by Carlo Zen
Though I had experience reporting from the Rhine front, I was one of the younger reporters at WTN. I was self-aware and objective enough to realize that I had little chance to be picked over my seniors.
Honestly, when my boss told me I’d been chosen to go, I immediately suspected an ulterior motive.
But the moment I set foot on the ship bound for the Federation, I understood I hadn’t been picked because the higher-ups thought I could do a better job than my colleagues.
Why did WTN choose me? The explanation is extremely simple: The only possible answers are my age and my lack of experience.
One look made it painfully obvious. With few exceptions, the press corps was made up of youngsters from each publication.
I’ll also mention here that ours was a small industry. Right or left, I’d at least heard the names of the more polarizing thinkers.
With numbers so skewed, even a child could grasp the Federation’s intent. Just a list of the members would have been enough to figure it out. One glance told me they had handpicked a biased group of rookies who hadn’t made a name for themselves yet alongside a handful of veteran Red sympathizers.
I’ll admit that the young journalists seized the opportunity and made up for their lack of experience with zeal; the moment we hit the ground in the Federation, we began sending reports of everything we saw and heard back to our offices. To be blunt, greedy baby journos, eager to rack up achievements and starving for any scoop they could get, sallied forth to the front lines to make their fortunes.
Granted, we had a degree of education and maintained a veneer of civility…but you needed some serious ambition to be willing to come all the way to the eastern front.
After all, I also came here with the intent to jump-start my career.
First thing I set my mind to was implementing a few safety measures I picked up during my time on the Rhine lines, such as familiarizing myself with the vicinity of my lodgings to burn the lay of the land into my brain. I did this while trying my best to get a feel for the unit we were attached to.
My first moves were, if I’m being honest, complete failures.
Although some loosened up to questions about their hometowns and their lives back there, these consummate marine mages wouldn’t spill a word about anything important. When I tried to interview the former Entente Alliance volunteer mage unit, a political officer from the Federation Communist Party immediately got in my way. After several more attempts to sound people out, I got the sense that they were determined not to let any significant news leak.
But if all I did was forward the official statements to Londinium, there would be no reason to pay my salary. If I was going to return empty-handed, I would have to be prepared to not have a job anymore by the time I got home.
When the need arises, people get creative. My plan now was to secure an interview with the commander of the Commonwealth unit dispatched to the Federation, Lieutenant Colonel Drake.
While memorizing the lay of the land, I shrewdly scoped out the places the higher-ups liked to spend their time. Having filled a thermos with tea, I cruise around the garrison until I find my target.
Pretending as though it was a coincidence, I take out my thermos and say hello. “You’re Colonel Drake, right? Funny meeting you here. Would you fancy a cup of tea?”
“Thanks. Andrew, was it? So what’s this about?”
“Come again?”
“You’re a journalist, no? I don’t imagine you’re the good-natured type who would serve free tea to a public servant you just happened to run into.”
I cock my head at him in a show of confusion, but in my mind, I click my tongue. Journalists always pay for the tea, and things tend to get hairy when the source figures out exactly how much it’ll cost them.
“…What’s wrong with having at least one kindhearted journalist around?”
“Ha-ha-ha. Then how about we spend all day chatting about the weather? Or maybe I should recite the official lines about the beautiful cooperation between the Federation and the Commonwealth like a broken record?”
“Anything but that, I beg you.”
Between the shrug he gives in response to my complaint and the casual way he pretends to be hiding nothing, Drake proves to be bizarrely impervious to the ministrations of mass media.
“If you don’t mind me asking, are you part of some frontline public affairs unit, Colonel?”
“No, as you can see, I’m a rough-and-tumble marine mage.”
Oh, come on. I sigh, figuring it’s a bit—well, more like quite a bit—of an overreaction. I try to rattle him.
“So you’re saying a mere marine magic officer… Oh, no offense.”
“None taken. You’re a civilian, not to mention a dirty journalist. You have the right to say what you think.”
“…I’m honored, Colonel.”
All I learn from trying to provoke him is that unfortunately he’s a cut above me. He wasn’t angered by my rudeness, and he doesn’t opt to ignore me, either; I don’t have any more moves to make if he’s just going to come back at me with sarcasm and a smile.
He can see every card in my hand.
Respecting journalism is all well and good, but this is undoubtedly an officer who knows how things are done. It would be extremely difficult to get him to say anything I might want to hear.
“Come now, Andrew, there’s not much point in two fellows from the Commonwealth stealthily trying to probe each other. Why don’t we compromise? First, tell me a bit about yourself and your career.”
“Uhhh, I think my résumé was attached to my application to come here.”
Applying for the visa at Londinium’s Federation Embassy had been a nightmare. It got so bad that I was tempted to ask if they were trying to create a set of rules governing the rules that governed the rules.
“I had to fill out a ton of paperwork for both countries in order to get authorization to come along as an embedded reporter. What else was I supposed to put in there?”
“I mean, I did take a look at your documents. Alongside the paranoid Federation chaps.”
