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Idril Mar

Adsit Anglis Sanctus Georgius

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Being an engineer and warp field specialist by training, I find myself needing to know why and how things happen. That is why ghost stories, especially ones that can't be logically explained, are what send shivers up my spine.

There is a legend among my husband's countrymen, those humans that come from the little island that calls itself England, of their island's patron saint, St. George the Dragonslayer, and how he, in his benevolence, comes to the aid of brave bands of true Englishmen when in battle against overwhelming odds and facing certain death.

I'm not so sure about this legend myself but I have heard a story that sometimes makes me wonder, when I think about it, if St. George really doesn't protect people from the little island of England. Across it when I was wandering through old intel files of a little-known battle on the edge of nowhere during the Dominion War. It was really a meaningless battle far from any lines that mattered in the true heart of the war, completely unremarkable except for one small fact: there was a battalion of Starfleet Infantry that hailed almost exclusively from a small island in the northern hemisphere of Earth.

The battle was for listening station on the planet Archos VII. A small infantry battalion had been assigned to hold a mountain pass that was the main approach to the post. The battalion, a thousand strong and each with a small Union Jack on their shoulder, traced its lineage proudly back to His Majesty's Blues and Royals, in the days before Earth was united by a single government. This battle was one of inches, fought with the modern equivalent of sticks and stones. The Archosian atmosphere had been so saturated with energy disrupting aerosols that old fashioned firearms and rail-gun artillery had been resurrected to battle across the rocky terrain.

The listening post in question had been obsolete for nearly a decade and neglected for longer than that but, as many times happens in war and peace both, people misplace significance onto objects and places that someone else shows a desire for, even when they themselves know their worthlessness. It was into this meaningless battle for a meaningless piece of technology on a meaningless rock that the infantry was dropped. A thousand strong, they dug trenches, built strong walls and had made themselves a fortress the envy of any castle of old. This was fortunate, as unknown to them, the Dominion had secretly dropped nearly 100,000 Jem'Hadar warriors nearby with orders to destroy the listening post. Their first notice of their new guests was when the artillery smashed into their newly finished salient. For two days and nights without stop, the thump-whistle-crash of the shells targeting them drained them somewhat of their usual upbeat cheeriness, tearing stone from stone... limb from limb. After the days of punishment, only half the original number remained. That is when the ground assault started. The sight of the wave upon wave of grey clad Jem'Hadar bearing down on them made even the bravest of those left realize that this was their time, their place and likely the end of their story.

Among them was a young lieutenant, one who had graduated college only a few months before as a scholar of ancient languages. As he and his platoon opened fire in what they all knew was likely a vain effort, he began muttering an old Latin invocation:

Adsit Anglis Sanctus Georgius - May St. George be a present help to the English.

Over and over he said it as he fired his rifle into advancing grey horde. The Jem'Hadar were nothing if they were not loyal and determined. Up the hill they ran towards the Federation lines and by the hundreds the infantry cut them down. By the thousands, though, they kept coming, slowly gaining. There was no hope in the defenders, but they would do their duty as well.

Suddenly, the young lieutenant heard a voice above and behind him, loud and sharp as a peal of thunder: "Array, array, array!"

Over the din of the battle, he began to hear other voices calling from behind the lines.

"Saint George! Saint George!"

He rolled over to look behind his men. With what seemed like a soft white glow, he began to see shapes of men, standing behind the Federation trenches, indistinct, but he could see them wearing what seemed to be ancient armor and clothes.

"Sweet saint preserve us!"

"Heaven's knight, come to our aid!"

The voices were deeply English, but no one else seemed to hear them or see the shadowy shapes arrayed behind their lines. As he watched, they drew their shadowy bows and with a shout there was a deep hum, as if by a thousand violin strings. The sky filled for a moment with pale arrows, then they smashed into the Dominion lines and the Jem'Hadar began falling by the thousands.

"England! England and St. George!"

The men of the infantry kept firing, dutiful though all their hope was gone.

"St. George, succour us!"

"Holy chevalier, defend us!"

The arrows came so fast and in such numbers that the light from the dim star above darkened and the alien horde melted before them, finally breaking and leaving tens of thousands of dead on the field.

The Vorta wrote the failure and losses down that the Federation had managed somehow to overcome the impediments to the use of technology. Most of the men of the infantry assumed that Starfleet had managed to get air support into place.

Only that young lieutenant knew the truth:

St. George had once more brought the bowmen of Agincourt to the aid of the English.

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