Chapter 15 – The Battle Continues

Odessa's face scowled and she blurted out at the TV screen “Wha? That's a T-55; those didn't exist yet!”

Darren looked over to Odessa with a stunned expression and paused the movie. “Wow, I really didn't expect you to be someone who could recognize different models of tanks.”

Odessa rolled her head around, caught somewhere between being ashamed and being smug. “Well, a lot of the guys at work... They all got really involved in playing 'World of Tanks,' so there's a lot of tank talk just going around the office. They kept getting into arguments about what tank is better, and... it piqued my interest.”

Darren tried (unsuccessfully) to hold back his smile. “Wow, so are you going to tell me you've been playing World of Tanks with them?”

“Well a little. But really it was the engineering side of things that got me excited. When they started talking about things like what tanks had better transmissions and how internal layouts impacted vulnerability, I started looking up a lot of this stuff. All these countries were making a mad scramble to invent wholly new technology, testing things by directly throwing them into battle... I got really drawn in with studying the ideas they came up with and how they got everything to work together.”

“Wait, are you talking about World War One or World War Two?”

“No, World War Two tanks. World War One tanks were an embarrassment.”

“Okay, because when you were talking about 'inventing wholly new technology...'”

“There was still a lot of of that in World War Two. Okay, it wasn't as wholly new as it was in the first world war, but I guess... It was where the interesting designs were. They weren't off-the-wall anymore, they knew what they were trying to do. It was innovation with a purpose.”

Darren nodded his head in understanding. “Okay, okay... So then I have to ask: which tank do you think was the best?”

Odessa rolled her head back and forth in thought for a moment. “Mmm, if I had to chose just one for an army to use... it would be the M4 Sherman.”

Darren's eyes opened in surprise. “The Sherman? You're not going to say the German Panther?”

Odessa held up her hands nonchalantly. “Alright look, I'm not looking at this from the perspective of a video game. Yes, one Panther is better than one Sherman in a fair fight. But I'm looking at this from an engineering and production perspective. For running an entire war, the Sherman was the better choice. It could be produced faster and more reliably, and was more multipurpose. If I could go back in time and give someone the plans for a new tank, I'd give them the Sherman.”

Darren nodded with a wry smile. “Alright, I can respect that.” He looked back at the screen and pressed the play button on the remote. But his thoughts weren't on the movie anymore.

* * *

Merideth set her pencil down and carefully looked over the drawing. She never thought she would have such an important use for the designs she had studied in her previous life, or else she would have studied them more intently. As it was, there were holes in her knowledge. She was able to fill most of them with sound reasoning and years of engineering experience, but what she was left with didn't look too impressive to her.

'Will this engine even work? I could be vastly underestimating how refined their diesel fuel is here. God, I would kill just to have a 3D printer to test the mechanics out.' But the design was about the best she could do. She gently closed the notebook and stretched her back.

'When is that General Hudson going to get back to me? I've got the rest of the designs here, and we're wasting time not getting this tested and into production!'

She leaned forward a little despondently. 'Wasting time... A tank design isn't really going to help Papa anyway. I should have drawn up a more modern rifle design; that would help him out.' She looked over to the window. The rain clouds made it possible for her to see a faint reflection of herself. 'No, I had one shot and I needed to show him something impressive, something to show that I'm not a dumb kid, and the tank was the best way to do that.'

She stood up and walked over to the wall where the calendar hung. How many weeks had it been now, and she still hadn't heard back from General Hudson? Papa left almost a week ago; he would probably be back at the front again by now...

* * *

It was early in the evening when the convoy arrived at the camp. While the last of the twilight was still able to light the way, Captain Weston found his way to the tent where all the brass was gathered, while his squadron followed behind. Nearly an entire wall of the tent was pinned open; the inside was bathed in a warm yellow-orange light from several kerosene lamps, contrasting with the deep dusky violet that painted the outside. A man was standing by a table covered with maps; he had a blond mustache and a thin build. Weston knew the man; it was Major Connor.

