It was raining. It was always raining. For the First Lord of the Admiralty, it was Light Darned good weather. And this campaign was going to make his career, and win the war against the savage Orc.
The scene was the Flagship of the Alliance Navy. The rear castle to be precise, where the First Lord of the Admiralty stood, Telescope to eye. Through it, he could see the coastline of Stranglethorn vale, and the gaping mouth of the River, wide enough to fit several ships down side by side. And that was the plan – his plan to be precise. Sail the Royal fleet down the river, right up to the occupied City of Stormwind. There, the siege weapons on the ships could be landed close enough to besiege and take the city, in the name of the king. And all that stood in their way was a small camp of Orcs that protected the river mouth. If the fleet sailed down the river, it would be torn apart by the Orcish Catapults so, naturally, the Lordaeron and Kul Tiras Marines needed to land on the Beach, take the camp, and destroy the Catapults. A simple Mission. So Simple that the he had decided to Join his men taking the camp.
Captain W. Thomson, an old Friend of the First Lord of the Admiralty had been assigned as his Lordships bodyguard for the landing. An informal position and unknown to the Lordship, but one he gladly took on as an honour as well as a favour to his old friend. He could still see the ships, disappearing on the horizon as his contingent of boats approached the shore – it had been a long way to row, and the ships were far out of range of the catapults, if they were even pointing in the right direction. Would it have killed the ships captains to bring them a little closer? Already his arms hurt from rowing, even the high training regime to become an officer in the Alliance Navy hadn’t prepared him to row several miles against the tide. Still, they were almost there, but the Thunder of rain didn’t make matters easier. Even the Lord next to him seemed to have dampened mood, but a smile still sat on his face as he pulled at the Oar. That’s what the men liked to see; the Aristocracy pulling his weight. And it was quite a bit of weight to pull.
As the boat struck sand bed an arrow broke on the breastplate of the Soldier in front of Captain Thomson. Another struck the private in the neck as Soldiers leapt from the boat throwing it onto its side as improvised cover from the growing stream of arrows. Looking left and right, the Captain could see four of the other five boats had been set up the same, but the fifth was just kindling now, floating in the surf around the boulder that had struck it. Shouting orders the Marines around Capt. Thompson lifted the rowboat up; taking steps up the beach away from the soaking waters that had already filled their boots. Arrows thudded into the wooden shield, but it held as they slowly covered ground. Around him the other squads did the same, before wedging their cover into the sand halfway up the beachhead. “Stay here and wait for the other boats!” Ordered the First Lord of the Admiralty, and so they did.
Night fell before the other boats arrived, and the rain of arrows only got heavier. The majority of them were freshly made wooden dowels, carved straight from jungle trees with flights of bright feathers from the parrots of the region. The Orcish defenders were making them as the onslaught continued, removing the possibility of a lapse of ammunition. The Alliance troops on the other hand had limited supplies of finely crafted Iron bodkins, so conserved them while regrouping. They had used that they had to form defences, grouping the Boats together in fortifications of six or seven boats each, which covered at least seventy troops huddled together. Using the supplied Entrenching tools the Soldiers had dug trenches in the sand, right down to where the sand started leaking water and they had to stop for fear of high tide drowning them. As it happened when High tide hit a few hours later, the high point of water only licked around their ankles, but this removed the possibility of getting any sleep. And so the Alliance Army waited for dawn, tired, damp, and confused as to how many orcs there actually were attacking them. ‘A small camp my arse’ Captain Thompson heard one Squaddie mutter.
