Anti-Unicorn Brigade Lost Dispatches
September 17th, 1916
Dispatch from Gen. Douglas Haig the Office of the United Kingdom Secretary of State for War. Classified: Most Secret.
My Lord, these letters and dispatches were intercepted behind enemy lines. They were found in a riderless horse. The saddlebags bore the brigade insignia of the 51st Anti Unicorn Brigade. We are classifying Field Marshall Lansford and the entire 51st missing in action until we receive evidence to the contrary.
July 8th, 1916
Private “Dobby” Danvers, 51st Regiment, His Majesty’s Anti-Unicorn Brigade, B Company
Dear Mum,
It ain’t so bad up here. There’s no sign of the enemy. Unicorn duty is as easy as they said it would be. We passed through a villa called Mort. There was a fountain in the village square. The town was deserted except for a funny old man who kept giggling and telling us that the water would purify our souls and strengthen us as it had for centuries. All the boys drank and found it the cleanest and freshest since we left Cardiff. Lieutenant Thornton says we can get all the game we want, and Dell and Franks got two large hares. We haven’t so much as touched the bully beef. I hope you and Dad have enough coal. I do miss your spotted dick and pork pies. Don’t tell Sissy, but I got her a pipe or a whistle. I found it just before we got to town. It was hanging from a bush by a berry patch, most strange. Almost like someone left it there to be found. It makes a funny humming noise. Let’s us say it’s from Father Christmas, hey?
Your ever loving son,
“Dobby”
July 8th, 1916
Lieutenant Francis Thornton, Commanding Officer, 51st Regiment, His Majesty’s Anti-Unicorn Brigade, B Company
My darling wife,
The men are exceedingly idle. They treat the campaign as one big lark. I suppose it is. Several Imperial and Royal Tyrolean Mounted unicorn divisions are known to be operating in our sector. They call us Die Einhornjäger, the Unicorn Hunters. They call themselves the Einhornwaffe. We’ve never actually seen any, well no one has since The Awfully Unfortunate Incident. It is said that in spite of this, they greatly fear us. The spiraled-horned monsters are no match for our Vickers guns and gas bombs. The Vickers can fire 500 rounds a minute to well over a mile. The Enfield rifles fire rounds at over 2,000 feet per second. We even have a support tank and several men carry elephant guns “just in case.” Our mission, at present, is to find the men of the 231st Anti-Unicorn Brigade, meet up with them, and engage the enemy. The boys are itching for a fight. We want to show King and country that we are made of stern stuff! We likely haven’t found our brothers in arms because they are operating behind enemy lines, or at least that is what Field Marshall Lansford says. The men are confident in his command. He has a scar across his face, and wears an eye patch, having lost an eye in a skirmish with our mythical quarry. He is the only man in the field with first-hand experience with these homicidal beasts.
With love,
Francis
August 6th, 1916
Ian Withers, Supply Officer, Auxiliary Supply Corps, 51st Regiment, His Majesty’s Anti-Unicorn Brigade
Our lines are stretched thin, making regular communication difficult. The requisitions for fresh meat, rum, biscuit, fuel for the tanks, and machine gun ammunition have not been fulfilled. Field Marshall Lansford wishes to know if they have been received and if so, what the delay is. As we penetrate deeper into wild country in an expeditionary capacity, it is all the more necessary that we are adequately supplied. The boys will be quite disappointed if they run out of Duffy’s Tip Top Pipe Powder (the finest pipe powder that ever peeped from a pipe) and don’t get any lamb shank. Please advise on feasibility of request.
August 8th, 1916.
Sir Henry Lansford, Field Marshall and Supreme Commander
51st Regiment, His Majesty’s Anti-Unicorn Brigade. Classified Sensitive Communique, Intelligence Division: Need to Know Only
We entered the hamlet of Verboten in want of fresh meat and other provisions. At first the senior officers were able to control the junior officers who controlled the noncommissioned officers who controlled the men who controlled the horses who controlled the oats and hay. The men all began acting strangely upon drinking from the village well. Rum rations have dwindled to nary a thimbleful per day, and the undisciplined rogues imbibed our entire store of Mrs. Right Away’s Tincture of Opium Cure All. In the village we found elderly civilians and young girls. They all had a way about them, smiling, unconcerned with our presence. The men and officers did not like their attitude. We found pagan relics and a maypole, along with animal sacrifices. “Where are the fighting men?” the translator asked. “Fighting,” was the reply. “And where are the Einhornwaffe?” To this, the village folk laughed at us and said we had been reading too many Greek legends. The interrogating officer showed the old man our badge and insignia, and yelled that our King thought it was serious enough to warrant fighting about. The old man then grievously insulted His Majesty — or so he thought. The translator’s German wasn’t terribly good. The officer then removed his glove and slapped the old man. A spirited girl near him said that was no way to treat her granddad, and so she slapped the interrogating officer, who then slapped her back, and was in turn slapped by the old man.