“You say they’re paranoid?”
“Oh, are you a Red?”
“I may not be green anymore, but that doesn’t make me a Red.”
Apparently, my attempt at a witty remark impresses the lieutenant colonel. He doesn’t ridicule me for putting on airs—on the contrary, he nods in satisfaction.
“…Then you have my apology. I guess I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”
“Could that comment be…you throwing me a bone?”
Is he hinting at struggles working with the Federation? There’s no denying that this grinning lieutenant colonel is a tough customer. Anyone’s interest would be piqued if an officer directly involved in Federation-Commonwealth joint operations hints at such news.
If I want to hear any more, I’ll have to play by his rules. I make it clear I understand and nod.
“Allow me to reintroduce myself. Special correspondent Andrew from WTN, a poor journalist who, after being embedded on the Rhine lines, covered Entente Alliance refugees and was then, through some irony of fate, told there were scoops to be had on the eastern front and thrown out here.”
“Thrown?”
“WTN would have preferred to send veterans. Curiously, it seems all the papers only managed to get young people admitted to the Federation.”
It’s becoming hard to tell who’s interviewing whom, but…if I can draw Drake out this way, I’m more than happy to play along. Whether I’ll be able to uncover some real news and not just pick up whatever he feels like sharing comes down to my skill.
“Ah, well, journalists do make the Federation fellows nervous.”
“…I’ve noticed. I mean, they’re so considerate of even a greenhorn like me. I get both a ‘guide’ and an ‘interpreter.’ Frankly, it’s all a little overbearing.”
“The thing is, Andrew, and maybe you aren’t aware, but their hospitality can go even further.”
&n
bsp; “Oh?”
Is he finally going to tell me something worthwhile?
Drake chuckles to himself in satisfaction in response to my eagerness. However, when I look more closely, I notice the smile never reaches his eyes.
“You can ask them for tea, snacks, or anything as long as it isn’t film or a telegraph. They’ll gladly accommodate any reasonable requests.”
Ah. I nod. “So the Federation soldiers want to look good for the press—propaganda… Honestly, though, this isn’t my first time reporting on the front lines, so I wasn’t hoping for any special treatment.”
“By which you mean?”
“If I can sleep in a military cot, that’s good enough for me. Colonel Drake, I’ll have you know I was on the Rhine lines. Naturally, that means I reported from the trenches.”
It was a terrible experience, but most educational ones usually are. One day holed up in the trenches with Republican troops and not much will shock you anymore.
With the guts I cultivated living through that, I’m confident I can make it anywhere now.
“I’ve had my share of ‘delectable meals packed with nutrition’ that turned out to be a tin of corned beef and some moldy hardtack, so I’m used to the military’s brand of hospitality.”
Drake just shakes his head at this. Is he amused because I misinterpreted his grin?
“Ah, Andrew, you’re so pure.”
“Huh?”
“In this area where the multinational unit is deployed and this area only, the Federation Army’s supply problems have all been mysteriously solved. I think you really can get anything, as long as you ask.”
“Like scones and tea and cucumber sandwiches?”
“An elegant afternoon tea like back home? I bet they could make that happen.”
Right as I’m about to laugh while thinking he has to be joking, I notice Drake nodding with a completely straight face.
“I beg your pardon, but that seems utterly impossible in a war zone… Are you being serious?”
I nearly scream. Is he really telling me that even though there’s a war on, the Federation military is willing to serve journalists a luxurious high tea?
“It may be difficult to believe, but I suspect it’s quite possible.”
“This is the forward-most line, for goodness’ sake.”
“The cucumber may not be fresh—probably pickled—but they’ll do whatever it takes to fulfill your requests, two hundred percent.”
“…Wait. There must be a catch, right?”
No matter what kind of pretext we came under, embedded reporters are unwelcome interlopers here. The best we would normally hope for is being treated as such, especially considering how we’re eating for free.
But if what the colonel said is true, such a gift would be far more costly than the cup of tea journalists regularly offer.
“Is it for propaganda…?”
“That’s level one.” Drake’s grin disappears, and he suddenly looks tired. “It’s also likely you’ll find yourself running into plenty of chances to have a fiery romance with pretty girls or whatever sort of companion you prefer all over the eastern front, so be careful.”
“H-h-hold on a second!” I shout in spite of myself, unable to gloss over that.
After glancing around to make sure there are no Federation people here…I finally remember that we’re talking outside with no one nearby. I panicked so hard that I completely forgot.
There are rumors about the exact thing the colonel just mentioned, the sort that manifest as jokey gossip over drinks. Of course, they aren’t the type of stories you can just take at face value. Or so I thought.
“That really happens?”
“I like to joke around, but I would swear on my rum that this is true. If I could, I’d warn everyone.”
“…I’ve heard the rumors, but it’s really that bad?”
“It’s awful,” he mutters. “I have been making a point of telling everyone in private…though your Red pals really lit into me for it.” He shrugs with an exasperated mutter. His expression is one of utter exhaustion.