Weston snapped to attention and saluted as the major turned to face him, as did Weston's crew just behind him. “Sir! Captain Weston reporting for duty!”

Connor tilted his head back with a slight scowl on his face. “Weston?! You're late!”

“My apologies, sir. There was a delay in getting our platforms unloaded yesterday.”

“Yesterday?!” With an indignant scowl Connor pulled his sleeve back and looked at his wristwatch. “You were supposed to be here two months ago!” A smile started to crack as he turned to the other officers in the tent. “But didn't I say he was going to make it back, eh?”

From the far side of the table, Captain Parry spoke up, “You missed all the action, Weston!”

Weston's face soured. “Missed all the...” He put his hands on his hips like a scolding parent. “Hey, you didn't have a war without me while I was gone, did you?”

Connor began laughing and slapped Weston on his shoulder. “It's good to have you back, Captain!” He turned to face the rest of the squadron. “At ease, gentlemen! ...And lady?” He looked back at Weston but became tight-lipped and poker-faced. Whatever his thoughts were, he kept them to himself.

Weston spoke up, “So what exactly has been happening while I was away?”

Connor's voice shifted to a business tone. “I assume by now you've heard about Operation High-Tide?”

Cedric nodded. “You mean this combined operation with the Gaullians to take all the Argan's coastal territory? That's the whole reason I was able to make it back home. I haven't heard much about it by that name, though.”

“Well as far as anyone here is concerned, that operation is still going on. It won't be over until we take Hamburg and control the Alve.”

“I see, sir.”

“Things got pretty crazy while you were gone. There was a lot of back-and-forth, but we just couldn't penetrate deep enough. The Argans are holding a strong defense, and it's gonna take a lot for us to get through.”

“It's their only port now; they'll fight tooth an nail to keep it.” Weston glanced over to the other officers for a moment. “Sir, has anyone reported seeing an enemy mage that looked like a small girl?”

A confused expression graced Connor's face. “Can't say I've heard anything about that.”

Weston scowled. “Hmm. Well if you do hear anything, it would mean a lot to me if you could keep me informed.”

* * *

The United Empire of Gaullia-Aquite is simply known as France in my world. The fighting between France and Germany is what most shaped people's understanding of what World War One was like. The Battle of Verdun is perhaps the most famous, a single battle that lasted almost a whole year.

I was surprised to see Verdun on the map here, just a few miles hetches North of where I was stationed, but already within our territory. I wondered if we would be fated to have a massive battle of the same scale here.

I didn't think much of it on that first night when the airships attacked, but the longer the Battle of Bar-la-Sal went on, the more I worried it would become another Verdun.

Battle of Bar-la-Sal, Day 1

Amber looked into her bowl of oatmeal as she carried it over to the table. It wasn't “Maple and Brown Sugar Oatmeal,” neither was it “Apples and Cinnamon Oatmeal,” it was just 'oatmeal.'

She had long ago accepted that she would never again taste of the flavors and foods that once were ridiculously common place to her. Never again would she enjoy a “humble” breakfast of Lucky Charms nor of Cocoa Krispies. And while once he had looked at the grocery store shelf and quietly spurned it for the lack of variety in flavors for instant oatmeal, she had years ago finally learned how blessed he used to be for having four “boring” flavors to choose from, all with the simple addition of hot water.

But even if she had long ago accepted her new reality, there were some days where she still felt bitter toward what she no longer had. Days like today, where she had exerted herself so excessively the night before, saving the lives of hundreds of soldiers, and so she felt like she had earned a better breakfast. But no, she had simple, boring oatmeal; and it didn't even come with brown sugar.

