Blue Parade (2021 Weekly 214)

The blue canvas above Lieutenant Colonel Anthon Gerasimov rained ash. There were no birds above to be tainted. They had fled days ago. The dark soot littered the now quiet Normandie-Niemen Highway.
Hours ago, this was his own battlefield along with the fighting force of the Eighty-Eighth Armored Cavalry Brigade. In three straight days his armored column had experienced the brunt of the fighting – and the casualties said intense firefights brought. It was a miracle, Anthon thought, that he still existed today, capable of examining what Bastogne had to offer.
OPERATION TREBUCHET may have marked the planet and its system as the enemy of UEG hegemony and thus a threat to intersystem stability but what Anthon saw now was nothing related to that. Instead, he was greeted by the bright blue sky and picturesque landscape that many worlds could only fathom to have. The air - oh the air - Anthon thought. Were it not for the mask he wore and the growing plumes over the horizon, the Martian believed Bastogne’s air to be sweet. Fresh and scented like the flowers they grew.
As they crept closer to the capital city of Niemen, Anthon knew his musings were a hoax. What Bastogne was before was clearly not what it is now. Why just looking beyond the empty highway littered with debris and abandoned hardware, you could see the effects of war etched deeply into the landscape.
Once fertile lands and forestry had been ‘terraformed’ into craters the size of houses. No longer could you plant the planet’s famous flowers, let alone be used to feed the coming famine. Instead, they were given a scar to be remembered.
“On the point of no return... they’re coming to burn.” 
Anthon heard one of his men mutter in tune. It was offhand and detached in tone. The person in question had eyes quite unsuited for a man leading the charge just hours ago. A hero of the UEG one could confidently claim!
Captain Fowler was quite the bright fellow just days ago before the fighting. All that was left was a husk. War left marks on both the land and people. The farmlands and his own men were proof of that, thought Gerasimov.
The Eighty-eighth was getting closer to Niemen. The signs were all there. One could practically see the concrete jungle jut out from the horizon. Gerasimov even noted the fires had stopped. Orbital bombardment had ceased a day ago, yet he knew the consequences were unimaginable. If the craters here were any indication, then the ones at the capital…
His armored column roared with their engines, beasts of burden continuing with no skip of a beat. Main battle tanks lead at the front, their armored snouts looking for prey that had long fled. Behind them were the transports housing troops who clearly were itching for trouble. Gerasimov hoped there were no trouble this day or the next. The ceasefire mustn’t be shattered.
Transports or tanks, it didn’t matter. Armored behemoths were armored coffins when caught on the flanks. Them rushing through the highway, trudging along abandoned civilian vehicles big and small only made him even more cautious.
Abruptly, the convoy stopped. Gerasimov, still in his thoughts, reacted poorly at the action. Hours ago, they were unstoppable in their thrust across Normandie - Anthon could still hear the shrieks from the sky, the confusion from battalion commanders, and the unbridled anger that kept him and his group fighting the long nights. Now, a simple blast kilometers away had forced a stand still.  “Report!”
“Tank leads have encountered a hazard. Could be an insurrectionist bombing.”
Kilometers away, Gerasimov saw fiery plumes form across a factory the size of a little mountain just at the edge of the road. It was a heavy-tools factory and it doubled as a war factory when conflict came to be. The planners up top had claimed it for repatriation and rebuilding once the fighting was over. That hope was over.
Was that from a preplaced explosive – one final hurrah from Bastogne? Or was that his paranoia speaking to him in silent tunes? The battles were intense all around, a stray shot from either side could have caused this. Gerasimov wouldn’t know at this moment. All he knew about Bastogne were their pretty flowers.
“Face forward, captain. Tell the convoy to proceed to the alternate route.”
“Understood, sir.”
“We’ll make it there, Fowler.”
“Now doubt about that, el tee colonel sir.”
The future of the planet may have been at risk, but Gerasimov wasn’t about to make the Eighty-eighth another unfortunate casualty of the war. Even if they deserved it.
Entering the city had sent a shiver into Anthon. The streets were not empty. They teemed with life, already trying to rebuild. That was wrong. A horrendous oversight, Gerasimov’s stomach churned.
The men were busy clearing the rubble caused by howitzers. Tireless they appeared, it was clear they were not stopping. Their main concern was lifting a boulder the length of a house. One nudge barely rocked it. The next, had inched it enough for Gerasimov and parts of the Eighty-eigth to see the unmoving figure of a mother and child. Was she reaching out?
The boulder had fell, leading to a thud, the hopes of the Bastogni and the life of a mother crushed within. It was a miracle the child had survived. One quick witted fellow had nicked the baby at the nick of time.
And with that tragedy over – the people turned to look at the Eighty-eighth – Gerasimov felt scorn no respectable person would ever experience and he resisted any form of doubt. The armored column proceeded to the city center leered at every corner.
For how could one not gaze upon the Butcher of Bastogne while he was busy conducting his Blue Parade?