Ficlets

The ground was parched; brown and dusty under an unrelenting sun. As far as the eye could see, and that was some way over this extensive plain, nothing still lived. Charred skeletons of what had been the more substantial trees made obscene gestures at the sky, creaking and moaning eerily in the breeze.

The enemy’s retreating order had been ‘scorched earth’ and it had been carried out with devastating accuracy and attention to detail.

There would be no living off this land, he knew. No food, water, or shelter but that which they brought for themselves. He thought back to his planning, the long nights in the sweaty heat of his office on the coast. He had known this might happen and written the contingency orders himself, arguing for the budget with tight-fisted bureaucrats, ruddy cheeked from the excesses they enjoyed, who had never and never would have to march in a rough, ill-fitting tunic through the heat of a summer’s day in this hellish land.

“Make camp,” he said, wearily. “We’ll move out at dusk.”