It looked like he was the only one, though. Several of his squadmates were scattered around nearby. They'd been dead for a while. How long had he been out? Looking around, it seemed like the entire regiment had been wiped out. They weren't expecting the Ilyrians to be out in such numbers, to have artillery, cavalry and Zadok Dragon Riders brought to bear against them. Insanely, the Colonel had them stay in line formation and march on the enemy line with fixed bayonets. Sure, keeping them spread out like that meant that the artillery couldn't take out quite as many of them in one hit, but there were still enough cannons to tear holes in the line, leaving them easy prey for the cavalry and Dragons while the enemy's line infantry mopped up the rest. Schwartz missed most of the fighting, but just looking at the battlefield, he could put it all together. It looked like for every one Ilyrian they got, four or five Grelish were killed in the exchange. You don't win wars that way. Of course, they didn't realize they were at war when it was already on them.

He looked around for his shako but couldn't find it, not that it mattered too much. His rifle on the other hand would actually be useful. Like him, it was half-buried in the dirt, but when he picked it up, he saw that a piece of shrapnel was stuck in the barrel and the stock was broken. He tossed it away. Surely none of his dead comrades would mind if he took one of their rifles instead. While he was at it, he scavenged some extra shot, powder and caps as well as some rations. After all, there was no telling when he might get back to civilization again. Tempting as it was to take money and other valuables, he decided to draw the line there. Bad form and all.

There were no signs of life around him and no sounds of battle in the distance either. The fighting was long since over, but which way did the Ilyrians go? Did they pull back to their side of the border or were they pressing further inland?

He took a swig from his canteen while wondering what to do. If the enemy was advancing, he ran the risk of running right into them. He might be able to go around, but which was the right way to go?

He realized he had more immediate concerns and as it wouldn't have been respectful to his dead comrades to relieve himself right there, he headed over to a nearby grove of trees that was still mostly intact in spite of all the shelling and dragonfire. He wasn't particularly shy, so he didn't go very far in. He picked his tree to water, but while he was emptying his bladder, he felt someone come up behind him.

The voice was Grelish. Rather soft, though. A kid, maybe. Typically you didn't enlist until you were thirty, but you could join as young as 25. You'd be that much younger once you finished your thirty, he supposed. That seemed to mean something to some people.

Pushing aside thoughts of retirement and turning his attention to the situation at hand, he said, "I'm pretty sure ye ain't no damn Eye-lie an' if ye ain't no damn Eye-lie, it means we're on the same side."

Schwartz did so and saw a young-looking scout pointing his long-barreled Welner at him. Unlike the common line infantry, they wore green coats and shapeless woolen bonnets adorned with a feather. The scout glanced down and his cheeks flushed scarlet.

Only the way his voice squeaked revealed that the scout wasn't a he at all.

Back during the war, Greland lost so many men that it didn't have any choice but to accept anyone who could carry a rifle. Afterward General Bellocq lifted the restrictions on females in the army, but honestly, once the war was over, not too many women wanted much of anything to do with the military except for those who worked as staff or nurses, traditional women's roles. Apparently this one was an exception.

She didn't seem to like being called 'missy'. Well, tough shit.

Wood promptly shouldered her rifle. Even though she was already a ranger first class, she was still as green as her uniform, like a fresh recruit. You could always tell the type with their movements so sharp and precise after weeks of drilling. You tend to lose it a year or two in, but it didn't seem likely she would've gotten promoted in less than three years. Maybe the novelty of a being a female scout advanced her career faster than the average penny-a-dozen swaddy.

That was about the last thing Schwartz expected, to have anyone looking to him for orders. Even as a squad leader, his job was just to pass down the orders from higher up. He never had to come up with any of his own before.

Without the slightest hesitation, Wood pointed her rifle at his head.

She lowered her rifle, saying, "Shouldn't joke 'bout sech thin's, Corp'ral."

And so they went about combing the battlefield for any signs of survivors among all the bodies. The regiment had been spread out over nearly two kilometers, so there was a lot of ground to cover. Near the edge of the field, Schwartz caught sight of some red shapes moving around. Looked like a six-man patrol taking some time to loot the dead, poking at several bodies with their bayonets as they went, either for sport or just to be sure they were dead.

Schwartz thought it best to give them wide berth, but then there was the crack of a rifle and one of those red shapes fell over. Dammit. Apparently Wood never heard that discretion is the better part of valor. The other five fumbled with their rifles and returned fire, but it didn't look like they knew what they were aiming at.

