Captain Winters sat on the bench eating yet another bowl of tasteless sludge. The training had been grueling, bending him to the point of breaking, but the safety of his men depended on getting through it, so get through it he would. He looked across the mess hall at the loyal men he served with. Each wore a face more haggard than the last. Scars were in abundance. Smiles were rare.
Everything hinged on his ability to grasp the strategies handed down to him by command from Bellevue. He looked down at his gloveless hands instinctively at the thought, realizing they were just not enough. To master being a general in the wilds of the borderlands, he would need more than his two hands and two feet.
After breaking fast, he ran his men through their paces in the yard. They donned their sheep skin cloaks. He went to the kennel to check the dogs. They were hungry, nearly rabid, barking and spinning in circles. he donned his own sheep skin cloak, a red target painted on the back. He unlocked the kennel doors and ran through his own training while the kennel masters leashed the dogs.
“1… 2….3….4….5….6…7….8…9…10…” He then switched to looking down at his toes, wishing for miracle to arrive to allow him to go even further than twenty, but none appeared… “11…12…13…14….15…16….17…18…19…20…”. The kennel master interrupted him on the fourth run to 20, his fingers and toes weary from the counting that was the backbone of any general’s strategy.
“The dogs are ready sire.”
He walked to the yard to view his herd, happy to see that their number exceeded that of his toes and fingers. He knew then, unless their enemies general had more fingers and toes than he, they would be victorious.
He handed the leashed dogs, three in a pair, to handlers in his platoon. “Run men! Together now, be the herd! Follow the target, if you find yourself alone, panic immediately! Use a waypoint to find your herd-brothers. Remember your training, remember your motto!”
They all shouted in unison, “WE ARE THE HERD. WHERE THERE ARE MANY THERE IS ONE. WHERE THERE IS ONE OF MANY THERE IS VICTORY! LET THEIR GENERAL BE SHY OF FINGERS AND BARE OF TOES!”
He smiled wide with pride as he prepared the herd march, knowing that night he could enter the days work in his journal as follows: “Once again was able to gather more sheep than I could count, all willing to run as the herd of one. Our count was bigger and so our strategy greater. My general’s creed: My count is my strength, naught else matters. My herd is my tactic. May the seven grant me ever more fingers and toes so that my strategy may rise.” He would rest happy that night knowing he was the greatest general to ever grace the field of combat, for he could count to 20, and his herd outnumbered even his lofty ability for sums.