The officers and men alike began to swoon and stagger, and behave as drunkards. I was waxing my mustache at this time, and therefore was unable to restore order. Looking in the mirror, I saw that I had three eyes and five arms. The officers informed the village folk that slapping an officer in wartime was a hanging offence, but as this was deemed a formality, the officer merely drew his service revolver and shot them both where they stood. It is of course, rather regrettable that unarmed civilians should be dispatched in this manner, especially when ammunition is at a premium. It is unclear who torched the first structure, or when the indiscriminate shooting began.
Several unicorns were found hidden in barns, disguised as mortal horses. But when questioned, the horses admitted they were indeed unicorns. Their horns were disguised as farm implements hanging in the barn. They refused to reveal the location of their secret camp, so they were shot, butchered, and eaten. This was allowed as a wartime liberty, but when it all got out of hand I mounted my steed and rode about the village commanding a cessation all mischief. The next day I awoke with the right half of my mustache gone. Even under penalty of death the men and officers to a man swore an oath that I did not shout a single order, but merely rode about the village with my saber drawn, clucking like a chicken. All the civilians, living and dead, had disappeared. Our propaganda officer tacked a note to the front door of the town hall. It read — per our limited knowledge of German — thus:
“Good people of the town of Verboten, we were within the law to make execute/shooting of the bad old mister and many girls who make a bad word on our King (who is Best). Still, we regret burning of this, all your houses, and so much the killing. We find this quite unfortunate. We know you unicorn feed and make a pony house! Give it up! We find. We kill. However, just give us the unicorn and make friends, give you ale, and have bawdy dances with beer barrels and singing “one, two, down the hatch.” Okay? Goodbye beautifully.”
Your British Best Friends Forever…Maybe (you pick)?
Sir Henry Lansford (The Man With Shiniest Hat)
Field Marshall and Supreme Commander
51st Regiment, His Majesty’s Anti-Unicorn Brigade
August 16th, 1916.
Lieutenant Francis Thornton, Commanding Officer
51st Regiment, His Majesty’s Anti-Unicorn Brigade, B Company
Dearest Father,
The men grow thin and even more wan and pasty than is dictated by our climate and heritage. An advance squad found them and had the good sense to discreetly inform me so as not to arouse a general panic. I investigated with Captain Ellison of C Company and Captain Harris of D Company. What we found must never be spoken of before the boys. The bodies were unmistakably ours; the corpses were naked and mutilated, arranged in a pentagram, but their uniforms were found folded neatly nearby without a single tear or a drop of blood on them. They all bore the insignia of the 231st. They were all officers, just a handful. On one of the bodies was found written in blood: “We slake our thirst on the blood of the unicorn hunters.” That was all. After they were buried, stout-hearted men were selected by their officers to scour the nearby woods in hope of finding the others, while the remainder dug entrenchments and made defensive fortifications. No other souls were ever found. There was more, much more I saw that I shall never forget, but it was too shocking to put to paper. May God walk with us always. Ask the vicar to keep us in his daily prayers. Burn this letter after you read it, and never let mum or Martha see it. I am,
Your ever loving son,
Francis
August 21st, 1916.
Private “Dobby” Danvers, 51st Regiment, Her Majesty’s Anti-Unicorn Brigade, B Company
Dear Mum,
The boys hate to admit it, but they are right terrified. The night watches swear they see red eyes and spiraled horns at the edge of the wood. I blow my strange whistle for the comforting melodies it imparts. Several false alarms resulted in the expenditure of much ammunition, which incensed the officers to no small degree. All we have to eat is Mrs. Right Away’s Stool Softening Digestive Biscuit. That along with the prune juice causes the men to need the latrine most regular. Some have taken to using their helmets or the trenches to answer this need, out of fear of the woods. Much of the bully beef was green. But even with our innards turning to jelly, it’s stiff upper lip and a brave face for whatever unseen menace awaits us in the dark. Tell Sissy I love her and give father a manly hand shake from me.
Love,
Dobby
p.s. Could you please send a tin of Mrs. Right Away’s Emergency Reusable Toilet Tissue?
