Short Story - The Slope of War – Yael K Miller

By: Yael K. Miller

He was a scout.

He could have been an officer but he made his choice years ago. He had no interest in being an officer and his job as a scout kept him as far away from officers as possible and for a majority of the time. He had been in this business for a great many years as evident from the braid and stripes on the underarms of his Blue uniform.

Years ago, long before his birth, it was decided that ranking should not be so visible. It could be seen now only if a person stood right in front of another person and even then you could still prevent people from seeing the ranking. It was a good system and he enjoyed the rare occasions when he got to flash his underarms. This was one of those times.

He had been called to the Blue command tent. As he entered the camp he saw how few of them had survived. He could see the aftermath of a very recent battle. A defeat no doubt. He, of course, had been somewhere else scouting. He followed the discreet signs to the command tent – an old code that had never been broken. Or so he assumed as he had never heard otherwise and never heard about a command tent being specifically attacked.

He flashed his rank markings and gave his name to the guard outside the command tent. The guard had just passed the enthusiasm of youth and had not yet settled into the comfort of veteranhood.

“What happened?” the scout asked.

At this the guard got suspicious and lightly touched his belted pistol.

The scout again flashed his rank markings. “I’m a scout.”

The guard relaxed. “I’m probably not supposed to say this but the Maroon boys ground us into little bits.”

The scout nodded. He had seen the effects in the camp.

“The command tent’s been reviewing the whole battle for the last two days,” the guard said, “discussing some Maroon master strategist.” The guard described in great detail the battle; he had been in the fight and had also eavesdropped at his post for the last two days.

The scout started to get an idea why he had been called but did not let his thoughts weigh too heavily. After all, these were officers and, beyond that, command officers. Who knows if they actually lived in the same universe as the rest of the world?

The scout nodded at the guard. The guard called out in a soft firm voice: “Scout Specialist reporting as ordered.”

There was a grunt from the command tent that both the scout and the guard interpreted as permission to enter. The guard held open the tent door and the scout entered.

Inside the tent all the command officers clustered around a table covered in maps. Though most of their rank markings were obscured, from what the scout could see and who he recognized from his long career, the scout figured that all of command were huddled in this tent. Apparently, the Maroons really hadn’t cracked the code to the location of the command tent.

The scout was handed a picture. “This is the Maroon commander that made us eat dirt,” said an old familiar face.

The scout saw the other commanders frowning at the phrase but said nothing. Then he saw the old familiar commander was missing a rank mark. Apparently the other commanders had already spoken their piece. It was nice to see that, in the midst of the aftermath of a crushing defeat, the command structure still had time to place blame and demote.

“Something must be done,” said a baby-faced commander, echoed in nods from the rest of the command except the one with whom the scout was familiar. As if a scout had no idea of how a war works.

“A sniper attack should do it,” said the old familiar face.

After long experience, the scout had stilled his mental remarks from becoming public: “Are you insane? Sniping an enemy commander, not in battle, and a labeled master strategist? I know, I’ll send him a note inviting him for tea.”

The other commanders took the scout’s silence for stupidity or perhaps cowardice. But the old familiar face knew what it was and grinned. He said to the scout, “This Maroon commander takes walks in a forest clearing just beyond the no-man’s land at dusk.” The scout was handed a Maroon uniform – a lowly private by the rank markings. “Wear this.”

The baby-faced commander gestured the scout to a map. “Here’s the defense map of our side of no-man’s land and what we know of theirs.”

The scout quickly memorized the map: mines, chemical traps, and other nasty stuff. This is what made him such an excellent scout, the ability to quickly assimilate maps and terrain and apply the knowledge to survival.

It was clearly the end of the meeting; the scout waiting to be dismissed and the old familiar face about to open his mouth when one of the baby-faced commander’s cohorts said, “This mission is absolutely vital. Failure is not an option. You’re dismissed.”

As the scout left the tent and nodded to the friendly guard, he could only think that this was further proof that he was glad he had never become an officer. Something about being an officer must fry a person’s brains so he can only state the obvious.

Just outside the camp, the scout changed into the Maroon uniform. He belted on a pistol even though it was not standard for a lowly private to carry one; the scout always figured better safe than sorry. The scout removed his sniper rifle from its hiding place and attached all the extensions for an extra long shot.

The scout crept into the no-man’s land with heavy fog blanketing the area. He wove his way through the Blue traps of his own side and went as far as he could into the Maroon-trapped area. Lying down in a sniper prone position, he lined up his rifle scope with the forest clearing and waited for dusk.

He was patient, a veteran. Although he much preferred his scout duties, he was no untried greenie as a sniper.

Dusk approached and the fog shifted away from the forest clearing. It looked to be close to perfect conditions for a sniper shot.

