“Oh, did they just take out another one?”
In a smashing display, one of those anti-mage projectiles exploded near a mage. Unfortunately for the enemy, there must have been munitions piled up nearby, as the Imperial mages in the vicinity were caught in a secondary explosion and vanished in the resulting explosion.
When it came to trench warfare, smoking out mages once they had hunkered down required heavy hardware. Large-scale deployment of these new munitions might provide a better alternative. It was a very interesting outcome. Very interesting indeed. However, at that moment, Mr. John released a sigh. “If only we had brought a few more of them along…”
They had only brought a dozen or so prototype munitions, meaning their impact on the battle would be extremely limited.
“Manufacturing the fuses is so difficult, it’s hard to say if approval for mass production will ever be given. It makes sense to expect field results first, though, I suppose. I’ve only just confirmed they work. Expecting more at this stage is perhaps too greedy.”
Of course, there was another factor Mr. John absolutely could not say out loud—a fact he chose to keep to himself. No one in Federation territory would dare mention that the Commonwealth had wanted to show off its technological superiority to the Federation as a way to curry favor and prevent them from hoarding the honor of ending the war all by themselves.
In other words, this “gift” was a political calculation meant to flaunt their latest technological advancements.
“Hrm? Now what are those imperials doing…?”
Mr. John peered through his binoculars skeptically, noticing strange movement on the imperial side. Perhaps some of the force currently being pelted by artillery was attempting a change of position. He could see movement near Baruch Bridge despite the area being under heavy fire.
If they were withdrawing, it must have been because they were unable to withstand the damage—but as a gentleman of advanced age, Mr. John harbored deep-seated prejudices, including a belief that the Imperial Army had war in its very blood. The moment he saw movement on the imperial side, experience and instinct instantly triggered the phrase “escape forward” from the depths of his mind, setting off massive alarm bells.
“Hopefully I’m just imagining things, but are those mages assembling?”
Imperial Army mages knew when to be decisive. Would they really sit there and take it while artillery—especially new experimental munitions—rained down on them?
“Just a moment…”
At that point, Mr. John’s danger sense, honed as a veteran intelligence operative, was on high alert. He did not hesitate. Like a startled rabbit, he grabbed his escort commander’s shoulder and urged an immediate withdrawal and destruction of the munitions.
Before the confused commander could utter a word, Mr. John spoke again, “I’m afraid I may have left the stopcock open on the gas at home.”
“The what? Th-the gas?”
“Forget it, my good man. We must withdraw now. Immediately.”
Mr. John was far too wise to dally. The thought of even a portion of what he knew falling into imperial hands was terrifying. He had no choice. This was one coolheaded, grim decision he had to make.
Abandoning the excited Federation officers busy pummeling the imperial forces, as well as the promising results with the new munitions, Mr. John beat a hasty retreat, taking only the other intelligence officers, their escort, and their guide from the Communist Party (whom he had browbeaten into coming along).
Hopping onto a conveniently placed armored motorbike, Mr. John escaped toward the safety and distance of the rear lines with his mage retinue, who kept their magic completely sealed. This time, he left no parting gifts behind.
“Hopefully I’m just being over-cautious…,” he murmured. He knew they should have exploded the munitions before leaving, but there wasn’t enough time. Wishful thinking is never a good idea when facing the Devil of the Rhine.
“I’d certainly feel better if Drake were here.”
But, unfortunately, Lieutenant Colonel Drake had been promoted to colonel and was now working diligently in Ildoa for the Alliance’s sake—a step taken for political expediency, but at times like this, Mr. John still wished for a hero like Drake by his side.
“Shame, but there’s no use asking for the impossible.”
This was a scene best left to the young. Mr. John was far too old for this.
THE SAME DAY, BARUCH BRIDGE ROOST
As someone who would rather lounge and sleep my days away, I find the problem dropped into my lap utterly unreasonable: How should the mages respond to having their sleeping quarters bombarded just as they are waking, with munitions apparently fitted with some sort of VT fuse?
But in war, there is no time for dithering. The answer is simple: counterattack and capture the actual fuse. Even if we fail to capture it, the secondary effect of forcing the enemy to destroy part of their own firepower will be worthwhile. An immediate and decisive counterattack is the best course of action.
After this thought process—the process of an imperial soldier with war in his blood—I gather the mages while rubbing sleep from my eyes. I decide to lead a company on a contour flight to wedge directly into the attacking enemy and control the position—a collision course to take out their artillery.
“Our target: the enemy’s artillery position! Prioritize capturing or destroying any advanced munitions!
“Get it done!” I order, swimming amid magic bullets and artillery shells. Life on the battlefield, where fire and smoke are daily companions, is as relentless as it is brutal.
To my great surprise, these halcyon days—when munitions rain down like railway gun fire—will soon crumble beneath our feet. In a corner of one of the trenches, at a relatively sturdy roost, I raise an eyebrow at a notice I have just received.
“What?! You’re certain of this, Visha?!”
“Yes.” My adjutant nods morosely.
I have just received bad news. We were together for only a week—a week full of warmth and gentle, digestible meals. Yes, it was our field kitchen. In the short time since we captured it from Federation hands, it had served three hot meals a day without fail. The poor thing.
Now, our last remaining field kitchen has been completely obliterated by railway gun fire. I can only pray it is a mistake. I send my adjutant to confirm, clinging to hope deep inside, but that hope is quickly dashed. The kitchen has been rendered completely unusable.
“Well, if that isn’t a kick in the shitter…,” I mutter.
As far as I am concerned, this is horrendous news. I want to kick and scream. If combat personnel cannot eat well, they cannot fight well. A deterioration in rations immediately and drastically reduces fighting potential.
Naturally, missing one meal won’t cause starvation. Baruch Bridge is a supply depot we recently captured. In terms of food, we have plenty. Enough supplies to feed an entire echelon, even. And we are only a single division of Imperial mages. Forget three meals a day; we could feed ourselves every hour if necessary. Even with Federation supplies being destroyed by railway guns and other heavy artillery, there is more than enough left.