Amber approached the table where her squadron was eating. The mess hall was just a series of tents open on either side with rows of tables inside. It was currently empty except for her squadron so she held no reservation with raising her voice. “Alright everyone, listen up! I know we all stretched ourselves pretty far last night, but the battle isn't over yet! There's still a division or more pressing against the frontline, and things are getting very dicey out there! Eat fast; they need our support right now! We're going to be scouting coordinates for targeted artillery. We'll work in shifts to share the load, but I want everyone to be in the trenches under whoever's scouting, so we can form up in an instant if any enemy mages show up!”

Amber placed her bowl on the table and sat down. “And now that that's out of the way, the next thing we need to address is Gering's hair.”

There was a ripple of laughter among the crew; evidently it was what they were already talking about.

“We think it changed last night during the battle,” Ochsner said. “Albrecht says he saw the new color when he was already in bed.”

Berthold spoke up, “Commander what kind of blue would you say that is? Mupia says it's a sky blue but I'd say it's an aqua blue.”

Amber shook her head. “It's too light for either of those; I'd say it's more of an ice blue.”

A few remarks erupted around the table. Gering rubbed his hand through his hair. “Ice blue? I like that one! Let's go with 'ice blue!'” he put an emphasis on it as if ice was the hip new thing.

Albrecht spoke up, “So why did his hair change color in a single night, but Sasha's hair is changing slowly?”

Ochsner stated matter-of-factly “No one knows. Magic is strange like that.”

Amber piped up, “People have tried to study it, but there's no conclusion that explains things properly. There's always some example somewhere that throws every theory for a loop. I remember reading once that it's almost impossible for children to have their hair color change, and the older a person is when they start using magic, the quicker their hair will change color. I always thought I would prove to be the example that throws that that idea out the window. But...” She pulled her hair in front of her face just to make sure, but it was still the same sandy-blonde. “...So far that one still seems to be true.”

Mupia looked over to Albrecht. “T'at might explain why you still have natural color; you've flown as much as him but you're younger!”

Nussbaum chimed in, “What I heard was that a mage's hair color represents their true character, and as such, it won't change until a man knows exactly what kind of person he really is. So it won't change for children and youth because they are still finding themselves.”

Berthold snorted. “Oh please, don't believe any of that flower-child nonsense. Your hair color isn't some reflection of your true self.”

Amber looked over Berthold. His head was shaven, and for the first time she noticed that his eyebrows were actually tattoos. “What color is your hair, Berthold?”

Berthold replied, “It's a shade of red.”

“You don't think red represents your character? Bold and strong?”

He snorted again. “Nah, I should be black, if anything.” He looked over at Sasha. “Besides, I'm sure Sasha would agree with me, wouldn't ya girl? I bet you don't like having old-woman hair.”

Sasha grabbed a handful of her white locks and pulled them in front of her face where she could look at them. “Oh, it's alright. Besides, you only lose it if you stop usingk magic, yes? I hope to keep it until my hair looks like this anyway.”

Amber raised an eyebrow. “You like fighting the Gaullians that much?”

Sasha took a breath and spoke with wonderment in her voice. “Not the fightingk, the flyingk! I am so happy to be an air mage! And if I wasn't I would fly airplanes! I love to, just, fly in the air! It is the greatest thingk. ...I am honored to have hair in color of the clouds; clouds are my sisters in the sky!”

Nussbaum coyly stated “You know I always thought you were an airhead.”

Various men began snickering. Sasha looked over to Nussbaum with a slight smile and sweetness in her voice. “Airhead, yes, I like it. I love to have my head in the air!”

There may have been a pleasing tone in her voice, but Amber had seen that look in a woman's eyes before. The married men seemed to recognize it too. Sasha knew full well that she was insulted, and looked toward Nussbaum with a hidden contempt.

Amber lifted her bowl to her mouth and shoveled the last of her oatmeal down her gullet. Most of the crew took that as a sign and began doing the same.

Amber set her empty bowl down forcefully. “There's a battle going on. We need to get going.” She stood up and slapped Gering on the shoulder as she walked by. “That includes you, Iceman!”

