Yesteryear Fiction

            The rain beat into the sand, creating circular patterns at his feet. Captain Melbourne, under the command of General Alymar (whom he had been separated from earlier that day after a skirmish), had been traveling along side the Tigris for two days. The rain now threatened to disrupt the fragile banks, allowing the river to surfeit as it pleased.

            “Cover those guns, men! And the Spiders!” Melbourne yelled as he lowered the brim of his hat to protect his eyes from the displaced sand granules. He had been in the heathen land of the Ottomans for only a week, yet had drawn the conclusion on his second day that he would have preferred France or Belgium in lieu of such a desolate landscape. Maybe he would have preferred to sit in muddy trenches and wait for the Spiders to come over the sides. Leading his comrades, the Captain would ignite his flame-spewing pistol and singe the eight aluminum legs from the bodies of the mustard gas-spitting creatures.

            British forces in Belgium had captured a German unit full of Spiders and had subsequently shipped the prized war machines throughout their campaigns in the East, hoping t turn the tide. Melbourne often mused at how quickly the Allied forces might be able to win the war if they had had German military technology on their side all along.

            His feet throbbed; felt simultaneous warm and cold as a soaked boot battled sore, swelling flesh. The fog further up the road parted to reveal a caravan. Pulling the damp, ink stained map from his coat pocket, Melbourne motioned the unit to stop while he advanced ahead. He had expected to be at Kut the day before and must now take advantage of a native’s knowledge of the land.