The Fallen Prince That Never Was

by A. G. Higgins

  Chapter 11

  Two Desperate Gits

  Deep in the heart of a canyon valley, General Ford eyed the field of battle through the use of an old spyglass. It was his prize possession. Though annoyingly, it never seemed to work much the same in the afterlife. And there were times, he felt, when using his naked eye would be of far more use to him. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that his eye was actually stuck to its outer lens. But apparently, no one ever dared to ask why – he was just found that way?

  Nonetheless, down he drew his sight. Across his lines, trenches and cannons, and let’s face it... mass–graves! All as it should be, all as it has been for centuries; Trapped in some kind of ungodly limbo, he and his men continuing to fight a civil war, an undead civil war to be precise. If you got shot here you simply said, “Ah bugger, not again?!” before being promptly carried off to the sideline. Yes, who would have guessed that “Rest in Peace” simply meant having the day off? Whatever happened to good old fashion death? The six inch nail in your coffer and a good luck gesture to wish you well on your way – the old so long sucker! But here, among the Valley of Death, the good, the bad and the damn right ugly would battle for a time without end. And as with such a time, no one could remember why and how, or ever where, it had all begun?

  These were but a few thoughts floating through the corpse of an officer and a dead–man. However, General Ford had a plan to rid himself of this everlasting unrest. But for the moment there seemed to be a rather strange matter that required his full attention...

  ‘Enlist?’ he snapped before turning sharply – Crack! – Perhaps too sharply? After all, his rib cage wasn’t what it used to be in his younger days of life. In fact, it wasn’t where it use to be. ‘Did you say, and I quote; “enlist”?’ — Crack!

  ‘Ah, I’m sure that did it, Sir,’ remarked Commander Coop before attempting to reply to his General’s question, ‘Yes Sir, “enlist” with your permission of course, Sir.’

  Commander Coop was a tall, slim man wearing the befitting attire of an Officer and a Gentleman. Although, when the cry of battle called he would describe it as; “Officer and a Git, sod the flag and sod this bloody war!” Overall, he could simply be summed up through his family motto; “Take a bullet for no man or country...not even your neighbour’s wife!”

  ‘You want me to enlist a rebel under my command on behalf of Officer Gump, Mr. Coop?’ asked General Ford, quite baffled by this daring request while lowering his hands to straighten his uniform.

  Strangely, his spyglass staid in its outlook position fixed within his eye–socket? – It even moved like an eye!

  ‘I see you’ve fixed your sights Sir... very good,’ said Commander Coop, ‘it’s amazing what a brainless twat and some superglue can do these days?’

  ‘Eh...?’ tried General Ford.

  ‘Nothing, Sir.’

  ‘Speak up man, I can’t hear you!’ he demanded, ‘must be that damn ear wax again – came down real bad back in 61?’

  ‘I was simply suggesting, Sir,’ replied Commander Coop more respectfully, ‘that we are not actually sure at this point if they are rebels?’

  ‘Very well then, Mr. Coop, do what you will with them,’ he conceded, ‘but I warn you, you and those men who found him will take his charge... or I will take your head should they desert.’

  It was times like this when Commander Coop took General Ford seriously. That eye on the end of his spyglass wasn’t really his. Nor, apparently, were several other parts that he had acquired over the years!

  ‘Now then, how holds the line Mr. Coop,’ continued General Ford, ‘and what news of our enemy?’

  ‘But of course, Sir,’ replied Commander Coop swiftly before beckoning his Staff Sergeant to his side. Promptly, Officer Weasel unrolled a large map on the table, ‘thank you Weasel – As you can see Sir, we lay here, west of the railway bridge which is located midway up the canyon side, securing passage across the valley, deep into the heart of the rebels camp – Our reason for being here I’ll think you will agree. The enemy line is strong, Sir. Their trenches well built and well armed too. Attempting those lines would be a suicide mission if ever I saw one. And it seems that they themselves carry the same orders as we do, Sir.’

  ‘Yes Mr. Coop, I am well aware that we are both here to secure the railway line, bridge and safe passage for our trains who ferry fresh supplies to Fort Mandalay. While, I might add, stopping the rebels’ supplies from reaching Fort Brophy!’

  ‘Actually, when it comes to orders I thought they were more along the lines of “rot in Hell” Sir?’

  ‘Now you look here Mr. Coop,’ fumed General Ford, ‘I don’t need silly remarks. But what I do need are results!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sir... results?’ ventured Commander Coop cautiously.

