The Lotus Eaters

Bridge of the Colombias, Balboa, Terra Nova

The lieutenant of the Gallic Twentieth Infanterie Mécanisée, out of Fort Muddville, was doing what lieutenants do; running around like a headless chicken trying to put each combat vehicle in his platoon into exactly the right position. On the other side of the bridge a different platoon was doing the same. The company's third platoon was on the other side of the broad water, acting as a combat outpost of sorts.

Centurion Garza wasn't the only one puzzled by the ongoing events. A grizzled Gallic non-com told the lieutenant, "Sir, I don't like this a bit. There's a coup going on; we all understand that. But we got orders to move and secure this bridge long before that started. So we're in on it; the general is, anyway."

"Logical, so far, Adjudant," the lieutenant agreed, momentarily ceasing his useless clucking about.

"Well, sir, there's nobody around us—nobody friendly, I mean. There's a heavy division to the east of us that is definitely not friendly, and at least two Balboan infantry divisions—legions, I mean—behind us, and maybe closer to five, not including their Tenth Artillery Legion."

"Yes, so?"

"If that coup doesn't work, sir, we're at the bottom of an artillery funnel."

The lieutenant looked momentarily nonplused. "What do you recommend, then, Adjudant?"

"For starters, sir, let me worry about setting up this blocking position. Meanwhile, you should get over the map and get on the radio and figure out a way for us to get the hell out of here if things turn to shit."

"As my father, the general, often said, Adjudant, the good officer listens carefully to his sergeants' mess."

"Wise man, your father."