War is incredibly unpleasant. There are few things enjoyable about dying in the mud and killing another living being.
However, Eric had to admit that riding in the back of an open-backed truck en route to the next battle was an incredibly satisfying experience in comparison to marching there in the mud.
The griffons talked quietly amongst themselves until suddenly, there was a hush as someone turned up the radio.
“...and in other news, an army of Bronzehill dogs led by the young Count Barnaby Bronzetail was able to successfully encircle a Griffonian armored division around the city of Crowstanz. Duchess Gabriella assures her people that with these continued military successes, the war will be over by Christmas. “
The troops let out a hearty cheer as griffons toasted each other with their flasks and gave each other amiable embraces.
“Who’s a goodboy! God bless those magnificent mutts in Bronzehill!” Eric cried out. He gave a toast towards the sky and took a heavy swig of his canteen, as the rest of the griffons laughed in agreement.
Nogriffon wanted to ruin the moment by asking about the rumor that was on everyone’s mind. Not a single griffon wanted to ask if it was true that Angriver was planning to support Griffenheim after finally destroying the remnants of the revolution that had been hiding in the forests of Scheibwald for the last two years. They were afraid to speak the rumor into truth.
They took the moment to enjoy the short respite they had, hoping that the war would soon be over. All they wanted now was to return back home and be swarmed by adoring female griffons.
It was odd to think that a year ago, they were resisting against the overwhelming might of the Imperial Army on the Osnabeak Line. Now they were preparing to march onto Griffenheim to possibly end the war once and for all.
Planes flew by overhead, but the sound only made Eric smile. The Feathisian air force had won the skies, and the sound of aircraft was something to take comfort in. It felt good being on the side with air superiority for once.
The truck made a turn near a crossroads, and Eric caught the sight of a rose colored griffon in a tattered blue coat hanging from a nearby tree branch.
The words TRAITOR were sprawled over a sign hanging from the body’s neck.
He wanted to feel pity and sorrow for the poor griffon as he swung lifeless in the breeze, but to Eric’s shame, he felt relieved that it had been another griffon that had died in this war instead of him.
All he wanted was to survive the war and go home.
“Sorry mate,” Eric murmured to himself as he took a quick drink from his flask, “better me than you.”