Major Harrigan had been thinking about quitting his job for years, but he never could find a good enough reason to do so. Of course, he had dozens of bad reasons. There was the paperwork, the bureaucratic nonsense, the pointless meetings, the endless stream of demands from people who barely understood what his job was, and the gnawing suspicion that absolutely nothing he did mattered in the grand scheme of things.
But those reasons weren't good enough. After all, if he left, what would he do? Nothing made sense in civilian life either. At least in the military, the absurdity was organized. Predictable, even.
He sat at his desk in the base's operations room, staring at the large map of some distant territory marked with strategic zones and key points of interest. The map was irrelevant. They'd been ordered to protect some godforsaken valley that no one cared about. Except the brass, of course. The brass cared deeply. But Harrigan had stopped trying to figure out why.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Captain Niles entered, his face the perfect embodiment of a man permanently confused by the very nature of existence.
"Major, got a new directive from Command," Niles said, holding a folder out as if it might explode.
"Another one?" Harrigan sighed, taking the folder with the enthusiasm of a man accepting his own death sentence. "What's it about this time? More patrols to protect goats from insurgents?"
"No, sir, it's...well, it's something about 'increasing operational comprehension.'"
Harrigan blinked. "Increasing what?"
"Comprehension, sir," Niles repeated. "They want us to increase it."
Harrigan stared at Niles, then down at the folder, and back at Niles again. "And what the hell does that mean?"
Niles shrugged helplessly. "I don't know, sir. But it's a direct order."
Harrigan flipped open the folder and skimmed the memo. It was filled with jargon and phrases that sounded important but meant nothing. Words like synergy, efficiency realignment, and objective recalibration. There was no mention of what exactly they were supposed to comprehend more of, or how they were meant to go about increasing this comprehension. Just the vague demand to do so.
"Well, Niles, looks like we've hit a new low," Harrigan said, tossing the folder onto his desk. "They've finally figured out how to give us orders without telling us what they are."
Niles nodded solemnly. "Shall I pass this down the chain, sir?"
"Absolutely," Harrigan said. "In fact, send it to every department. Let them know we're increasing comprehension. Whatever the hell that means."
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Two weeks later, the base was in chaos. Every unit had interpreted the directive in a completely different way. The intelligence section decided to compile an endless series of incomprehensible reports, each one more obtuse than the last, hoping to drown the enemy in paperwork. Logistics had started ordering random supplies in bulk—pallets of nails, cases of powdered eggs, and barrels of shoe polish—assuming that a greater understanding of material needs was the key to success. The motor pool began tearing apart trucks and putting them back together, convinced that this mechanical deconstruction would lead to enlightenment.
Harrigan watched it all unfold with a growing sense of detachment, as if he were observing a tragicomic play where the characters didn't realize they were stuck in a farce.
"Niles," Harrigan said one day as they stood outside, watching the men of Alpha Company attempt to dig trenches in the wrong direction, "remind me again why we're doing this."
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
"To increase comprehension, sir."
Harrigan took a long drag on his cigarette, then flicked it into the dirt. "That's what I thought."
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A month into the operation, a general from Command arrived at the base for an inspection. General Prichard was the kind of officer who wore his medals like a man trying to convince himself of his own significance. His face was perpetually set in a grimace, as though the entire world offended him by continuing to exist.
Harrigan stood at attention as Prichard strolled through the camp, nodding approvingly at the various activities taking place.
"Major Harrigan," the general said, stopping in front of him. "I understand you've been tasked with a very important operation here."
"Yes, sir," Harrigan replied, fighting the urge to sigh. "We've been working hard to… increase operational comprehension."
Prichard beamed. "Excellent. And how's that going?"
Harrigan hesitated, glancing around at the chaos that had engulfed his base. One of the men from Bravo Company was currently using a jackhammer on a rock, for reasons that no one had quite figured out yet. A group of engineers was arguing over the correct way to assemble a bridge, despite the fact that there was no river anywhere nearby. Someone had started a small fire for reasons that probably made sense to them at the time.
"It's…going, sir," Harrigan said, his voice dry as the desert air.
The general nodded sagely. "Good. Good. You know, comprehension is the key to victory. If we understand what we're doing, then the enemy won't stand a chance."
Harrigan stared at the general, wondering if perhaps he was the one who didn't understand anything at all.
"Yes, sir," Harrigan replied with a stiff salute. "We're making great progress."
As Prichard turned and continued his inspection, Harrigan lit another cigarette, wondering just how long it would take for someone to figure out that none of this made sense. Or if they ever would.
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The operation to increase comprehension dragged on for months, long after any sane person would have realized it was pointless. Every day brought new absurdities. Men were rotated in and out of the base, each unit adopting their own interpretation of the directive, leading to an ever-growing web of nonsensical actions that no one bothered to question.
One evening, Harrigan sat in his office, staring at the latest report from the intelligence section. It was 47 pages long and filled with detailed analysis of enemy troop movements, except there were no enemies anywhere near their position. The data had been fabricated to justify the report's existence.
Niles entered the room, looking as bewildered as always.
"Major," he said, "I just got word from Command. They've issued a new directive."
Harrigan raised an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah? What now?"
Niles handed him a new folder. Harrigan opened it, skimming the first page. Then he closed it again, leaned back in his chair, and laughed. He laughed so hard that tears came to his eyes.
"Sir?" Niles asked, confused.
"They want us to… increase cooperation now," Harrigan wheezed between fits of laughter. "Apparently, we've been comprehending too much and not cooperating enough!"
Niles blinked, unsure whether to laugh or cry. He settled on staring blankly into the middle distance.
"Cooperation," Harrigan muttered, shaking his head. "I don't even know what that means anymore."
And so it went. The war dragged on, fueled by a series of meaningless directives and absurd objectives. The men continued to dig trenches that led nowhere, build bridges over nothing, and comprehend things that no one could ever understand.
And somewhere, in some office far away, a general smiled to himself, confident that they were winning.