It’s clear he’s fed up with it all.
“In their defense, the Communist Party is desperate, too.”
“You mean they’re at the end of their rope?”
“Not quite.” Taking a moment to consider how to best explain, Drake falls silent briefly before continuing his thought. “They say their party is perfect, but it’s barely hanging in there. That’s why they’ll resort to pretty much anything at this point to keep up appearances.”
I have no idea what he’s trying to say, but it seems awfully significant. I must be missing something. It’s frustrating to not have all the pieces I need.
“Well, I’ve shared quite enough for one day. We got pretty into it for a single cup of tea. Any more will cost you extra.”
“Then next time, I’ll bring a cigar.”
“…That’s a tempting invitation, but as a marine magic officer, I prefer my old friend alcohol—easier on the lungs. I already have some rum, so my request is a nice scotch.”
An unexpectedly pricey request.
Will the returns be worth it? Still, if I don’t invest, there won’t be any returns at all.
There’s no choice but to commit.
“Understood, Colonel. I’ll have it ready before your next operation. So…”
“You’re saying I should tell you when the next operation is? You know I can’t do that, Andrew. Just find a bottle and keep it handy.”
He got me. It’s my loss. I didn’t think my ploy would work, but you can’t blame me for trying… And sure enough, the colonel knows how to spot a trap when he sees one.
On top of that, all I got in return was a verbal promise, but I still take him up on it. Since I said I would make it happen, I can’t very well tell him I won’t have it in time. Nothing is more despised than the promise of a journalist who can’t keep their word.
I’ll have to hurry and procure a taste of home somehow.
“All right, Colonel. I’ll have it for you in time for your operation.”
“Oh? Then if you don’t mind…I’ll take that bottle right now.”
“What?”
I’m bewildered as Drake smiles in amusement and places a hand on my shoulder.
“Andrew, I’m giving a briefing for a joint operation with the Federation today. In the large lecture hall at 1700. Looking forward to that scotch.”
He won this round, no doubt about it.
After luring me in with a roundabout conversation, he’s managed to get me to make a careless promise, too. As a journalist, the moment you recognize that you’ve let your source get the better of you, there’s nothing to do but feel ashamed.
“Colonel, this isn’t very sportsmanlike. You fight dirty.”
“Consider it your tuition, young man. Now then, the clock’s ticking. You’re going to prove to me you’re not a lying newshound, right?”
THE SAME DAY, THE LARGE LECTURE HALL, 1700
I figure the Federation Communist Party must be ventriloquists. Maybe the shocking headline could read, An Amusing Puppet Show: Even at War, Federation Maintains Sense of Humor and Tradition.
When someone tells me the interpreter at the press conference will be a woman, I’m surprised. My initial reaction is that, in at least one way, the Federation can be quite liberal. I admit I’m impressed.
But the moment I hear her title, any favorable impressions—or perhaps pitiful notions—get obliterated by heavy artillery fire. The fact that it’s a political officer who’s taking the stage to lead the conference proves the Communists have a very poor grasp of public relations.
Officially, a Federation Army colonel named Mikel will lead the conference, but since he isn’t fluent in the language of the Commonwealth, this political officer is supposed to serve as his “interpreter.” Of course, I understand the need to overcome the language barrier. It’s natural to have an interpreter.
But sending a political offi
cer to do the job makes for an awfully explicit statement.
“All right, it’s time, so I’d like to begin. I’m First Lieutenant Tanechka, and I’ll be interpreting for the colonel today.”
The pair speaks in turns.
Everything must be following a preset program. You could call it an indescribable jumble of a theatrical production—third-rate performers acting out a fourth-rate script.
Is Lieutenant Tanechka interpreting? Or is she the only one truly speaking? I can only assume the latter.
“The colonel will give a rough outline of the upcoming joint operation that will be conducted by Federation and Commonwealth units.”
Commonwealth language in a strong Russy accent. For one of those notorious political officers, her pronunciation is actually quite good, but should I praise her or request a proper interpreter? This is a problem.
I’ve noticed how she chooses her words carefully.
I expected propaganda would be involved in any press conference where foreign journalists are invited to cover the multinational unit’s plans to launch a counterattack. Still, it’s a mystery why the Federation doesn’t understand that having a political officer interpret will have the opposite intended effect.
I change gears.
There aren’t any other WTN correspondents present. I can’t afford to get distracted and miss something. The news desk back home frightens me more than any Federation Army political officer ever could.
I scribble furiously in my notebook, noting the main points of the slightly difficult-to-follow briefing.
“The situation is as thus: The Federation Army, who must repel the invaders on behalf of the people, will work alongside the Commonwealth Army and other allies and comrades to initiate a major counterattack.”
A tidy explanation. Perhaps they have some knowledge of media relations after all, but there’s still too much extraneous material for it to be truly easy to understand.
After removing the empty words included for dramatic effect, wouldn’t We’re going to counterattack together suffice?