Now that she started it, Schwartz had to end it. There was a narrow window of opportunity while the Ilyrians were reloading. Schwartz charged at them full-tilt, waiting until he was close enough to be sure of his shot before firing his rifle. He got one of them in the chest and as he closed the distance, he drove his bayonet into the gut of another. He dodged a wild swing by a third and cracked him upside the head with his rifle butt to show him how it was done. He slashed the fourth across the face as he came charging, then neatly stabbed him right in the heart. There was another shot and the last one collapsed as the bullet made mince of his brains.

Schwartz was busy finishing off the one he stabbed in the gut when Wood approached.

Sure enough, buglers were sounding the alarm in the distance. Disturbingly, they were farther inland, meaning the Ilyrians were continuing their advance into Grelish territory. They could try running, but they wouldn't be able to get away fast enough if there were any horsemen. They could try hiding among the dead, but that was just asking to get bayonetted.

Looking at the dead Ilyrians around them, he said, "I got a crazy idea."

Wood just cocked her head curiously, like a puppy or something.

He and Wood were dressed as Ilyrian soldiers, using uniforms that weren't too bloodied in their altercation. Schwartz's was too small and Wood's was too large, but only the officers got a tailor fit. Schwartz was carrying the soldier he bashed with the butt of his rifle like he was a wounded comrade. He made a point to break the Ilyrian's neck first so he couldn't say otherwise.

There was a whole platoon coming out to meet them led by a mounted officer. This was where his plan would be put to the test.

He held up one, two and three fingers as the simple code for her to respond. His own Ilyrian wasn't very good, just what he picked up from an Ilyrian prostitute he used to frequent several years ago. The real hinge to make his plan work was a strip of Grelish land that was annexed by the Ilyrians at the end of the last war. Some of the Grelish citizens managed to flee over the border, while anywhere from three to five thousand found themselves newly minted Ilyrians. Actually, they probably weren't even recognized as full citizens, but that could be a useful incentive to get collaborators to help out with this invasion. Would they buy the story though? Only one way to find out.

A squad broke off from the rest of the platoon and followed the officer as he rode up to meet them.

Drawing his pistol but not pointing it at them, the officer demanded, "Identify yourselves. Name, rank and unit."

Fortunately for the two of them, the Ilyrians had their unit number on the sleeves of their tunics. Also, this platoon wasn't from the 67th, so they weren't likely to know that they didn't belong.

If that question was easy to answer, this whole ploy wouldn't stand a chance. It probably wasn't going to work anyway. The officer looked like he was seriously considering just shooting them to be on the safe side, but then one of the soldiers spoke up. He spoke Ilyrian far better than Schwartz ever could, but there was still a distinct non-Ilyrian accent and an odd cadence that wasn't quite native.

The officer eyed him suspiciously, then said, "I don't imagine you'd risk a bullet for a total stranger. Ask him what happened."

The soldier approached them and switched to Grelish, saying, "Wotcher, Mick. Lefty wants ta know what 'appened."

Schwartz didn't know why the soldier was doing this, but he decided to stay in character and play along.

The soldier then explained things to the officer far more fluently that Schwartz ever could and that seemed to be enough to convince him. He motioned for a couple men to take the soldier Schwartz was carrying. Almost as soon as they took him off Schwartz's hands, one of them said, "Hurt man my ass. This poor bastard's dead."

The two promptly laid the dead soldier out and started rifling through his pockets for any valuables. No one made any comment on this. Lot of honor among these people.

The soldier who spoke Grelish told Schwartz, "Since yer battalion's all torn ta shit, Lefty says ye kin fall in with us. We're rotatin' out ta Campo di Malo, so it'll be a couple weeks 'fore shit gets straightened out."

Inwardly, though, he wasn't sure how much he appreciated it. True, they weren't going to be shot there on the spot, but in succeeding, his plan might only serve to get them in an even worse situation.

The soldier slapped Schwartz on the back and said, "Jus' leave it ta yer ol' buddy 'Arry Trimble, Mick, my son."

There was no understating how dangerous a turn this was. Falling in with the main group and going back across the border into Ilyria, it wouldn't be long before they were found out in a big way. Then there was this guy Trimble. What was his game? Right now he was the closest thing to an ally they had, leaving Schwartz with little choice but to trust him.