And then a figure in Maroon walked into the clearing. The scout could not yet definitely identify that this was his target as the Maroon paced back and forth. Finally the Maroon stopped pacing and sat on a tree stump. Now the scout could confirm that this was his target. The scout waited to ensure that the Maroon was not about to move. The scout lined up the shot just as the Maroon turned his head to the side leaving the scout with only a profile at which to fire. But this was no problem for the scout, and so he pulled the trigger.

At that moment the scout saw something impossible in his scope. The target had turned his head back so that the scout could again see the target’s face. The target was no longer the Maroon that he had been shown the picture of but himself, the scout! Somehow he, the scout, sat on that tree stump.

The scout dropped his sniper rifle and sprinted to the forest clearing – praying he’d dodge Maroon traps, running on pure adrenalin, something he had not done since a young, green scout. He made it to the forest clearing just as the bullet hit the target/himself/the person’s head. The scout drew his pistol and nudged the body over. The body’s face was completely gone – the scout had no clue whether he had impossibly shot himself.

Two Maroon figures dashed into the clearing carrying automatic weapons. The scout was outgunned and did not bother to fire at the Maroon men. The scout only hoped they would be merciful when they figured out he had killed their master strategist commander.

One of the men, hopelessly young and slightly out of breath, said, “Commander, are you alright? We heard a gunshot.”

The scout thought: “Are you insane? Your commander is lying on the ground.”
The two Maroons were not looking at the body but at him as if he, a Blue scout in a stolen Maroon uniform, were their commander.

Something impossible was going on. The scout drew in a breath and thought: “I guess I’m the commander of these Maroons.”

The scout-now-commander said, “A Blue in a stolen Maroon uniform snuck through the no-man’s land and tried to kill me.”

Only now did the two Maroons look at the body. The other Maroon, a veteran and someone apparently quite familiar with the Maroon commander, said, “I told you, Commander, it’s too dangerous for you to be walking in this clearing. I know you said you needed to get away to think but now your safety has been compromised.”

The scout-now-commander allowed himself to be herded between the two Maroons into the Maroon camp. It was a healthy camp with few wounded, not like the Blue camp, and, as he walked, he noticed the stiffening of soldiers as he passed – the coming to attention when a well-respected commander walks by. All of these Maroons thought he was a Maroon commander. Flashing his rank markings to himself, he saw they were no longer the markings of a lowly private on the uniform he put on earlier today. They were the markings of a very high-ranking and well-decorated commander.

His two Maroon bodyguards escorted him to what he assumed was the Maroon command tent. On the way he did not recognize the codes to a command tent, although in truth he had not been looking so hard. He entered, and the commanders in the tent all came to attention.

“Clear your head, sir?” one commander said in tones of an subordinate talking to a superior and desperately hoping the superior knows what to do.

He nodded and moved to the table. On it lay maps of incomplete plans of a battle. The same battle that had decimated the Blues two days ago.

He now understood what was happening – at least as far as he could. This was a he that had not stayed a scout but had become an officer, a command officer. All the other commanders in the tent looked at him for a plan. What could he do? Just this morning he was a Blue scout. Could he really turn his back on the Blues and plan a Maroon victory? Looking around the tent, he realized he had to do this. Somehow, someway, he had become a Maroon and the Maroons needed him – they were his people now.

He took a deep breath and moved forward. He explained his plan of attack based on what the Blue guard told him about the battle two days ago and the map of the Maroon side of no-man’s land he saw earlier. A brilliant plan – the other commanders were in awe. “We strike at two hours before dawn,” he said. After all the commanders completely understood the plan, they dispersed to inform their own subordinates.

He laid down to sleep after informing his guards not to wake him, not even during the battle. Although he was now a Maroon commander and the Maroons were his people, he had no desire to see the Blues slaughtered.

He awoke late in the afternoon to murmuring outside his tent. He granted entrance, and the grinning faces of his commanders greeted him. Everything had gone according to plan – an amazing victory. He toured the camp, visiting the few wounded. Almost all of the wounded were on the Blue side.

His commanders begged and pleaded for two days that they should follow up on the victory and crush the remnants of the Blue army. But he could not allow it; he had killed all the Blues he could stomach. Near dusk of the second day, he informed his bodyguards that he was going for a walk alone to clear his head. They protested but he finally wore them down. No doubt they would still be close to him though hidden.

He walked until he came to a forest clearing, the perfect place to think things over. He paced, reviewing the ethics of what he had done. The Maroons needed him to be a Maroon master strategist commander so he gave that to them, ignoring that a short while ago and for most of his life he was a Blue scout.

He felt dizzy so he sat down on a tree stump. Suddenly he heard the sound of a long-range sniper shot.

He turned his face to the bullet.


You can follow Yael on Twitter at: http://www.twitter.com/MillerMosaicLLC

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