August 30th, 1916.
Lieutenant Francis Thornton, Commanding Officer, 51st Regiment, Her Majesty’s Anti-Unicorn Brigade, B Company
My dearest darling wifey poo,
All is well. They struck at dawn, hitting our strongest defenses. It was snowing heavily midst the pine woods. 40 warcorns sallied boldly at our best entrenched position in a suicidal frontal assault. Some were riderless. Others were mounted by Jerries wearing nothing but a loincloth, Austrian army helmets, and wielding small arms and primitive stabbing weapons such as swords and pikes. The men formed ranks and hit them with volley fire. The Vickers gun crew acquitted themselves admirably, cutting down an advance squad of hostiles before they reached our lines. The tanks took to the field but were too slow and cumbersome, and easily outmaneuvered like great, fire-spitting tortoises. It didn’t matter. In ten minutes of firing we routed the attack and gave spirited pursuit, cutting down the retreating stragglers. None were taken alive. On our side only a few were wounded, and fewer yet lost — most to gorings of the poisonous horn. Only a few of the fleetest Einhornwaffe made it out, breaking for the black mountains in the distance. Morale is higher than it’s been in weeks. It’s as if the horrors and strange things we’ve seen had never transpired. Keep us in your prayers. Tomorrow we give further chase after the spiraled-horn menace.
Your ever loving,
Francis
September 1st, 1916.
Private “Dobby” Danvers, 51st Regiment, Her Majesty’s Anti-Unicorn Brigade, B Company
Dear Mum,
Sergeant Tiller, Farrington, Stevens and I was walking in the woods just outside our encampment scouting for firewood when we spied some unusual-looking mushrooms. At least we thought they was mushrooms at first. I know what you’re thinking. I remember Nana telling me stories about faery circles and the like. I knowd you and Dad believe in ’em too. Well these weren’t like so. They was funny. They was lit from inside, like them blue lights on the moor. They was huge, I dunno, perhaps as big as a primary school lad who eats nothing but swine shank. We come upon a dip or a low valley in the woods where we seen ’em. There was row on row — must have been like, hundreds. When we got close, the lights got brighter, purple light. They gave off heat too, and in that cold, dark country, what a welcome sensation that was. We gathered round one and warmed our nubbins. I dunno who smelled it first, but a smell was coming up from them liked cooked mutton, the best smell ever. Well mum, it had been days since we’d had more than digestive biscuits and we wasn’t in a way to question what smelled good. Stevens and Farry were the most eager, but Sergeant Tiller said to be careful. He was too weary from days of marching to question it too much. Hungry lads in their prime of life is no force to want to be thwarting, hey. So we all fixed bayonets and cut down one of the mushrooms. We cut it in half and the flesh was supple as veal! At that point, I got a queer feeling and decided that no matter how famished and knackered I was, I wasn’t going to touch this strange meat. We all lit a fire anyways, and Stevens and Farry roasted the skin of the mushroom and ate it with a pinch of salt and Mrs. Right Away’s Special Savory Seasoning — So Good It makes Old Kippers Taste Like Fresh Pork. Well, the skin was full of hard seeds but otherwise the lads had no complaints. Still, Sergeant Tiller and I decided to leave off from their feast and not whisper a word of it to the other lads until we knew it if was safe. It seemed quite tempting though, I must confess. I hope you and Dad is getting on well, and tell Sissy to remember me in her prayers. I am always,
Your affectionate son,
Dobby
September 3rd, 1916
Lieutenant Francis Thornton, Commanding Officer, 51st Regiment, Her Majesty’s Anti-Unicorn Brigade, B Company
Diary Entry
“Count the buttons, in a line. Count them, count them oh so fine.” Those were the words of Corporal Root as he breathed his last. I remember clearly. “What is all this? Look at me lad,” I said, gripping his shoulders. “Don’t give up.” He smiled. His boyish face was besmirched with blood and dirt, but he smiled and his features relaxed. He gazed downward. “Count the buttons, sir.” It was then that I gazed down the row of buttons on his tunic and saw that where the last one ended, there was no torso, no legs, no trousers, just a mess of his loose entrails coated in rainbow colors. I was so taken aback I involuntarily lost my nerve and vomited upon poor Corporal Root, but as soon as I looked up to apologize, his eyes had gone wide and glossy, and he no longer drew breath. Later after we dug his grave and put hm in it, we were just about to bury him when on impulse I reached in to his coat pocket and withdrew his diary and a packet of letters. I admit my weakness, but as the lad was gone, I felt a powerful urge to somehow know him better, seeing as I could not save him from his demise. There were usual references to a sweetheart, his family, his primary school mates…but what was most telling was his description of how proud he was after completing his training. After being dismissed, his grandmother remarked on the shiny buttons on his starched, wool uniform. “Look at the shiny buttons in a line,” she said. “Count the buttons, count them, Keep them clean.” His grandmother, by his account, was rather touched in the head, but in his boyish charity, Corporal Root chose to interpret her words as a kind of prayer. I shall as well.
