The command post was a collection of tents protected behind a circle of wagons, the horses being let free a mile back to graze on the plains.
Guarded by a company of light infantry, not to mention a few dozen skirmishers who were either resting or patrolling the area, it posed quite a hefty target.
They were overextended though, it was standard procedure for the skirmishers to operate two miles ahead of the vanguard and their commanders, while the vanguard would set up a basic perimeter, for the rest of the legion to arrive at safely.
Normally from the rearmost soldier to the frontmost soldier, the distance was supposed to roughly be eight miles. Meaning if the skirmisher corps ran into an issue their comrades further behind them could rush forward to reinforce them in two hours at most.
The distance between this command outpost and the rest of their legion was twelve miles though, it would take their brothers and sisters anywhere from three to four hours to relieve them.
Bertrand didn't like it one bit, normally being overwhelmed wasn't that big a security risk. As it took time for bannermen to properly ready their shields and without those shields if they were recklessly charged they would be cut down by the skirmisher's beamers. Even if a company or two had managed to get into a line formation and set up a shield they still had their own company of light infantry welding weapons capable of piercing the defence of their foes.
Nobody in their right mind would charge an entire line of skirmishers without a shield, but those madmen clearly weren't in their right minds, he had even heard some other skirmishers talking about how they weren't really men but rather something called a zombie when he passed by them.
With a grim look, he walked through a gap in the wagon circle and began to navigate his way through the small maze of tents, it was set up so haphazardly to confuse any potential enemy infiltrators, but it worked just as well at confusing him.
Thankfully it was only two hundred tents, so it wasnt to hard to get to the command tent. Plus he had Césaire and Francois to follow, so in time at all he was standing in front of the command tent.
It was the same size as the normal tents and even placed near the wagons instead of the center of the tents to help make it blend in even more. Probably made it easier to escape too in the event of an emergency.
Not that any officer would. Sometimes Bertrand wondered if in order to become an officer you had to display a reckless indifference to your own life as well as everyone else's.
It was the only reason hardly any ‘accidents’ happened to them, no matter how cruel or callous their orders were they always made sure to lead by example. Treating themselves almost like a mana cube under Napoleons' control, doing whatever it took to ensure victory was secured.
Each and every last one of them was a zealous leader of the glorious Francia Conglomeration. Willing to put their life where their mouth was.
Walking up to the tent Bertrand noticed what he assumed was a bodyguard out of the corner of his eye. The man looked like the definition of what a grenadier was, tall, big, strong and incredibly disciplined, with not a hint of lint or dirt on his blue coat.
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After pausing for a few seconds, Francois let out a slight cough, and slowly a hand emerged from within the tent, pulling the tent flaps open, before another emerges and beckons them inside.
With their smirk ever so subdued Césaire took the lead, confidently stepping forward and entering the tent. Francois was just about to do the same when he hesitates, looking down at the heel of his boot, where some clumps of bloody matted hair remain from his attempt to stop the maddened skirmisher.
With a grunt, he waves Bertrand forward while he starts to wipe his boot on the grass.
Nodding his head slightly at him, Bertrand moves forward and enters the Blue tent. Mind wandering, thinking about irrelevant things, like why their tents were blue, in a desperate bid to not think about the no doubt gruelling report he was going to have to give in a few seconds.
With there being no spare chairs, Bertrand stiffly walks over to Césaire and takes his place beside them. Not even daring to look around the room, choosing instead to simply stare straight ahead, like they were taught to do during a parade.
After half a minute Francois walked in, less stiffly than Bertrand but still with a great deal of respect he takes his place beside them. Standing to Bertrand’s left.
Then slowly and expressionlessly, one of the three officers present in front of them spoke. “Explain why you are absent from your duties.”
“We responded to an attack and found five fellow skirmishers under assault from around fifteen individuals with no sense of self preservation. We joined the battle late as three of the original eight skirmishers were already dead, and the remainder were engaged in melee. During this melee, another skirmisher was slain and we killed all of the attackers. We were in the process of performing a quick burial by burning the bodies of our fallen when one of the dead skirmishers resurrected and took another skirmisher to the grave with them. I sent two skirmishers back here as they were suffering grave wounds and went back to my position in our formation. Then after half an hour, the last remaining skirmisher from the conflict came to me, informing me that there was no one scouting in the front ranks. I took this as a sign that our formation had been breached and returned to inform you of this. As well as what can only be a new form of magic as each and every skirmisher who died in that battle rose from the dead and attacked us.” Francois explained, summarising their hellish morning and early afternoon in just a few breaths, and Bertrand noticed from his peripheral vision that he did this while staring at the officer.
finding some courage inside him from his comrades behaviour Bertrand repressed his traumatic memories of the dozens of mock parades they were forced to perform, and the punishments that followed when they did it incorrectly, and looked down at his officers.
The man sitting in the middle chair had a combed moustache and brownish red hair. With piercing brown eyes and silver buttons for his patchwork blue trenchcoat. The patches covered what looked to be stab wounds.
Bertrand didn't doubt that he had been stabbed, you didn't get to be a silver buttoned officer by being safe and giving out orders behind the protection of cover. In fact, it was surprising he wasn't missing an arm.
The man to his left looked quite a bit like Bertrand, he had blue eyes and dirty blonde hair, likely sharing both Germanica and Francia origins and had wooden buttons on his trenchcoat signifying him as having newly graduated from basic training just like Bertrand.
The final officer was a woman, with a sharp face and brown eyes to match her black hair. Brass buttons adorning her trench coat, she wasn't paying much attention to them though, instead focusing her attenion on a folder in her hands.
“Anything else to note.” The officer asked matter of factly.
Before Francois could elaborate further and give more details Césaire gave out a slight cough and raised his hands up, before slowly reaching into his pocket and triumphantly drawing out a bloody napkin.