, the Royal Miter flung up into the air, and the sergeant felt something slamming into his shoulder just as he was about to jump for the King’s legs. He twisted in mid air, landed on his side. The King stood up, put a hand to his head, looked around, then scrambled towards his miter, a few meters away.
Ziegler got to his feet, biting down the pain in his shoulder. His knees were wobbly. He felt the blood drain from his face, his temples getting cold. But he had a mission. He had to protect the King.
Alfons dropped to his knees next to his miter, picked it up, and poked his finger through the bullet hole. Ziegler took two big steps, then let his body drop forward, onto the King’s back.
“Umpfh,” went the King. Ziegler hooked his feet around the Royal Ankles, and let his bodyweight do the rest. He weighed 130 kilos, His Majesty would not be getting up any time soon. He still didn’t want to pass out though. But it didn’t seem like he had much of a choice.
“Get off me, you brute!” was the last thing he heard before the world narrowed into blackness.
General Nathaniel Bilzen rubbed his eyes. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. When the King went down, Bilzen thought he had been hit. Then he saw the Royal Pain in the Ass was alright, and that big sergeant had him pinned. He was about to order a few soldiers to drag His Majesty back to safety, court martial be damned, when he noticed the Milchamians had stopped running.
It wasn’t a practiced, orchestrated movement. First some stopped, then a few more, then some others, and eventually everybody. There seemed to be some confusion. Bilzen looked around for his binoculars, found them eventually. Some of the Milchamians were moving back to the forest now. Bilzen spotted an officer, who was waving his troops back, shouting.
“They’re retreating,” he said, his voice full of disbelief. Then he shouted: “Hold your fire! Don’t shoot! Hold your fire!” None of the Spruitlanders were shooting as it was, but he kept shouting it anyway, until the bulk of the Milchamian army was clearly moving back towards the trees. Some of the Spruitlanders stood up tentatively.
Bilzen shook his head. He had no friggin’ clue what the hell was going on here, but whatever it was, he was glad it was happening.
“He scared them off,” the soldier next to him said. Bilzen gave him a confused look. “He scared them off,” the soldier repeated, louder this time. Then he started shouting.
“The King scared them away! King Alfons scared them away!”
A few others down the line picked up the shout. Soon everyone was cheering wildly, jumping up and down. “Hail King Alfons! The King scared them away!”
General Bilzen dropped to his knees. Suddenly he wasn’t so glad anymore.
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Antonio Calamari. Not one of the most well-known names in the region, but certainly one of the most influential. He was Starblaydia's highest representative in the Vilitan Orbital Intelligence Agency - he and a Turorian had a lot of power thanks to the knowledge they were imparted through their 'Caretaker' roles. Other than the Vilitan officials themselves, Antonio was one of the intelligence Kings of the region.
It was one dark evening, well past midnight, when Antonio slipped into the Cartography department's offices. Everything from satellite mapping to hand-drawn parchments were covered by these guys. No-one was around to see him now, though. Antonio strode over to the huge map of the region that lay on the floor, a mosaic of the most intricate detail.
There it was, plain as the nose on his face.
No Starblaydia.
Officially, Starblaydia was not listed on the Atlantian Oceania map. Yes, of course there was Starblaydi territory coloured in that particular shade of Starblaydi (RAWRCRUSH) Purple, there was even their international code: STB.
What there wasn't, however, was what 'STB' meant. Antonio had work to do. Taking a thick black felt-tipped pen from out of his pocket, he scrawled in large letters on the legend at the foot of the map
Done. Antonio snuck out through the door, and no-one would ever know that Spruitland had been invaded because of a series of administrative errors.
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"President Graham, we have a situation."
"What's that?" Bedistani president Jeanne Graham looked up from her morning crossword in the Columbia Times.
"My cousin in Jonesville, Spruitland says her city's been captured by the Milchaman army!"
Graham was expressionless for a moment, then turned stern. "Joshua, this is not a place for jokes. Thankfully that one wasn't believable or you might've caused an international incident."
"I'm perfectly serious." Joshua grabbed the remote and tuned the big television to channel 795, a major Spruitish news outlet, which appeared to be showing some sort of home video of King Alfons charging blindly toward what was unmistakably the Milchaman army.
"We're allied with Milchama, Ms. President. Should we be preparing to defend against a retaliatory assault from Spruitland?"
At this point, Graham began laughing uncontrollably. "Spruitland retaliate? You really don't know anything about foreign affairs, do you?
"Milchama got themselves into this, they can get themselves out. As if the alliance would actually do anything here anyway." |
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Sergeant Eddie Ziegler wished he was somewhere else. That ice cream van idea he’d had in the heat of the moment, on the battlefield at what was now being called the “Battle of Alfons Hill,” seemed more and more tempting by the minute. But he’d settle for something less comfortable right now, anything, if that meant he didn’t have to be in the Royal Palace.