Battle of Bar-la-Sal, Day 3

The sigil glowed in the air above Amber's hand. The Condor Commander held his hand behind the sigil as tiny beads of light spilled out of his orb, each one touching Amber's sigil.

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“What is this thing?” the Condor Commander asked. “It just looks like the attackfire sigil.”

“It was the attackfire sigil, but I modified it,” Amber declared. “Instead of a deadly explosion, it makes a flare that looks like fireworks.”

Captain Bain stated firmly, “Right now it's the only thing we have to try to spot airships in the clouds at night. It's not much, but at the very least it could deter them.”

After a moment the beads of light began bouncing off of his hand instead of binding themselves to Amber's sigil. “Okay, I've got a copy.”

“Good,” Bain declared. “Save it to your orb; we're sending you to 229, and you're going to stop at every base along the way and hand this out to the other mages.”

As the commander began moving his sigil into his orb, Amber placed hers to the barrel of her rifle. “Simply pin it on your barrel, disable your sigil tray, aim up about forty-five to sixty degrees, under-charge it for more flight time, and...” Amber fired and the shot went up into the clouds. A few moments later it exploded into a display fit for the Fourth of July.

“That's it?” The commander's voice wasn't happy. “Beg your pardon sir, but the sky is too big to just fire these to find anything.”

“That's all we have for now,” Bain declared.

Battle of Bar-la-Sal, Day 5

Private Makart reflexively tightened his fingers around his rifle as the tremor of another explosion rippled through the ground. This one was close enough that dust began falling from the ceiling again. It seemed odd; just how much loose dirt could still shake out from the shell fire? You'd think by now it would have either all shaken out or outright collapsed. Certainly he'd seen other dugouts collapse; a direct hit could do that. Perhaps he should be glad for the occasional rain of fine dirt particles, as it was a reminder that the last shell had missed, and that he was still alive.

It didn't seem like a reminder he cared for anymore. The bombardment never ceased. He couldn't sleep properly. He wished the next wave would just attack already and get it over with. Fighting would do him some good. Or even a good hot meal might be enough to pull away the invisible blades jammed into his spirit.

Outside there was a high-pitched shushing sound that abruptly stopped, and a man came to the doorway. Immediately everyone in the dugout turned to face him. There was a wave of motion as the soldiers began readying their rifles but then stopped when they recognized the Argan colors he was wearing. Makart didn't recognize the man; some NCO with a thick mustache. He could faintly make out the glow of magic in his eyes.

After a moment of looking around the bunker he faced the outside and declared “This one will do!” while waving his hand in the air.

He stepped inside the dugout and some more mechanical shushing noises shushed in and abruptly stopped. A number of air mages came in, all dressed to fly with their packs on and everything.

The one with the mustache blurted an order to the dugout's residents, “Make some room!” As everyone began crowding together he turned to one of the other mages, “Mupia, make a light!”

Two more mages came in, carrying a third man who was moaning and bleeding considerably from his leg.

A couple more air mages entered the dugout. The last one curiously looked like a small child. It had to be a trick of the lighting; clearly she must be an unusually small woman. In the next moment one of the mages manifested a magic light into the room. In the enhanced lighting she still looked like a child, complete with freckles on her face. But she had to just be a tiny woman; the markings on her flight suit said she was a lieutenant.

They laid the injured mage on the floor; in the cramped space his bleeding leg was almost on Makart's toes. “Bring the light over here!” the tiny woman demanded as she straddled the injured leg.

The light floated over the injury; Makart squinted and held his hand up to block the light-ball from his vision.

The small woman looked over the injury and then declared “lift him up, gently! Bring the light down here!” She dropped down to her belly and began checking the backside of the leg. “...Alright, there's no exit wound. Set him down, gently!”

The woman looked Makart in the eyes. “Hey you! Are your hands clean?”

Makart balked. “Uh...”

“Good enough,” she declared. “Keep pressure on this wound!”

