Since men will always finished what they started in confusion,
I'll tell this little story and I'll leave you the conclusion.
The troops were all assembled and Gen'ral Tucker rose
and introduced Field Marshal Pratt, a man cursed by his foes,
and all the troops were silent and Gen'ral Tucker sat,
the man upon the rostrum slowly doffed his hat.

Now fifteen hundred pairs of eyes - and soldiers' eyes, no less -
were fixed upon this demi-god, this one almighty Yes;
and he was famed throughout the world for things that he had done,
for strategies of genius and many battles won:
a modern Alexander or Napoleon or Patton
about to show inferiors some tactics with his baton.

He pointed out the present situation on the map.
He told how six battalions now were trenched in Egret Gap.
He pointed out the weaknesses in enemy defences
and said, "At O-four hundred hours our battle plan commences."
And Tucker on the front row, with his fellow gen'rals, smirked:
he knew the plans that Pratt endorsed were water-tight and worked.
He knew, because he'd seen him painting mountain-sides with gore
against the odds at Hayter's Creek in April '64.
He'd seen how Pratt had mocked at Death with fifty men at most
against the fearsome legions of the Eastern Empire's host.
So, Tucker, on the front row, with his fellow gen'rals, grinned,
for here was Pratt, still living to command the very wind.

The Marshal spoke for half an hour, explaining this and that.
No chair leg scraped on concrete floor, so still the soldiers sat,
and most were well aware that they were merely pawns, no more,
and little did they understand the endgames of the war.

The higher ranking rooks and knights who sat among the throng
perhaps had seen some gambits and could differ weak from strong,
but none, save Pratt, had scaled the very ridges of perdition
to comprehend a conflict with such micro-definition.
So when it came for Pratt to say, "Now, are there any questions?",
no striped supremo dared presume to offer his suggestions.

The Field marshal, however, knew that crowds are often meek,
and paused for quite a while to give the men a chance to speak.
Perchance a nervous Private with some irksome, nagging doubt,
would summon up his courage, raise his arm and bring it out.

With eyebrows raised, Field Marshal Pratt stood smiling as in charm
and, from a sea of wiser heads, arose a single arm.

"Yes, that man there," the Marshal said. "What can we do for you?"
And one thin, trembling soldier stood for everyone to view,
and, in a sheepish, quiet voice, the wretched, whimp'ring cur,
amid his comrades' stares, said, "It's about the decoy, sir."
"Oh yes, the decoy," Pratt replied. "Well, what about it, man?
Is there, in your opinion, something lacking in my plan?"
"Well sir," the Private muttered, "I can neither praise nor blame,
for I am but a trainee in the tactics of this game.
I merely wish to understand why Fourth Platoon and Third
must wage without assistance where our last defeat occurred."
And Pratt replied, "Young soldier, it's a game of double-bluff.
This decoy is a plan their generals know well enough.
If I guess right, the foe will just ignore the two platoons
and concentrate his efforts on our forward-placed dragoons.
With Paisley here and Tucker here", (he pointed on the map),
"and Cartwright here and Harris here, we'll set them quite a trap.
If I know how my rival thinks, the decoy he'll ignore
and rush down Egret Gap towards us, as I said before.
Then Fourth and Third will turn about to close the net tight shut,
and we'll digest our enemy, then belch him from our gut."

A murmer of approval chuckled all around the hall.
The Private sank into his seat while Pratt stood broad and tall.
Then Tucker rose, dismissed the men with good luck for their quest
and all of them at four a.m. ... well, folks, you know the rest.