  ‘Yes damn it... results!’ confirmed his General, ‘what do you say to that, Mr. Coop?’

  ‘What kind of “result” did you have in mind, Sir?’

  General Ford’s spyglass – Eye? –seemed to gaze upon them him cunning thought, ‘for a time longer than I care to remember, we have been slugging it out up here with the enemy. Our boots have been worn by the scorched earth that we stand firm upon. But not once have I ever seen our colours standing high and proud upon the ridge of our enemies line. That, Mr. Coop, would be what you might call a “result”.’

  ‘Sorry, Sir, you seem to have lost me?’ replied Commander Coop wearily, ‘is there a war going on or something that I should be aware of?’

  There was a good reason why Commander Coop had died in the war. But apparently, it had nothing to do with actually fighting one?

  ‘Mr. Coop,’ began General Ford with a bright smile upon his rotted face, ‘by sunset – and I don’t care how you do it – your Staff Sergeant will be holding our flag over that fine ridge deep within the enemy’s line, understand?’

  ‘You mean...?’ prompted Commander Coop unsteadily.

  ‘Yes...’

  ‘But doesn’t that mean that I would...?’

  ‘Oh yes, Mr Coop, yes indeed.’

  ‘Ah...?’

  ‘Do I make myself absolutely clear, Mr. Coop?’

  He chose his next words with extreme care, ‘you git!’ He tried again, ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Good!’ roared General Ford before turning back to gaze across the field of battle below, ‘oh, and one more thing before you depart, Mr. Coop...’

  ‘Yes, Sir?’

  ‘Look alive... you’re an officer after all.’

  ‘Come, Weasel,’ conceded Commander Coop while begging his General’s leave, ‘we have some deserting – I mean work to do.’

  Outside, Commander Coop marched furiously to the rattle of his stiff corpse. His Staff Sergeant, Officer Weasel, tried desperately to keep up.

  ‘Just what does that old fool think he’s doing?’ said Commander Coop, ‘God, he’s even more intolerable in death than in life. At least in the living I could have shot the old bugger! You know, Weasel, this could seriously see the end of us,’ he complained bitterly, ‘does anyone even know why we are fighting anymore?’ He sighed, ‘well, I guess that there’s nothing for it. We’ll just have to nick the nearest camel stored to its humps with freshly baked crumpets and a box of Barry’s Tea. With a bit of luck we might just make it across the sun scorched desert, holding on to nothing more than a fool’s hope that the damn thing has an electrical socket for the kettle. And for your sake, Weasel, pray that it’s not located somewhere south of the border.’

  ‘But we must follow orders, Mr. Coop,’ pleaded Officer Weasel with a sense of duty.

  ‘That’s Commander or Sir to you, Weasel,’ said Commander Coop, ‘only General Ford has the authority and audacity to refer to myself as other. Besides that, you’re absolutely right. We’d never make it across the desert... not with your shoddy impression of a camel anyway.’

  ‘I could do an impression of a horse if you’d prefer, Sir?’ replied Officer Weasel sincerely.

  ‘More like an
Ass if you ask me,’ replied Commander Coop, who as it happens was also being sincere, ‘let’s face it, Weasel, the thought of having to mount you is enough to make me sick. I’d rather face the pleasure of Sergeant Hang’s noose before spending the night with you... out there.’

  ‘Well in that case, Sir, may I suggest using some of the more undesirable men at your command for this “peculiar” problem?’

  ‘Damn it man, just what is it now?’ he asked, slightly horrified as to what his Staff Sergeant’s reply might actually be, ‘and please don’t say what I think it is that you’re going to say. Otherwise, I shall be forced to call you a git and smack you across the head with the back of my hand – at least what’s left of it anyway?’

  ‘Well, Sir,’ began Officer Weasel while lifting the wide brim of his hat, ‘by my limited understanding of orders; General Ford gives them to you; you give them to me and I to the men – Chain of Command, Sir.’

  ‘Look Weasel, is there a point to all of this or shall I just go and find Sergeant Hang. Perhaps he can save me from having to listen to one of your insufferable rants?’

  ‘Er... yes, Sir.’

  ‘Well do you mind getting on with it? We haven’t got all day you know. You heard General Ford, he wants you flying that blasted flag over yonder – which in case you haven’t figured it out just yet – means that he wants me standing there beside you!’