There were some things that couldn’t be avoided though, no matter how much you wanted to. Ziegler had learned to accept that fact of life at a relatively young age. So here he was, going along with the whole charade because he really didn’t have a choice, but wishing it’d be over already nonetheless.
The Royal Palace in itself, he didn’t mind all that much. A bit fancy for his taste, but it was really just a building. However, being in the Royal Palace invariably meant that you were in reasonably close proximity to His Majesty. And that was something which made Eddie Ziegler extremely nervous.
He imagined that being in King Alfons’ proximity made pretty much anyone pretty damn nervous. But he had a better reason than most.
He had pinned His Majesty to the ground, at the Battle of Alfons Hill, to keep him from getting hurt, and had passed out on top of him. When he had regained consciousness, paramedics were patching him up, and King Alfons was screaming at them not to bother, because he’d be court martialed and executed in a few minutes anyway.
Ziegler had been convinced his time was up, right there and then. The King always got what he wanted. But General Bilzen – bless the man, despite his obvious incompetence as a military commander – had managed to convince His Majesty that Ziegler: had not been trying to prevent the King from chasing the Milchamians all the way to the beach; had not been under Milchamian pay; and had not been attempting to rape the King.
In fact, Bilzen had explained, Ziegler had been there to assist His Majesty in any way possible, yet had the misfortune to be struck by a bullet and lose consciousness in the wrong place at the wrong time. However, that had actually been a good thing, because His Majesty had broken the Sergeant’s fall, preventing him from hitting his head on a rock and being more seriously injured. So, hurray, Your Highness, for saving this man’s life, surely you don’t wish to court martial him?
Right now, Ziegler almost wished the General hadn’t been so convincing. But execution would have been the easy way out, and probably not the most fulfilling in the long run. He just had to stomach this, go home to let his wound heal, collect the Army’s medical pay, and then quietly resign. At least, if His Majesty didn’t change his mind about the whole court martial and execution thing. You never could tell what went on inside the Royal Head.
For the umpteenth time, Ziegler subconsciously tugged at the sleeves of his uniform, first one, then the other. In a typical Spruitland fashion, they had finally provided a uniform for him, but one that was several sizes too small. He didn’t dare breathe in too deeply, afraid to pop a button. And with camera crews from pretty much every major and minor Spruitland tv-station in the room, and a few foreign ones as well, that didn’t help to ease his nerves.
Finally the national anthem sounded, and Ziegler could relax for a moment, because that meant the cameras swung away from him and focused on the door through which His Majesty was about to appear. If any of the reporters were hoping to catch another image of the Royal Miter tumbling to the ground to add to their collection, they were left disappointed though. All the doorways inside the Royal Palace had been heightened years ago.
The cameras followed King Alfons as he stepped onto the dais, ignoring Sergeant Ziegler, General Bilzen, the Minister of Defense and a handful of other non-descript officials, and went straight for the speaker’s platform. He glanced along the row of cameras, then focused on the one belonging to the biggest network.
“Citizens of Spruitland!” he boomed into the bouqet of microphones. “Peace is now once again upon us. I know some of you will be disappointed that it was over so soon, but that swiftness only illustrates the decisiveness of our victory. We have shown the world that Spruitland is not to be trifled with!
“Now is a time to celebrate. To celebrate, and to honor our heroes!” The Minister of Defense stepped forward with a little wooden box, and opened it for the King. His Majesty took out a medal.
“I am proud to award the Green Heart to Sergeant Eddie Ziegler,” Alfons said, turning sideways a little. Ziegler took two big steps, turned to face His Majesty, his chin held high.
“For being stupid enough to get shot!” the King continued, pinning the medal onto Ziegler’s chest. Ziegler winced and clenched his teeth together as His Majesty stuck the pin into his flesh twice before getting it right. When the medal was finally in place, the King took a step back and saluted. Ziegler returned the salute with his left hand – his right arm was in a sling.
“Also for being being wounded in battle,” the King spoke into the microphones again, with a look on his face that said this medal was much more deserved than the previous one, “I’m proud to award the Green Heart to… the Royal Miter!”
He took the miter off his head, handed it to the Minister of Defense to hold, and pinned the medal on it, right next to the bullet hole. Then he saluted, with such pride and intensity that his right hand trembled, took the miter again and placed it back on the Royal Head.
“And then of course,” the King smiled into the cameras, making it clear that he had saved the best for last, “I am delighted to be able to hand out this next award. The Royal Medal of Honor – the most prestigious military decoration awarded by the Kingdom of Spruitland. For a display of courage, above and beyond the call of duty. To His Majesty, King Alfons the First of Spruitland!”
The King turned sideways and made as if to pin the medal onto an invisible chest. Then he took the medal between thumb and index finger, held it perfectly in place in the air, and swung his body around it to the other side. He pinned the medal onto his own chest, his chin held so high that the Royal Miter was threatening to topple off the back of his head. The crowd cheered wildly. King Alfons saluted himself.
