Planetfurry BBS

[rodentone]

This is the first story in a series documenting the exploits of brave rats, giving their time, some even their lives, in a quest to save truth, honesty, freedom, and the rat way of life. They have fought in every human war since the American Revolution. Even though human history books have totally ignored their efforts. This first story doesn't use the term Commando since it hadn't been coined yet, but they were Commandos, nevertheless. Instead, these were "Minute Rats."
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Even though there weren’t any Commandos in the revolution. There were many fighting rats in that war. For instance, John Paul Rattosky, Paul Revrat, and George Washingrat were heros. The revolutionary army also contained hundreds of volunteer rats employed in dangerous positions of gnawing holes in British vessels, shipboard ropes, and Brown Bess musket stocks.

One trick was to sneak into British artillery emplacements to replace cannon shot with bags of flour. They would then roll the cannon balls into the bushes and laugh at the white sticky cloud when the British fired.

Tom Karati was a typical volunteer from a small farm in Northern Georgia. Upon hearing that someone up north was trying to get those lobster-backs out of Georgia, Tom and brother Jerry decided to help. It was Fall, and the crops were harvested. All the young rats could look forward to were months of simple chores until good weather returned. Thinking it was also a source of hard currency for the family, the two rats picked up their Kentucky Rat Rifles and trundled North.

“Here’s a cart stopped in the road,” Tom grabbed his brother, “let’s jump on and save shoe leather.” So the two had a ride. It was only a few miles from the farm and Ratland Acres, the village they called home, and boded a good beginning to the trip. However, due to clumsy Jerry, that was not to be.

A few miles later, while Tom was sleeping in some hay at the bottom of the ox drawn cart, Jerry had to take a pee. He held on to a tough straw or two as he lowered his rear out of the back of the conveyance. “Ah,” he moaned as he proceeded, only to feel a deep jolt as a wooden wheel hit a bump in the trail. Jerry flew up and away. The rat went over ten feet, spreadeagled and yelling, before landing in his own rat made swamp.

The noise woke brother Tom. Startled, he looked around to see his brother lying in the roadway. Without thinking, the rodent grabbed both rifles and jumped. Luckily the cart was moving slowly. Tom only received a sprained ankle, but both their bags, with all their money, were still in the cart, and receding out of sight on the tree-lined dirt road.

“You stupid idiot,” Tom yelled as he hobbled over to a contrite Jerry, while busily wiping himself off with leaves, “here we had a good ride and you managed to screw it up.” Tom looked around, picking up the rifles, and looked for the rest of their gear, “Damn you. You made me leave our stuff on that cart.”

In the end, they had only two choices, either go back or on without food nor money. The two brothers trudged north on the dirt trail. Actually Jerry had to support Tom and carry the two rifles. Powder also lost, at least they had two shots to defend themselves.

“Beep, beep, beep,” sounded behind the two tired rats. A fancy rodent carriage, pulled by two sweating aardvarks, was stopped behind them, wanting to get around the two.

“Get outa the way, you ruffians,” ordered a fancied up driver, “the Countess Ratschild wishes to pass by.”

“The Counter Rastildie can kiss my furry . . . ,” Jerry started to say, but was hushed by Tom.

“Shut up. Maybe we can get a ride,” He told Jerry, calling out to the carriage driver, “We’re fighters in the revolution thing. As such we demand the services of your carriage, under order 184, paragraph eight,” Tom bluffed in a loud voice.

The driver started to drive past. Seeing their rifles, he stopped instead. He got down and, motioning the two to wait, conferred with someone inside the contrivance. After a lot of waving of paws and not a few evil glances, he came back up front.

“The Countess insists you allow her to give you a ride to your destination, sirs.” With snout held high, he climbed back up to his seat as Tom and Jerry joined him. Tom, with a sore ankle lay on top while Jerry sat with the driver as they started toward Virginia in the North.

Neither the driver nor the occupants of the coach ventured to say a word to the two as they trundled over and around pot holes. The three sat in silence for what seemed like hours, until there was a cry from inside the conveyance.

“Driver. Please be so good as to pull over for a moment.” Both farm rats perked up. It was a female voice; one with a strange accent. The driver stopped and helped a beautiful black-furred rat out of the carriage. He escorted her into the bushes and came back alone, waiting.

Looking at each other, Tom and Jerry both jumped down to relieve themselves on the other side of the trail, hurrying in fear of losing their ride. As they finished, they heard yelling out on the road. Rushing back to the carriage, they found the team of aardvarks were rebelling.

The large, evil, sneaky creatures were out of their traces. They had the driver down already, one stamping on his head with huge splayed feet, blood everywhere. The other villain turned to face the two startled rats, eyes blazing, with a large limb in his paws.

Without taking time to think, both rats ran to engage the creature, Tom last because of his ankle. Although dwarfed by his adversary, Jerry was putting up a valiant fight. Tom hurried to the carriage roof, noticing an embarrassed lady standing on the other side of the road, looking both fearful and confused.