Makart put his hands over the bleeding spot on the man's thigh. It felt odd; the wet blood that had soaked into his clothes felt cold, but his palms felt something warm... warm blood coming fresh from the wound.

The tiny woman then began an involved process of checking the man for other injuries. She started at his feet, asking him to wiggle his toes, and then made her way up his legs, patting him down, asking if anything hurt. She very gently raised his leg, asking about back pain. As she began with his arms another one of the mages declared “I think his shoulder is dislocated.” As she gingerly prodded the far side of the man, a broken rib and a broken clavicle were discovered.

She checked his head last, slowly rolling his neck and at last removing his cowl to look for head injuries, revealing the man's ice blue hair. The tiny woman declared “You're very lucky Gering; you don't have any spinal injuries.” The dugout shook and more dust fell from the ceiling.

The man with the mustache patted Gering on his good shoulder. “Hey, how 'bout that, huh? A couple months of rest and you'll be good to fly again!”

The tiny woman pulled a utility knife from her belt and motioned to Makart; he lifted his hands from the mound and she began cutting the fabric.

Another one of the mages spoke up in a pandering tone. “Just think, you'll get to lay back and relax in a hospital ward, with lots of pretty nurses doting over you...”

The lieutenant spoke up. “Some ugly nurses too, in case that's what you're into. We won't judge.” She pulled out one of her grenades and unscrewed the handle. She handed the head to one of her men. “Here, put this somewhere safe.” She turned back to the injured man. “Open your mouth.” Once he complied she shoved the stick in like a horse's bridle. He clamped down on it awkwardly. She spoke in a raised voice “Hold him down!”

Four of the mages around him each picked a corner and pinned him; Makart placed his hand over the soldier's waist and leaned over to rest his weight on him. The lieutenant placed her hands gently over the exposed wound. Makart didn't know what spell she was using, but her eyes glowed brighter.

The blue-haired man moaned sharply into his stick and Makart felt his hips try to wiggle. After a moment his cry of pain ceased. The tiny lieutenant held up a small malformed piece of metal in her blood-spattered hand.

She showed it to the injured man. “Souvenir?”

The man shook his head with an unamused expression on his face.

The woman tossed the piece of metal away toward the door. “There's a couple more pieces; don't stand up yet.”

She repeated the process two more times on the other two openings on his thigh. She then unzipped her flight suit and summoned a sigil from her orb. Makart knew what was coming next; he had seen medic mages perform this step before. He braced himself to hold the man steady.

“This is going to hurt,” the woman said, “bite into that stick as much as you want.” She brought the glowing spell circle nearly against the wound, and it began shimmering. His body convulsed, and a muffled scream seeped through the gaps of his teeth. The lieutenant's lips moved as she silently began counting.

The man's clenched cries continued to fill the dugout. The sound quickly became more disparaging to hear than the booming of the shells. But soon enough it fell to a whimper and the small lady lifted her hands and stood up. The stick pitifully dropped from the man's mouth onto his chest and he leaned back, breathing loudly.

The lieutenant glanced around and then ordered “Sasha! Bandage up his leg while I work on his shoulder.”

The mages shuffled around and another one came to the leg with some bandages already in hand. Makart felt surprised to see this one as he hadn't noticed that there was another woman in their group – and this one looked much more womanly to boot. How had he missed that earlier?

Makart gave her a hand to help keep the bandages in place.

The tiny woman declared “This is going to hurt a lot for just a moment, but then it will feel better. Relax your muscles. Are you ready?”

The soldier placed the stick back in his mouth “Rww-wy,” he declared.

Makart looked up from the bandages. The lieutenant had one hand placed gingerly on his dislocated shoulder with the other grasping his arm just above his elbow. There was no way her tiny body had the strength to do what she was about to do. Her hand just barely jiggled; there was a wet popping sound and the man's eye flew wide open. “Hnnmng!”