September 8th, 1916.
Major David Warwick, M.D., Senior Brigade Surgeon, 51st Regiment, Her Majesty’s Anti-Unicorn Brigade, Unknown location near the foot of the Black Mountains
Senior Brigade Surgeon’s Medical Log
Dear God in heaven I’ve never seen anything like it. Privates Farrington and Stevens presented with general malaise. At first my diagnosis was malingering and I was about to give the boys a thorough going-over on the meaning of duty and service, but then Private Farrington tore off his tunic. Where his chest once was as pasty as the rest of us, he was covered in bluish, purple, red and yellow oblong asymmetrical discolorations, particularly on his inferior abdominus. The flush he presented with soon spread to his upper and lower extremities. These lads were fit specimens just hours after the engagement. I knew these two were church-going and upstanding. There was no chance of their contracting this disease from having uncouth relations with the locals. I palpated and found that there was movement far beneath the surface. I can’t explain it. It was as if…something, recoiled from my touch. The swelling increased, as did the discomfort until they were both screaming in agony. Morpheus sulphate and Mrs. Right Away’s Tincture of Opium Cure All offered little relief.
Intra-abdominal pressure continued to increase at an obscene rate. The timing could not have been worse as we had lately come under attack again. There was no time to erect a tent or a clean operating theater. The equipment was positively filthy. Dr. Sullivan and I got into a vicious argument over the need to operate with me in favor of performing an emergency abdominocentisis. Dr. Sullivan swore that we’d be killing these men were we to operate under this kind of duress, and I defended my position equally vociferously that the men would surely die if we did nothing. We nearly came to blows. I regret that I lost my nerve and drew my side arm and aimed it squarely at Sullivan’s forehead. I told him that as Senior Brigade Surgeon I was issuing a direct order to operate and that if he did not I would consider it disobeying a senior officer in wartime and I would summarily execute him. Sullivan then relented. It was difficult to tell which of the lads was worse off, but Farrington slipped into a coma. I detected signs of atrial fibrillation so we decided his case was the more dire of the two and prepared to operate forthwith. His bowel sounds were bizarre. I heard an alternate whistling or growling. I’ve encountered nothing like it in the medical literature. Even Sullivan, a GI man, was utterly at sixes and sevens over it.
There was no further time to dither as the poor lad’s heart rate was irregular and weak. I poured iodine over the proposed surgical site in a feeble attempt to sterilize. We took a match to the head of the needle, then I jammed it in, easily penetrating the dermis and even the obliques, which ought to have been taut given the lad’s excellent state of fitness. The wound emitted an odor that betokened an advanced state of putrefaction. Bright purple liquid burst forth under high pressure, hitting my cheek and left arm. My face immediately started to burn until my flesh was liquefying. It was some type of acid. Thank God for Sullivan’s deft maneuvers. He had a bottle of Milk of Magnesia handy, which he dumped over me, slowing down the burning. In addition to the acid spray, a high pitched scream or squeal emitted from the wound. God strike me down this instant if I am lying. At that point, Farrington suddenly came to. His eyes went wide and his mouth opened in silent horror. We saw a rippling motion. His entire body suddenly jerked with paroxysms that I took to be his death agony.
Never the less, we kept on, knowing a shadow of a hope was better than none.
Sullivan cut up the boy’s bloody tunic and made an ether-soaked rag to put over his face. His abdomen was still under pressure and continuing to swell. “Give me a goddamned scalpel,” I yelled. I could still detect a heartbeat. “We have to open him up.” I snatched the instrument and made an 8 inch transverse incision with the starting point just inferiorly to the xiphoid process. As I was cutting, the wound burst open the rest of the way on its own, like a velvet curtain parting at an evening opera. Farrington’s respirations ceased then and there mercifully, and he expired. What next occurred, no amount of drink or prayer can ever expunge from my memory. The wound parted further and a spiraled horn — yes, a horn — protruded, followed by a head, covered in blood. It was attached by some kind of umbilicus, which it proceeded to rend with pointed, protruding, razor-sharp incisors. It opened its mouth and screamed as it fought itself free of the rest of Farrington’s viscera. After a moment it opened its eyes, its red, demonic, beady little eyes, and it wiggled and climbed free.
