Dear Reader,

I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a very inopportune time.

Under more ordinary circumstances, a gentleman such as I could afford neither the levity nor the audacity to offer a monologue instead of the other, more staples of narration. Third-person has always been my preferred choice; but self-preservation often has a way of making us go down the less travelled routes of common behavior.

At present, I find myself lying squarely on my back, eyes closed, breathing at a minimum. The classic position of ‘playing possum’. The raindrops on my ribcage form a rhythmic beat accompanying the footsteps of men, and the clashing of swords. Thankfully, no horses are neighing.

Judging by the force of the rain, the effective vision should not exceed five feet. Just as much a hindrance for us as the enemies, I suppose. I’d squint my eyes to observe, had I expected anything besides splashes of mud and sharp stings of rainwater. I’d get up and try to brawl with the others, had I expected half-decent results from wailing endlessly with my bronze sword. Let that be a lesson to you, dear reader; Sometimes the best course of action is to lie very still on the battlefield and hope nobody’s looking for a launch pad.

It’s amazing how focused warriors can get in the midst of a battle. We follow a simple outline; locate enemy, slash endlessly until reasonable sure of murder, move on to next enemy. Surely no one would go across every corpse on the muddy field, checking for vital signatures and signs of life? Especially in the mud. Especially in the rain. Especially at night.

Then again, what strategist would be deranged enough to order men to play possum on an active battlefield? Notwithstanding the possibility of being trampled underfoot, or drowning in the mud, what benefits could one possibly get from taking the least comfortable nap known to man?

There, dear reader! Now you’ve asked the right question. Now assume yourself at near-zero altitude, with a bottom-up view of the battlefield. Men jumping to avoid tripping over your body, men stepping over you in an attempt to lunge at their enemy, men falling over you as they acquire wounds, both small and large. Every action you take can cause havoc, and nobody would trace it back to you; for in battle, a warrior looks forward and up.

But I digress. Back to playing possum.

I can’t help but think the rain is falling unevenly. Despite the generous growth of hair on my head, my scalp feels wetter than the exposed regions between my crural bracers and leather boots. Perhaps it’s the splashes of mud making it feel that way. Note to self: before any future crazy strategies, cut hair shorter.

“8’ o clock!”. I hear the signal, bringing up a mental picture of a clock with my body at the dial, head at the midnight mark. 8 o’clock would be beside my left foot, angled around the knee. If I put my right leg through a hooking motion along the mud, I should capture any stray feet around eight o’clock.

“One-thirty!”. Ah, that would be a simple grab. Whups, there doesn’t seem to be anything around here. Must be a command for somebody else.

“Legions Rise!”.

Now that one is new. What did that mean again? Clueless, I’ve opened my eyes, squinting just enough to see others rising up from the mud. With the muddy men joining their more hands-on brethren, the tides of battle seem to have turned. It’s only a matter of time now. Factoring in the low visibility, as well as the impossibility of reinforcements, the battle should conclude within the next quarter-hour.

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Time for some proper action, then.

My own sword abandoned long ago in service to the possum plan, I search along the battlefield for another weapon to requisition. Conveniently enough, the nearest enemy soldier conveniently happens to have a rapier that should be about the right size. Shield in the right hand, indicating left handed man; side grip on the weapon, indicating a tendency for sharp, quick, repetitive blows. Someone’s fond of playing with their food.

I brace myself to receive the first strike, feigning both pain and inadequacy. As the second strike comes down the same route, I grab both at the weapon and the hand that’s holding it. Thankfully, some men are more afraid of being grappled than they are of being disarmed.

Rapier acquired, time for action. Two hostiles about three feet away on the right, one to the far left, splashes indicate one directly behind. Two allies, one on either side. Now, normally, I would deal with the obstacle in front of me, and someone would end up watching my back. But it doesn’t seem like the one behind us has been noticed by the others. Better err on the side of caution.

With a turn and strike, the fight is now three versus three, no positioning advantages. Much more the way I like it. Trusty rapier in hand, I take a running start toward the gentleman on the right with the gap-toothed snarl; that should make my target clear to the others. I arrive just within his attack range, and take a sharp backward step to withdraw. Standard probing tactic.

He seems a bit slow. Perhaps his previous fighting has made him sluggish. Taking another run-up, I do a full-circle around the target as he struggles to maintain line-of-sight in the proper defensive position. Stopping sharp about halfway down the turn, finally able to flank the man, I put the rapier right through his side. Perhaps in his peak condition, that should not have been possible. Then again, war is about results, not excuses.

With my second opponent down, I look across the battlefield to acquire the next. As I’m about to finish my cursory scan, the sound of a huge horn is heard, booming over the cacophony of raindrops, feet, swords and shouts. A loud voice follows. “VICTORY TO BLUE! STOP THE BATTLE!”

The next scene is one you wouldn’t have seen on any battlefield known to man. Every single individual, regardless of side, cast their weapon aside, as if afraid of being infected by the plague. As the weapons for a collective thud on the ground, the voice speaks again “BLUE LEADER, REPORT FOR DEBRIEFING.”

I wish they wouldn’t say that every time. It earns me too many stares. I’m not overly popular, or incredibly talented; yet between the results achieved and the underhanded tactics used, I silently thank the gods that looks can’t kill.

Oh well, tonight’s going to be an earful.