“There,” the tiny lieutenant declared. “Now to take care of the paperwork.” She placed her hand over her orb. “Command this is Raven Squadron. We have defeated the enemy squadron but have taken a casualty. We are caught in an enemy bombardment and are unable to move our injured pilot. We have taken shelter in a dugout and are waiting for a clear window to move.”

She turned back to the other woman just as she finished wrapping the wound. They both nodded at each other.

The lieutenant announced “Alright, let's start some emergency mana recovery. Get his flight pack off and remove his orb.” She stepped away back to the doorway and looked outside.

As they removed his flight pack Makart saw how crushed and mangled it was; particularly on the side where his shoulder was injured.

The man with the mustache softly declared “Alright Gering, lay down and try to get some sleep.”

Makart wanted to correct the man; getting some sleep wasn't an option here. But he knew it wouldn't make a difference. What else were they going to do?

The magic light ball fizzled out and the underground room returned to its former dimness.

The injured soldier spoke up softly. “Hey Commander, do they teach you that first aid training in officer school?”

The lieutenant leaned back against the dugout's doorway. “Nah, I learned that when I was in the Boy Scouts.”

The injured soldier chuckled softly.

He wanted to say that after that the dugout grew quiet and peaceful, but that wasn't true at all. The shells continued to fall, in fact they soon grew in intensity. It wasn't just one shell from time to time that rattled the dugout, but they began hitting four or five in quick succession. Then there would be the quiet where only the more distant explosions were heard. Then the shells began hitting again.

And then there was another lull. Would this be it? Would the shells at last stop, and then finally there would be a rush of troops where the combat would begin? But no, another round of shells landed and another shower of dust fell from the ceiling.

And so it went on.

The small lieutenant continued to lean by the door; sometimes she looked around the dugout, but usually she was looking outside. There was something different about her eyes. Makart had seen plenty of men who had grown dead inside, but this wasn't it. There was something deeper to her gaze, some form of understanding that Makart had never seen out here. What was this look? Somehow it reminded him of... the older boys at school when he was a child.

Makart felt somewhat intrigued, and so he stood up and walked over to her. He spoke quietly. “It it's alright ma'am, I'd like to know what's on your mind; you seem to have something on your mind.”

The lieutenant didn't turn her head, but glanced at him for a moment before looking back outside. She responded in the same quiet tone. “Sometimes I feel I need to bare witness to all of this.”

“Bare witness?”

“We need someone to tell others what it was like, and what we went through. Too often in life we let the wrong voices write our history; people who are chasing after wealth, influence, or notoriety. Those people decide what voices get heard, but it doesn't matter if we don't have a voice to offer. I need to bear witness to what is going on so I can declare my witness to what happened, what it was like, and what went through people's minds. One day, someone will try to take that voice from us, and I need to bear witness to what really is going on.”

Makart pondered her words quietly. He wasn't quite sure what she meant, at least not all of it. Again he felt reminded of the older boys on the playground; the older kids who played the same games as him yet knew more than he did.

Another volley of shells began landing close by. When it cleared there was a muttering sound coming from the corner of the dugout. The voice sounded distressed. The lieutenant heard it too, and she walked over to the corner where the sound was coming from.

A private was hunched over. Makart didn't recognize him, but he did recognize what was happening to him. The trembling, the muttering... The shell shock was taking him.

Everyone stood around uneasy, unsure what to do. Someone went and stood by the doorway, just in case he tried to run out. But beyond that, there was nothing anyone could do.

But the small lieutenant seemed to think otherwise. She stood in front of the shell-shocked soldier.

At first she spoke gently to him, and Makart couldn't hear what was said. Something in a consoling tone. Makart drew closer to try to hear.

The soldier began speaking a little louder; in a nervous tone he muttered “I can't– I can't– I can't– I...”

She grabbed the sides of his head and stared straight into his eyes; she spoke with a strong authoritative tone. “I want you to say it, soldier, I want you to say it out loud! How can we fight an enemy we don't even have a name for? And you know damn well what the name is for what you are feeling. Now say it, out loud.”