The lieutenant called the platoon to fall back and regroup with the main formation. The Ilyrians were marching in two long files, one heading back north and the other moving south to the front lines. They were at least swapping one regiment for another, maybe more.

They marched some twenty kilometers, until it was close to sundown, before stopping to make camp for the night. Schwartz wasn't sure if they'd crossed the border or not. It was mostly open except on the main roads where they had the border checkpoints, and there were few landmarks to mark the boundaries. Unless you came across a local and found them speaking either Grelish or Ilyrian, you could wander for dozens of kilometers and not know which country you were in.

Schwartz's new squad was charged with digging the latrine trench for the company and once they were done with that, they still had to set up their tents before they could have chow. It was just basic field rations, some hardtack soaked in coffee so you wouldn't break your teeth and a bit of salted pork. The stories of Ilyrian food being better than Grelish food apparently didn't apply to the army.

Schwartz and Wood were eating quietly while Trimble was telling a made-up story about him and 'Mick' from when they were at Boscano, something about sneaking out one night to have a threesome with a nurse. Personally, there wasn't a woman in the world who was worth sharing with another man as far as Schwartz was concerned, but the rest of the squad was enjoying the story, so he let Trimble say whatever he liked. It wasn't like Mick Weatherford had a reputation to defend.

The other soldiers burst into laughter and Schwartz joined in, as the punchline was actually pretty funny. Wood didn't laugh, though, as much because she couldn't follow a word of it as anything. This seemed to draw more attention to her from this loutish-looking thug (or a thuggish-looking lout) called Bernucci, who had been eyeing her more and more ever since they made camp.

Wood ignored him, which she probably would've done even if she knew he was talking to her.

Bernucci didn't seem like the sort who took no for an answer and if Wood continued to ignore him, he was likely to get more agitated.

Putting his hand on Wood's shoulder, Schwartz told him, "Sorry, mate, but this lil' piece a' ass is taken."

Bernucci became more serious as he leaned forward like he was spoiling for a fight.

Schwartz dug in his pocket and pulled out a twenty-grana coin, then flicked it over to Bernucci.

Bernucci caught the coin and just stared at for a moment. There was an awkward silence until his closed his fist around the coin and burst out laughing.

They had them in Greland too, but he knew the Ilyrian word because of that prostitute he once knew. She was a camp follower for several years before she crossed over into Greland. The washerwomen did indeed wash and mend your clothes, but most of them were also prostitutes. Schwartz imagined the reasoning was the same in Ilyria, that the officers allowed it because if the troops had easy access to prostitutes, they'd be less likely to go out preying on local girls and making trouble.

Trimble breathed a sigh of relief with the tension having died down.

He wanted to ask Trimble why he was doing all this, but it wasn't smart to ask now. You could never tell how much Grelish the others knew. This ruse wouldn't last long, but he didn't want to blow it any sooner than necessary.

Once they were done eating, they cleaned their rifles and checked their kit before turning in for the night. They had the standard four-man tents and it was a lucky break that they had an off number to their squad, so Schwartz and Wood could share a tent with Trimble and his squadmate Fazzio. Schwartz put himself between Wood and the other men. He wondered what she did before. Did she have a separate tent all to herself or did she have to share with her male squadmates? He couldn't imagine it.

It was just as well that he had more important things on his mind. Otherwise he might be more conscious of the fact that there was a young girl pressed up against him. Wood wasn't any stunning beauty that would set your loins aflame, but Schwartz wasn't the most discriminating man either. Under different circumstances, he certainly wouldn't say no if she was game for it.

Fazzio fell fast a asleep and started snoring loudly almost as soon as he hit the ground. Schwartz was folding up his tunic to use as a pillow when Trimble turned to him and said, "'Fore ye get too comf'table there, Mick, ye an' Mumford might wanna step outside a bit."

Schwartz decided not to make a point of the fact that Trimble seemed to have seen through the fact that Wood was in fact a female. However, there was still the one question that'd been hounding him and now was as good a time as any to ask.

Schwartz couldn't help but have his doubts, but right now this was his best chance at surviving and his life was all he had left. Even if he could escape, what would he do? He'd just have to save those worries for when he really needed to worry about them. For the time being, he would have to keep on playing the role he'd been given. If it kept going too long, he might start to think he really was Mick Weatherford. The funny thing was, that might not even be such a bad thing.