  ‘Precisely, Sir.’

  ‘Let me get this straight – and feel free to correct me if I’m wrong – but you mean to tell me that your plan to get us out of this mess is to actually follow our orders?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Before I ask – and trust me when I say that your answer better be good you git – you arrived at this how exactly?’

  ‘On account that it’s the logical thing to do, Sir.’

  ‘Ah...?’

  ‘Last thing anyone would expect, Sir,’ he explained, ‘my point being Sir that we send some men over, they do all the hard work and we step in afterwards as it were.’

  Suddenly, Commander Coop came to a halt. It was the perfect crime for the perfect time!

  ‘But who,’ he thought, ‘who could we send that would be foolish enough to fall for, dare I say it... such a cunning plan?’

  ‘How about old one eye Jack?’

  ‘Union member I’m afraid,’ replied Commander Coop thoughtfully, ‘perhaps Davy Crocket? God, even in the afterlife he never looked so good?’

  ‘Unfortunately, Sir, his raccoon cap is a tad bit stubborn.’

  ‘Yes, who would have thought that that damn thing would come back to life with him?’

  ‘If only we had someone new to the political cunningness of these war–torn trenches?’ thought Officer Weasel to himself aloud, ‘someone–’

  ‘...fresh, so to speak,’ finished Commander Coop, his words lingering upon the sight of some relatively new recruits.

  Unfortunately for Billy Jean Bad Leg and Sergeant Hang, they just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  ‘It’s a terrible thing though, Sir,’ said Officer Weasel finally, a tone of guilt exhaled upon his breath.

  ‘Yes...’ agreed Commander Coop, pausing in reflection for such a foul deed, ‘but it is said that war has no fury... like two desperate gits and a cunning plan!’

  Across a sea of sand, the repair work to Captain Silver’s ship was well under way. But little did his crew know that they were being watched...

  ‘Well what can you see?’ asked Droc.

  ‘A few broken sails, some doggy craftsmanship and one odd looking figurehead,’ replied Samif, ‘but by the looks of it there’s no sign of any prisoners whatsoever?’

  ‘Then it would seems that that sandstorm had brought down the pirate’s ship too?’ he said, hoping for a closer look over a ridge of sand, ‘maybe they are being kept under guard somewhere below deck?’

  ‘Not likely,’ said Airtu, ‘that hole in the ship’s hull leads directly to the holding cells. They must have broken free somehow?’

  ‘Blast, we’ll never find them at this rate,’ continued Samif, ‘if it wasn’t for that storm Shorty would still have the princess’ scent. Not to mention that we wouldn’t be wondering around under this baking sun like fools.’

  The dragon – now affectionately known to some as “Shorty” – gave a slight grunt with displease.

  ‘Well I guess it’s lucky for us that we came across these pirates when we did,’ said Droc reassuringly, ‘though we may have lost or way – and admittedly forced to ground for cover – we may still be able to use this fortune to our advantage my mighty fellows?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ asked Earru.

  ‘If I know pirates, they’ll want to retrieve their investment before long,’ he replied thoughtfully, ‘we’re both in need of the same outcome if you will. The only difference is that they should have a search pattern to follow once the ship is repaired.’

  ‘And all we have to do is follow,’ added Airtu.

  ‘Precisely,’ agreed Droc with excitement, ‘in doing so, they will unknowingly lead us right to our companions. Thus, once again, Droc and his band of mighty fellows come to the rescue!’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Earru, ‘we’ll have to keep well out of sight. Those cannons seem far ranging to me? If we’re not careful we could find ourselves in a tight spot of trouble – damn quick too.’

  ‘Earru’s right,’ said Samif, ‘if we’re seen, all hope of reaching the others will be short lived?’

  ‘Relax, I’m sure Shorty here could outrun that ship if it comes to it? All we have to do is stay well out of sight,’ replied Droc, ‘besides, if they had noticed us we’d know all about it by now. They’d surly come charging over this dune like a pack of stark raving savages, I can tell you.’

  ‘More like they’d use those cannons if you ask me?’ said Earru.

  ‘Nonsense, we’re well out of range,’ he replied confidently, ‘trust me, I think I know a ten–inch–two–footer–barrel when I see one.’

  Boom!

  A cannonball over shot its mark. Droc son of Oric’s might fellows waited impatiently under a rain of sand. With a face full of earth, Samif gave his chief an oddly gaze. Perhaps it was time for a change in leadership – He could tell.