The soldier's lips trembled. He quietly spoke “...fear.”

The lieutenant nodded. “That's right. There's no shame in feeling that, not here.” She let go of the soldier's head and turned toward the crowd; her voice rose to be heard by the whole dugout. “Is there anyone here who would dare censure a man for feeling fear in a place and time like this?”

Her words hung in the air. The silence was broken when the mage with the mustache declared “No ma'am, not in a place like this.”

The small woman looked back to the private. “That's right; not here. So tell me soldier, give a name to what we are fighting.”

“Fear...” The soldier paused before he continued. “Helplessness... Anxiety.”

The lieutenant nodded. “That's right. And now that we know what our enemy is, we can fight it.”

She continued. “I want you to do something. Close your eyes. Now I want you to picture a scene. A stream, with very slow moving gentle water. And there's a bridge over the stream, a very wide stone bridge. It is autumn, and there are trees upstream whose leaves have fallen into the water, and are slowly floating down the stream. Can you see the scene?”

The private nodded.

“Now I want you to look closely at those leaves. On those leaves are written words. You know what those words are; you just said them. Tell me again, what are those words?”

“Fear... Anxiety...”

“That's right. Those leaves have now floated under the bridge. That's where we are now; they are going through the tunnel right now. That's why we feel them. We can't see them, but they are real and they are there. The stream moves slowly, and there may be a lot of leaves, but they will all pass through eventually. We can't see them, we don't know how long it will take, but we can feel them, we know they are there.

“This is just a moment, Private, that is all. This is just a moment in time where we must experience this. But it will pass. I want you to think of that; I want you to remember that this is just a moment where the leaves are floating through. A moment where we must experience this pain. That is all.”

The private was taking some slow breaths. He seemed to relax.

Another wave of shells began rocking the dugout.

“They're just leaves, floating under the bridge.”

The lieutenant gently patted the private's shoulder and then found the nearest empty spot to sit down.

After a short pause one of her men leaned in and quietly asked “Did you learn that from the Boy Scouts too?”

She replied softly, “No, I was taught that when I needed it myself.”

Battle of Bar-la-Sal, Day 12

Raven Squadron sat in the mess hall along with a platoon's worth of other soldiers. Lunch today was beans with bits of pork in it, along with a side of bread.

Rain was beating onto the canvas roof and splashing into puddles outside. Amber took in the ambiance with a soft smile on her face, but few others at the table seemed to take any enjoyment of the situation.

Rain meant they couldn't fly the airplanes, which meant the mages were the ones flying around to take pictures of the enemy positions. The warm meal seemed to be the only enjoyment that could be achieved this day as water slowly dripped from the wet soldiers.

Sasha set her spoon down. “How long is this battle going to last? We've been fightingk for...” she twitched her fingers and began counting, but ran out of fingers. “Two weeks now?”

“What do you mean 'we?'” Berthold grumbled. “I've only seen two battles since I got back. It's just the ground troops who are fighting.”

Mupia smirked. “I t'ink t'e enemy just ran out of mages.”

A few heads began nodding nonchalantly; the closest anyone gave to a smile.

Ochsner looked over to the lieutenant. Despite the shallow tone the rest of the squadron was in, she seemed to have a bright countenance. Once his mouth was empty he spoke up. “You seem happier on days when it's raining.”

Amber was direct in her response. “That's because I'm a pluviophile.”

Berthold's eyebrows furrowed, but just as he drew a breath to ask, the radio chirped in everyone's ear.

Major Detmold's voice came through, “Raven Squadron, what's your current position?”

Amber cupped her orb and responded, “We're in the mess hall, having lunch.”

There was no response. A moment later Amber said to her troops, “Get ready to stand and salute, he's coming here.”

Within twenty seconds Amber's prediction came true. Detmold didn't waste any time with pleasantries. “The photographs you took earlier were sent to Colonel Lindwurm. It's been over an hour and he still hasn't received them. Find out what happened to them; leave now, you can finish eating when you get back!”