Eddie Ziegler cursed silently again. When the whole ceremonial charade was over, he had wanted to sneak out and head home immediately. Get as much distance between himself and the King as possible. But the Minister of Defense had cornered him before he had the chance to leave. His Majesty wanted a word with him, in private. So here he was, in the Royal Waiting Room, sitting on a red velvet couch. General Bilzen was sitting next to him, and he looked even more uncomfortable. He was as pale as a ghost.
“Any idea what this’ll be about, Sir?”
The General shook his head. “Whatever it’s about, Sergeant, just nod a lot. Agree with His Majesty, always agree with His Majesty. Even if it’s bad. With a little luck, he’ll forget about it later.”
Easier said than done, Ziegler thought. If the King ordered him executed, right there and then, the nodding and hoping it’d blow over approach wouldn’t be worth very much. Maybe that’s why Bilzen was there, to carry out His Majesty’s order. Ziegler glanced at the General’s side arm.
When the Minister of Defense opened the door to the Royal Chambers and waved, both Ziegler and Bilzen stood up. But the Minister waved the General down again. “Just the Sergeant, for now.” Bilzen didn’t seem to mind at all, plopped back down with a sigh of relief.
Upon entering the Royal Chambers, Ziegler noticed that the Minister of Defense did not have a side arm. That relaxed him a little. Not for long though, because then he caught sight of His Majesty, toying with a machine gun.
“Ah, Sergeant Ziegler!” the King exclaimed, snapping the magazine into place. “Welcome! I’ve been looking forward to this!”
Ziegler shifted his weight nervously. King Alfons motioned him to sit down on a chair, then sat down himself, on the Royal Couch, resting the machine gun in his lap.
“You’re a decorated war hero now, Sergeant. Just like me. Even if all you did to deserve it was clumsily run into the path of a bullet. Don’t you agree?”
“Quite so, Your Highness,” Ziegler nodded, trying hard to keep the tremble out of his voice.
“Well, I don’t agree,” the King said harshly. “But I’ll get back to that in a minute. First, tell me this, Sergeant: what is your opinion on the way the Spruitland Army responded to the Milchamian invasion?”
Ziegler opened his mouth to answer, ready to lay on the praise, but His Majesty raised a hand.
“Don’t answer as if your King asked the question. Answer as if you’re laying in bed with a hooker, smoking a post-coital joint.”
Ziegler closed his mouth again, hesitated. Nod a lot, always agree, the General had said. That made it difficult for him to answer this question truthfully. Ah, screw it, he thought, forcing his eyes away from the machine gun and bringing them back to the King’s face. Some things just couldn’t be avoided.
“It was rather piss poor, Your Highness.”
King Alfons straightened his back. His fingers stopped carressing the butt of the machine gun. He looked from Ziegler to the Minister of Defense, who was standing to a side doing his best to pretend invisibility, then back to Ziegler.
“I would say that’s a fair assessment,” the King finally said. Ziegler swallowed away a lump of nerves.
“Actually, you’re being rather kind still,” Alfons continued. “I reviewed the video footage of the Battle of Alfons Hill. From three angles. The fact that three of our soldiers found the time to operate a camera during the battle should say enough already. But the content of the tapes was even more appalling.”
His Majesty stood up and started pacing through the room, swinging the machine gun around animatedly. The Minister of Defense clearly considered ducking behind the couch, but managed to restrain himself.
“When I gave the order to charge, nobody followed. Every single man in the Spruitland Army disobeyed my direct order. Everyone, except you, Sergeant.” He turned to face Ziegler, and tapped on the Medal of Honor on his chest.
“That’s not enough to earn you one of these. You didn’t go above and beyond the call of duty, you were just following orders. But you were the only one that did so, and that says a lot.”
He motioned the Sergeant to rise. Ziegler did so, feeling a little lightheaded.
“So, would you like to take care of that problem for me?”
“Your Majesty?”
“You’re right, it’s silly of me to even ask. Of course you’ll take care of it. You’re a man who always does his duty, isn’t that right, General Ziegler?”
“General Zie…?”
“That’s right. I need someone who can turn this Army into something worthy of the name, General. I won’t always be there to single-handedly hold off an invasion. We need an Army that the nation can depend on. With a commander whose guts didn’t sag all the way down to his ass. I’m sure you’ll do Spruitland proud, General.”
Ziegler was stunned. “Yes, Your Highness,” was all he managed to say. This meeting hadn’t quite gone the way he had expected. Whether he was getting off better or worse, he wasn’t quite sure just yet. He saluted. The King returned the salute.
"The Miclhamians left us a bunch of shiny new guns like this one. And some wonderful tanks too. I'll want one of those for personal transportation, but feel free to use the rest to the best of your ability.
“You’ll get your gold stars or silver stripes or whatever they are later,” the King concluded, guiding him to the door. “After I ripped them off Bilzen’s uniform. In the mean time, General, you may want to start your job by finding the Army a new cleaning service. Looks like your uniform shrunk a bit in the wash.”
This post has been edited by Spruitland on Oct 7 2006, 11:58 AM |
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