  A breeze rippled through the shadows of a supple surface like calm waves upon the ocean. Its waters, the covering of canopy that secured cool shade form a harsh sun beyond. It was dark, save for a few beams of daylight that flowed with ease throughout the tent’s worn surface of old. Its wooden floor, a stain of dry rot and stench of corpse, creaked under the sound of footsteps to the eerie jingle of spurs. Black boots, smothered of dust, moved slowly with each step a sense of pride in their stride. Halting suddenly, they swung sharply to the forefront as a voice of interrogating manner now took centre stage...

  ‘Let’s face it; we both know how this works. Traditionally, I am tasked with tearing you down; the world that you once knew and cherished existing no more. I am to make you think that there is no hope, you’ve reach the end of the line so as to build you up again. And when I’ve built you up, it is with safe assumption that I would have you right in the palm of my hands. The answers that I seek would be given freely and without the use of say; crude measurers – which I can assure you – I have taken a lifetime to acquire, if not more. Unfortunately, this I fear may lead me down a deep, dark and disturbing path of more... irrational methods of experimental practice–So let’s just skip the formalities and get straight to the point, shall we?!’ The spurs jingled and glistened in the sunlight as the figure stepped one pace forward. A hand, fashioned of rotted flesh, grasped the worn handle of an officer’s sidearm, ‘I’ll only ask you once more,’ said Commander Coop, ‘if the song goes like this; ninety–nine bottles of beer on the wall, if one should fall... then there would be?’

  He gestured for the appropriate response. Officer Weasel seemed confused?

  ‘A need for a more stable wall...?’

 
‘Now look here you git,’ fumed Commander Coop, ‘if you don’t get this right I am going to shoot you in a place that most people would find rather uncomfortable – Unless of course... you happen to be from Tibet.’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Officer Weasel innocently.

  ‘Right, once more from the top...’

  ‘Sir!’ yelled Sergeant Hang while begging permission to enter Commander Coop’s quarters.

  ‘Yes, what is it Sergeant?’

  ‘The rebels, Sir?’ replied Sergeant Hang, ‘me and poor old Billy Jean out yonder reporting for duty, Sir – As best we could figure from them there orders you sent forth, Sir!’

  ‘Ah, yes... good,’ replied Commander Coop cunningly, ‘and the new recruits?’

  ‘Safe as a wee critter in Billy Jean’s hands, Sir!’

  Captain Coop paused. “Safe” wasn’t the kind of word normally associated with Sergeant Hang and poor old Billy Jean Bad Leg?

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve mistakenly hanged the poor buggers, have you?’

  ‘No, Sir. Captain’s order’s “don’t hang the gits just yet. If they don’t co–operate I’ll do it my bloody self” Sir.’

  ‘Ah, that sounds like me alright. Charmingly honest with a degree in D.I.Y thrown in for good measure,’ replied Commander Coop before dismissing his Staff Sergeant, ‘that’s enough for now, Weasel—Oh, and make sure to remind me to shoot you later.’

  ‘Yes, Sir!’

  ‘Could you show our guests in, Sergeant?—The door that is, not your noose…’

  Somehow, Sergeant Hang felt cheated.

  Billy Jean Bad Leg march into his Commander’s quarters accompanied by the new recruits. By the looks of it, they didn’t really seem to have a choice. Let’s just say that if poor old Billy Jean’s rifle was any closer, it wouldn’t be the bullet that would actually kill them.

  ‘Yes, alright put your weapons away men,’ said Commander Coop with ease, ‘let’s at least try to keep this civilised, shall we?’ He approached the recruits warmly, ‘now then, what brings you lot to Fort Charley? AKA – the greatest lost battalion of gits since the invention of a pedal–powered wheelchair. Or shall we get straight to the point? The men want to have you hanged. Personally, I agree.’ Well, when it came to Commander Coop it was as about as civilised as you would get. ‘However, there is an alternative,’ he continued, ‘General Ford has kindly granted you an enlistment. Under his instructions you are to be placed in my command. As part of your basic training you will be leading the Big Push. You’re going over the Top old cum, a luxury afternoon slugging it out on the battle field, compliments of yours truly.’

  ‘We did not come here to fight a war,’ replied Estaru sternly, ‘and our path is of our own concern least yours.’

  ‘We don’t have to stand for this,’ said Zack, ‘surely there is something that we can do?’

  ‘What do you suggest?’ he asked.