We were utterly spellbound for an instant, then I regained my senses and shouted for Sullivan to grab it with the forceps, as my vision was rapidly clouding in my left periphery due to the insidious effects of the purple acid. He did as I commanded. My vision was then too occluded to see fine detail, but Sullivan screamed and withdrew his hand as blood spurted. Three of his digits had been avulsed by the emerging creature, which was obviously a fetal version of our single-horned enemy. Here to for, we’d had no idea how these monsters reproduced. The thing was hardly disoriented for a moment, for as soon as I stopped Sullivan’s bleeding, it had run off, darting past the entire company, who had been staring with their mouths open. Its survival instincts seemed finely attuned for extremely hostile conditions. By this point we’d all but forgotten Private Stevens. His condition quickly advanced, giving us no time to prepare. He went through the exact same horrors as Farrington. Sullivan — himself in shock from blood loss — swooned but attempted to carry on by anesthetizing the lad. I saw then what had to be done. There was no time even to coordinate with Sullivan. I unholstered my revolver, shoved Sullivan out of the way. I held the gun to Stevens’ head and dispatched him with a single point blank shot to the forehead. His symbiont burst through his abdominal cavity. I was ready. I put five shots into it.
One shot ricocheted and grazed the lateral aspect of Sullivan’s hip, but the little monster persisted for a few moments longer before it finally expired, even in spite of this ill usage, spitting fountains of acid in one final attack on its executioners. Barely conscious myself, I tended to Sullivan, stabilizing his wounds. I went from nearly killing the man in anger to revering him as one of the finest combat surgeons I have ever known. His bravery and dedication to duty in the face of adverse conditions is second to none. Were this account unnecessary to both our understanding of the enemy as well as my nomination of Dr. Sullivan for the Really Quite Exemplary Service Medal, I would have never put pen to paper. I would have taken the memory of this horrific encounter to my grave. Although I stabilized him, Sullivan fares poorly. He lies unconscious in a febrile state and creeps towards sepsis. He mutters to himself in a restless slumber. I give him no more than a day or two unless he rallies. I pray he shakes off his delirium long enough to hear my apology and cherish the memory of his young wife and their children before he leaves this world. At least we drank to each other’s health and clinked tin cups of watery grog before he passed into his torturous repose. I humbly salute you, Captain Sullivan. You are a good man, a great surgeon, and a fine soldier! God have pity on you sir, and indeed, on all of us.
September 10th, 1916
Sir Henry Lansford, Field Marshall and Supreme Commander, 51st Regiment, His Majesty’s Anti-Unicorn Brigade, Classified Sensitive Communique, Intelligence Division: Need to Know Only
Advance force lost in mountain ambush. Do please send immediate reinforcements, if you would be so kind. 90% attrition rate. Brigade surrounded. Ammunition is nearly depleted. It has been snowing for the past several days. The men are caught out in the open, freezing to death. A single horse and rider were sent south with the hopeless prayer that they will reach Central Command with these dispatches. The enemy brooks no mercy. Attempts to surrender were met with the slaughter of unarmed men under flag of truce. They are savages. The men fought hand to hand, forming ranks. There was no time to make entrenchments in our current position. The horned devils found a method of disabling our tank treads, making further retreat impossible. They come at night. We see their eyes glowing red through the snow. Several enlisted men were sent into the forest to gather firewood. They never returned. A few officers have taken refuge inside the tanks with limited food and water. During one of the night raids, a unicorn horn burst through the three-inch-thick steel tank armor and pierced Major William’s liver. He died the next day, delirious with fever, raving, and begging for one last pipe of Duffy’s Pipe Powder. We lit it and held it to his lips, but they turned blue and he expired before taking a single puff. The terrors they inflict on us are unspeakable. We shall use the last stores of petrol to make torches to warm and defend ourselves when the ammunition is gone. We can hold out for perhaps two days, perhaps less. Honestly, it isn’t so bad. The men bear their trials with steely resolve and stoic manliness. Stiff upper lip, and once more into the breech, as they say. Where once we feared the barbed wire fences and virgin guards of a unicorn prison labour camp, we now make ready to meet an honorable end in the field. God save the King. God save us from the Einhornwaffe.
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