THE CHARGE OF THE ROCINANTE

 

By Elizabeth Southerden Thompson, Lady Butler

it’s actually not the Charge of the Light Brigade. 

It’s the wrong cavalry (heavy brigade not light),

 and the wrong enemy (France not Russia), 

and even the wrong war (Napoleonic not Crimean). 

Above all, this Charge had the opposite outcome

 (it ended in victory).

THE CHARGE OF ROCINANTE

“We fight to keep something of worth alive rather than in the expectation that we will triumph.”

– T.S. Elliot

 

Agent Cloverfield said, “I don’t want to rain on your parade, mate. This freakish building might be invisible, but as soon as we step out of it, we’ll be bloody arrested.”

I sighed, “Which is why we won’t step out of it … not in the conventional sense.”

Lt. Stein wrinkled his brows. “Then, how are we going to get to the Rocinante to rescue the fleet?”

“By going through that sparkling door behind our friend, Cloverfield.”

He turned. “There ain’t no bleeding …. Of course, there is now. Crikey, you’re trying to drive me off my nut, aren’t you, son?”

He turned back around to face me. “Aw, stones and blood, Blaine. You weren’t wearing Rommel’s Waffenrock a second ago.”

“This is to show you reality is a garment much like this long coat.”

‘No, it is not.’

‘Give me a break, Sentient. I’m trying to explain concepts of science that haven’t even been discovered yet.’

I said to Cloverfield and the other Spartans closing in to get a better understanding of my words, “The universe has … pockets of a sort. Some are more accessible than others.”

I reached into my left front pocket, pulling out a Luger. “Some easy to get to.”

I put away the Lugar and reached into the interior left pocket, withdrawing the Iron Cross Rommel had given me after being nearly beaten to death. “Some which cost a bit of pain to obtain.”

I nodded to the shimmering door. “That leads to ….”

Cloverfield snorted, “Let me guess, old chum, to Malebolge, the eighth circle of hell.”

“Close. To the deck of the Rocinante, already some miles ahead of the ships of Exercise Tiger.”

“Why ahead?” asked Sgt. Savalas.

I said, “To perhaps meet the nine Nazi E-Boats before the fleet gets there.”

Porkins gawked, “Are you nuts, Major?”

Reese grinned, “You can have served under him for this long and still ask that question?”

I shook my head. “The hull of the Rocinante has been treated with … let’s just say a multi-layered coating that repels torpedoes, mines, and other dangers.”

Cpl. Wilson thumped his forehead with his right palm. “Of course! Those nine E-Boats fire at us? Well, those torpedoes veer away from us and might just hit one of their own.”

Rabbi Stein groaned, “But once our ships show up, those torpedoes veering away from us might hit one of our own.”

Sgt. Savalas made a face. “Just let one of our ships sink because of us, and Eisenhower will execute us for sure.”

Pvt. Eric Evans scowled, “Any other good news you want to share with us, Major?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. There were some missed schedules resulting in traffic jams and some naval craft arriving late at embarkation points. And ….”

Porkins groaned, “There’s more?”

“Afraid so. There were 2 escort destroyers. One was damaged. Now, there is only one when 2 were hardly enough."

I ironed my face with a palm. "The Allies and the British are also on different radio frequencies unknown to them both.”

“No one notices this?” muttered Evans.

I shook my head. “No. You see, both sides have been ordered to keep radio silence. Worse, ….”

Stew Taylor gasped, “There’s a worse?”

I looked to our ‘Doubting Thomas.’ “You of all people shouldn’t be surprised that there’s a ‘worse’. Eisenhower has ordered that the British on Slapton Sands use live ammunition to better simulate combat conditions. So, if any survivors from the E-Boat attacks stumble on shore ….”

Pvt. Johnny Knight growled, “They’ll be cut to ribbons! How did Eisenhower get to be Supreme Commander anyway?”

Agent Cloverfield drawled, “He’s a good nanny to Prima Donna generals, ill presidents, emotionally drained Prime Ministers, and a psychopathic Russian tyrant.”

I hefted the 34 pound “Martian Bazooka” to my shoulder. “Now, you’re in the perfect mood to learn how to operate my deadly friend here, the American made, German armed, FIM-92 Stinger Missile.”

Amidst all the groans, I went on. “It’s a two-man weapon. One to shoot. One to load.”

“How are we gonna see to shoot over the side of our Higgins?” scoffed Stew.

I said, “Rocinante is bigger and more complex on the inside than a regular Higgins.”

“How is that even possible?” asked Pvt. Knight.

“Doc” Tennyson snorted, “Pocket dimensions, remember?”

He flicked amused eyes to me. “I read Heisenberg and Einstein.”

“Well, woo-hoo to you,” sneered Pvt. Evans.

“The Stinger is launched by a small ejection motor that pushes it a safe distance from the operator before engaging the main two-stage solid-fuel sustainer, which accelerates it to a maximum speed of Mach 2.54 or 750 miles per second.”

Assorted gasps as Cpl. Wilson said, “We’ll be bouncing around pretty good out there. How will we hit anything?”

“Long story short. The Stinger locks onto your target with a … an infra-red devise. You acquire your target with the sight, lean your cheek against the pipe. Once you feel and hear a sharp click, the missile has locked onto the E-Boat. You press the  trigger. Then, no matter if the darn thing takes to the sky, the missile hits it.’

Cloverfield said, “Those Nazis are devious buggers. Will one missile take out an E-Boat?”

“It should.”

“Should?” wailed Porkins.

“You want ‘sure’? Play poker with me. You’re sure to lose.”

Pvt. Dimitri frowned. “How are we gonna do all that with the high sides of a Higgins?”

“As I said, the Rocinante is not a Higgins. Not really. You will have four twin seated affairs that will hinge out from the sides and rise up high – one for the loader, one for the shooter.”

“Up high?” “Kit” Carson. “We’ll be sitting ducks!”

“Not as much as those E-Boats,” growled Sgt. Savalas angrily.

I said, “All of you but me will be wearing those invincible helmets I showed you.”

“How invincible?” predictably asked Stew Taylor.

“Didn’t I tell you? Sorry, Sentient must have been talking to me when I was about to mention it.”

“Who?” several asked.

“Later. Right now, all you need to know is that your helmets all possess built-in inertia dampers that will have bullets flatten against your helmets and bounce off like swatted flies.”

Stew eyed me suspiciously. “All but you, huh? What will you be wearing up there?”

“The traditional Spartan helmet, bright and gleaming gold.”

Reese stiffened. “Making yourself a target? Hell, no! I wear that helmet. You saved me in Calcutta. I owe you. And I always pay my debts.”

Sgt. Savalas said, “No, that would be me wearing it.”

I shook my head. “Rank’s not fair. I get the perks of it. I get the dings of it, too,”

And with that, we went through the sparkling door to become the new Light Brigade … or die trying.