“Yes sir!” came the quick reply.

They found the car that was delivering the photos to the colonel; it was stuck in the mud.

But this was unlike any “stuck in the mud” Amber had ever witnessed in two lifetimes. The mire was so deep that it came up more than halfway on the tires. The ground in this bend of the road was a fine silt, and the deluge had turned it into a slick shiny mud that looked more like industrial confectionery than a roadway.

The courier sheepishly admitted “I tried to just run the rest of the way, but I got stuck so bad I couldn't move; he had to pull me out,” he gestured to the driver. “I lost a boot, too.” Upon closer inspection Amber saw a sock underneath the mud on one of his feet. The silty mud next to the car barely even looked perturbed enough to suggest someone had been trying to walk through it.

Amber looked to her crew. “Albrecht, take his packet to the colonel, double-time. Lance Corporal, was there any other instruction you had to deliver along with it?”

The courier shook his head, “No ma'am, just the package!”

“Alright, Sasha, Nussbaum, head back to the base and requisition some duckboards, planks, whatever wood you can get! Driver, do you have any rope in this vehicle?”

The driver nodded, “Yes ma'am, it's in a box in the back.”

Within short order the four remaining soldiers were busy trying to figure out how to secure the rope to the car. The vehicle wasn't a proper truck, but an automobile of some kind that looked like a contemporary to the model T. The front axle was buried in the mud, and most of what was exposed didn't look like it could bear the forces needed to pull the car from the mud. Ultimately they wrapped the rope through multiple spokes on each front wheel, and they reached into the mud to wrap it around what they hoped was the axle.

Amber looked at her crew. “Mupia, Berthold, you got strong hands. You take the rope and pull it from the front. Ochsner, you and I will push from the back.”

Berthold asked “How come you don't just use your mind powers to lift it?”

Amber shook her head. “It's too heavy. My telekinesis is only about as strong as two men. Do you think the two of you could lift this?”

With no further complaint they all got in position. Shortly after placing her hands on the rear she realized what was about to happen, but not soon enough to prevent it. “Wait, stop!” she yelled, but the driver had already started pushing on the gas. The wheels spun in place, kicking up two terrific arcs of extra wet mud, which would have flown wonderfully high into the air, had it not been for the two people in the back standing directly in their path. They both quickly tried to move out of the way of the streams of muck, but for the most part that only achieved a wider spread of mud across their bodies as they fled.

The two in front stopped pulling and turned around, and the driver took his foot off the pedal and looked back. As the commander and vice-commander floated in the air completely splattered in mud, Berthold began laughing and Mupia tried to hold back his amusement.

With an unamused expression Amber wiped away the mud that had hit her face, and then slipped her goggles back on. “Alright, let's try this again.”

Ochsner spit some mud out of his mouth. “A little more to the center this time.”

They repositioned themselves shoulder-to-shoulder and the crew made another attempt.

The car made very little progress. For what felt like an hour they pushed and pulled, and eventually got the car forward only to have more mud slide into the car, pushing it back into its hole.

At length Sasha and Nussbaum returned with bundles of wood planks. They were able to slip these in front of the car, but they had to repeat the same struggle just to get it a few feet forward where the drive wheels could finally reach the wooden path they had created.

Once the car was finally out of the mire Amber absently watched as it trudged along the muddy road, only to soon get caught in the sludge yet again.

It was dinner time when the squadron finally made it back to the mess hall.

Ochsner looked over his sullen commander as she inserted food into her mouth with the poise and posture of a shattered tree stump. Soaked to the bone and slathered with mud, he half expected her to miss with her spoon as her mouth seemed genuinely lower on her face.

“What was the word you said earlier? Ploo-vo-something?”

Darkwood's mindless motions paused. “Pluviophile. It means I like the rain.”

“I guess not so much anymore,” Berthold muttered.

“Rain,” Darkwood repeated. “Not mud.”

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