Tom was just in time, leveling one of the rifles, he fired, wounding one aadvark and making him drop his club. The angry creature headed for Tom. The rat had no choice but to fire the other weapon, killing the miscreant instantly. Picking up the first rifle again, he waved it at the other brigand.

“You better start running and hope you’re lucky,” Tom yelled, “You got until the count of ten. One, three, six,” he screamed. Tom stopped at six, not thinking the aardvark could hear him from a quarter mile away. Damn that thing was running fast, he thought.

“Why didn’t you shoot him?” The lady asked, getting over her fear. Damn, but she was lovely, Tom thought. They didn’t have any girls like that in his village.

“I only had two shots, the gun was empty,” Tom told her simply.

“I knew I shouldn’t have trusted them,” she shook her manicured whiskers, giving him a sexy smile, “but they were all I could find at the time. They must have known about the gold I have inside.”

She shook their paws and gave a winning smile.

“I’m Countess Ratschild,” she told them, “and I’m going to see my father. He’s in charge of the rat troops in Charleston.”

“We were glad to help, Countess, and thanks for the ride,” Jerry told her, “we’re on our way to join the battle.”

“Oh, you’re wounded, sir, and you can call me Marie,” she had noticed Tom’s limp, “I am sure my father will want to have such brave heros as you two in his brigade. But now, it looks like we walk.”

First they carried all the gold and valuables into the woods and hid them. Luckily there was a pistol, powder, and balls in the carriage, so the three were again armed. The carriage had to be left behind, along with the dead aardvark. Tom was in the middle, being helped by both companions but leaning more heavily on Marie.

It was only a few miles to the next town, where Marie paid their fare to Charleston, South Carolina. It felt so good to ride in relative comfort, not to mention beautiful company. In the following days they became fast friends, though not as friendly as two of the three would have liked.

“I can always use good rats, sirs,” Count Ratschild told them, “especially those with proven bravery. You’d be surprised how many of these rats run at the first shot.” The two were made instant lieutenants and given their own companies. It was to be the last they saw of lovely Marie. She was killed by a British cannon shot during the second round of the battle for Charleston.

Neither one knew anything about the military. Luckily they had experienced sergeants with them and a good many of the rat troops were already trained. Mostly the two sat around and waited for orders. The uniform caps and collars were nice though, with little insignia on the collars.

Tom had all rats under him in his company, except for a few mouse runners to carry orders back and forth. Being smaller, mice were in demand for that dangerous job. If soldiers look close, even in a modern army, they might see the flash of a mouse running across the battlefield.

Jerry though, had about half mice and squirrels. It was more difficult, especially in morning formations. The mice were real small and occupied little space, while the much taller and bigger squirrels stood out, the rats in the middle. Formations looked like shit. And he had to watch the squirrels. By the time they came off a march the squirrels would look unmilitary with their cheeks full of nuts and other loot. The mice couldn’t keep up on the longer maneuvering. They were good in short runs, but not in long marches. A mouse’s stride was just too short to keep up.

It also meant three kinds of muskets and ammunition. Several sizes of collars and hats, and even different foods. Besides, the mouse Gods demanded prayers on Friday afternoon.

But they persevered, getting and keeping their troops in shape for the revolution. It was now June, 1776. The colonials had taken over the British armory at Charleston and had weapons and ammunition, but the armory held little in the way of rodent arms. The rats, mice, and squirrels were pretty much on their own. Tom and Jerry had to not only recruit local rodents, but also buy, beg, or borrow equipment from families in the area.

“I guess the British don’t have many rat troops,” Tom complained to his brother.

“We’ll just have to do the best we can,” Jerry answered, “It’s dangerous, but has to be done.” They were watching a table of mice with hammers pounding gunpowder into smaller pieces to load in mouse muskets. The large human grains of powder wouldn’t fit in the smaller weapons.

“And the British fleet is just outside the harbor,” Tom reminded him, “and can attack at any moment. Us guys gotta be ready.”

“For what? The general has us deployed ten miles from the coast, guarding a corn crib. We ain’t gonna see any action.”

“We’re soldiers, Jerry. We go where we’re told. What good are mouse muskets against human cannon?”

“I know, but it’s our country too. We’re here to defend our homes, just like those big oafs.”

“I’m gonna go see the Count. Maybe we can get another assignment,” Tom grabbed his hat and went out.

He mounted his aardvark and rode into Charleston to see the Count. There weren’t any French troops in Charleston but some French officers had been loaned to the Colonials, to give them support; sort of advisors. The Count was in charge of all Colonial Rodent Forces in the area.

“There’s nothing I can do, lieutenant,” Tom was told, “The humans give me assignments as they see fit. It’s all for the good of the war.”