  ‘You could take them,’ hinted Suzan, ‘they’re just barely flesh and bone?’

  ‘And I maybe small but we dwarves can fight like beast,’ added Morku.

  ‘But I doubt that any of you can out run a bullet,’ replied Estaru, ‘so unless you have an alternative in mind, I suggest that you keep your will of heart to yourself... least for the time beginning.’

  Cara, however, felt that some good old fashion diplomacy was needed, ‘if you think that we’re going to depended on your crazy leadership – let alone fight some war for you – you have another thing coming. So step aside and make some room Mister, because this sister is coming through!’

  Well, it was more of a hostile takeover really. But Commander Coop knew a thing or two about that.

  ‘Now look here you lot,’ he replied sharply, ‘I don’t care who you are or what’s going on in that small world of yours. There are only two things that you can depend on in life – death and odd socks. It’s either you or me, Missy!’ he dared, ‘General Ford has somehow gotten it into his thick skull that we are actually going to start fighting this war – I know, it’s crazy; someone could get seriously hurt. So I do this for the sake of my fellow countrymen – but more importantly for myself when I say... I can live with odd socks!’ With some encouragement, his Colt pistol clicked into readiness, ‘I won’t lie to you,’ he continued, ‘the chances of your survival are as about as much as an over inflated water balloon hoping to survive the pending onslaught of a machete. But let me assure you that it’s a damn sight better than if you don’t.’

  ‘But this war has nothing to do with us,’ said Suzan, ‘and you have a whole army at your command?’

  ‘To the first part of your question I say; what of it?’ replied Commander Coop calmly, ‘and to the second...sod off!’

  ‘But you’re undead?’ tried Morku.

  ‘Precisely, and judging from my previous experience as you can imagine, I have no intention of doing it all over again. Now if you don’t mind... you haven’t got all day.’ He retrieved an old pocket–watch from his coat pocket, its hands of time immortalised at precisely two–forty–four pm. He shook it, hoping for noon. It didn’t work, ‘right, that’s it,’ he continued embarrassingly, ‘I guess we’ll just have to do this the old fashion way; sit back and relax with a freshly brewed cuppa... while some twat stick his head over the trench to get shot first.’

  Bang ?! – “Ah, bugger... not again?!”

  Clearly, it was noon.

  ‘That should do it... Sergeant, you know what to do.’

  ‘Aye, Sir!’ replied Sergeant Hang, giving Billy Jean the signal to move the new recruits into line, ‘stand to men!’

  ‘Oh, it’s fightin’ time for poor old souls as sure as hot stew by the fireside,’ remarked Billy Jean with excitement, firing a shot into the air, ‘I’m a comin’ boys’ – Smack?! – A wooden beam fell from above, hitting him over the head with vengeance. It wasn’t part of the plan, but he played his part... lying cold on the floor.

  Captain Coop threw his sight to the heavens. What else could he do?

  Officer Weasel now began to heave open the covers of the command post. From beyond the decayed back of Commander Coop the rage of a great civil war now erupted. And the air was alight with the roar of cannons and rifles set upon those fool–hearty who charged without heed. But in the distance white supple clouds rose to the hiss of a steam train’s timely whistle.

  ‘Right, listen up you lot!’ roared Commander Coop above the rush of many soldiers, ‘this is the pathway to war. I can assure you that unlike the Wizard of Oz, any yellow bricks you may find along its route should be approached with due caution. One rather long stick – preferable made of titanium – a goofy egg timer and a change of underwear capable of withstanding the might of a Atomic Bomb. But most important of all... some other git who will accidently step on it for you.’ He began to pace back and forth, ‘at precisely noon every day a steam train carrying much need supplies to our fellow companions yonder, attempts to follow the railway line that runs right through the heart of the enemy’s camp. Your orders are to take the camp by force. Don’t even think about using it as your golden thicket out of here. Sergeant Hang and Billy Jean Bad Leg will be accompanying you to ensure that you complete your task.’ He halted in his tracks, standing proud and firm, ‘any questions...?’ – Boom! – A cannonball struck nearby, ‘...good,’ he finished wearily as a skeleton leg made a bid for freedom?

  Promptly, its owner hopped into action, “damn ye deserter, I’ll have ye hanged I tell ye—–hanged!’

  Commander Coop cleared his throat, feeling that a final few words of encouragement were needed, ‘and that I believe is how you say... go break a leg.’