“You have the authority to move this corn from one place to another, don’t you, sir? In order to distribute it as needed?”

“Yes. But what’s that got to do with fighting?”

“And you have to provide security for that corn while moving it. Right, sir?”

“So? What are you getting at, Lieutenant Karati?

“You can assign some of me and my brother’s troops to take some corn to Charleston, for the human troops to eat. I don’t think there are any rules about just how much corn, or how many troops in a supply convoy, are there, sir?” It took a few minutes for the Count to understand Tom, but he finally gave the order.

“All right. You and your brother can take a load of corn to Charleston, Lieutenant Karati. Use your own judgement,” the Count acquiesced.

Early the next morning, with the British Fleet maneuvering inside Charleston Harbor, and getting ready for an attack, the brothers set out for the city. Each of the two companies had one grain of corn with them, and a hundred rats to guard it. They were hand-picked troopers, two hundred of the best trained and most patriotic of the pack.

The brothers could hear cannon firing in the distance as they advanced closer to the fighting.

“Maybe we should hang back a bit, Tom,” Jerry asked nervously, seeing flashes in the sky that he knew weren’t the rising sun. The British fleet was shelling the city; trying to weaken the Colonial defenses before landing troops.

From the rat perspective, although the two officers were riding aardvarks, most of the troops were on foot and took all night to get to and through the city to the fighting.

“Uh, now what, Tom?” Jerry asked, he was nervous at seeing all the damage, the noisy shelling, and humans running around like, well like humans. It was pandemonium in that part of Charleston, as troops ran from place to place with civilians running out of the city, some just looking for a good view of the battle. A pack of rats had a hard time keeping from being stepped on or driven over.

“To the water, where else?” Tom ordered his troops onward.

Meanwhile, Admiral Parker, in command of the British forces, had ordered a special contingent of British troops ashore. He had done it the day before, in an undefended section outside of town. The small force of commando-like troopers had a mission; to blow up the powder known to be stored at the unfinished fort on Sullivan Island. Those British troops were approaching the unfinished fort at the very moment the rats arrived. Because one, Private Adams, had sprained his ankle on the way, there were only six of them left.

“Shhhh, we’re getting close, men,” Sergeant Edwards told his men, “you know what to do. We’ll show these bastardly brave revolutionaries what proper cowardly British soldiers are made of.”

“But, sergeant,” Private Goofus quivered and whimpered, “Those fearless Colonials might hurt us cowardly British soldiers.” The other troopers nodded their heads in fear.

“Why don’t we talk it over first, huh, Sarge?” Private Thompson suggested, “and eat our lunches? I’m hungry and there’s no hurry,” He blubbered, whispering to himself, “I don’t wanna die fighting these courageous revolutionaries.”

The choice was taken out of their hands.

“Drop your weapons. Now, or we’ll shoot,” a squeaky voice ordered, seeming to come from some low bushes. Most of the dauntless, intrepid, scared British immediately dropped their muskets. Only Sergeant Edwards chose to fight back.

“Damn you, fearless Colonials,” the sergeant cried, bringing up his musket. It felt like a thousand bees stinging him as the rats fired. In pain and panic, the sergeant dropped his weapon to scratch. Being British, he couldn’t do both at the same time. He fell to the ground in fear and pain.

The battle was won and the British Fleet repulsed, only two of the nine ships making it out of the harbor unassisted. The Colonials had won that battle. In part due to the brave rats saving the Colonial gunpowder. Powder used to keep the British from landing and taking Charlston.

Despite their effectiveness, the rodent troopers were ill-used during the revolution. A lot of rodents were lost during the war, but mostly in mundane circumstances. Such things as guarding supplies from unpatriotic rodents, did kill a lot of them. The squirrels tended to desert during nut season and mice, though well intentioned and brave, aren’t really all that dependable. They would stop fighting at the lure of lettuce or pizza.

But rodents did do their part during the revolutionary war and were rarely, ( hell, never. ) mentioned in the official chronicles.

As for our heros, both majors by that time, they were mustered out and returned to their village in Georgia, at least they were local heros. There is one last event worth mentioning.

It happened as the brothers rode their aardvarks back towards home.

“Isn’t this about where we had that fight on our way to war?” Jerry asked, the road seeming familiar, “the one where we saved poor Marie Ratschild?”

“I guess so, somewhere around here, I think,” Tom replied, brushing fleas off his shoulder wound, acquired a few years earlier.

“See, I was right,” Jerry pointed to an aardvark skull lying in the bushes. The carriage itself had been stolen long before.

“Hey,” Tom remembered, “What about all the gold and stuff we hid? It might still be there.”

The terrain hadn’t changed all that much during the war. Tom was surprised, since it seemed like such a long time before and the two brothers had changed so much themselves. They easily found the treasure. So much of it that they had to walk the rest of the way home, leading fully loaded mounts behind them.

Oscar Rat