The report was written by lantern light.
DJ sat at a rough table inside a commandeered farmhouse, boots still muddy, coat smelling of powder smoke. The paper in front of him was official—thick stock, watermarked, meant to last.
He wrote plainly.
At approximately 0615 hours, Third Battalion engaged an enemy light infantry detachment along the eastern creek line while conducting a reconnaissance sweep…
He recorded distances. Timings. Terrain.
Then the failure.
Initial deployment was delayed due to noncompliance with flank security orders issued prior to contact…
He named it without emotion.
Captain John Mercer failed to execute ordered flank deployment in a timely manner, contributing to exposure of the column's left.
DJ paused, then continued.
Corrective command was assumed at the battalion level. Formation was restored, volley discipline enforced, and enemy force neutralized.
Casualties. Ammunition expenditure. Enemy dead.
No commentary.
No justification.
Just fact.
At the bottom, he signed it.
Lt. Col. D. J. Carter
Commanding, Third Battalion
The courier left before dawn.
The report reached headquarters by midday.
By evening, it had spread.
Men read it in clusters. Officers reread it with tight jaws. Some folded it carefully and said nothing. Others crushed copies in their fists.
It wasn't what DJ said about the British.
It was what he said about them.
"A damn public rebuke," one captain muttered.
"He put it in writing."
"Named Mercer outright."
"He's trying to ruin careers," another said.
"Or build his own."
In one corner of the headquarters yard, Captain Norris laughed without humor.
"Told you," he said. "Paper cuts deeper than steel."
Mercer didn't wait for formal reprimand.
He found DJ that evening near the ridge, where artillery crews were cleaning their guns. The sky was red with sunset.
"You embarrassed me," Mercer said, stopping a few paces away.
DJ didn't look up from the map he was reviewing.
"I reported the engagement."
"You singled me out."
"You disobeyed a direct order."
Mercer's voice tightened. "You could've handled it privately."
DJ finally looked at him.
"Men died because you hesitated."
"They didn't die."
"They were shot," DJ corrected. "One will walk with a limp for the rest of his life."
Mercer flushed. "You enjoyed it. Putting my name in ink."
DJ closed the map.
"You are confusing accountability with humiliation."
Mercer stepped closer. "You're not fit to judge me. Not with your—"
He stopped himself.
Too late.
DJ stood.
"Finish the sentence, Captain."
Mercer didn't.
The air went tight.
"You challenged my authority in the field," DJ said. "You failed your duty. And now you're doing it again."
"I want this reviewed," Mercer snapped. "By Smith. By Winder. By anyone but you."
DJ nodded once.
"You'll get your review."
Mercer stiffened. "Good."
DJ continued, calm and precise.
"You will also be relieved of company command pending that review."
Mercer stared. "You can't—"
"I can," DJ said. "And I have."
A sergeant major stepped forward silently, already understanding.
"Captain Mercer," DJ said, "turn over your company to Lieutenant Hargreeve."
Mercer's mouth opened. Closed.
Men nearby had gone very still. They were listening.
"This is mutiny," Mercer hissed.
"No," DJ replied. "This is command."
Mercer took a long breath. His hands shook—not with fear, but rage.
"You think this makes you strong," he said. "All it does is make enemies."
DJ met his eyes.
"I already had them."
Mercer ripped off his gloves and shoved them into his belt.
"You haven't beaten me," he said. "You've just hidden behind paper."
DJ leaned in slightly.
"I beat you this morning," he said quietly. "The report just made it permanent."
Mercer turned and walked away, shoulders rigid.
Two days later, the review came back.
Smith upheld DJ's report in full.
Mercer was formally reprimanded. His relief from command stood.
The reaction was immediate—and ugly.
Some officers were furious.
"A boy correcting veterans."
"Writing reports like a politician."
"He's dangerous."
Others were quieter—but colder.
Disappointment cut deeper than anger.
"He could've softened it."
But among the enlisted men, something changed.
They saw what happened to Mercer.
And they saw why.
DJ didn't gloat. He didn't comment. He kept working.
But now, when he spoke—
Men listened the first time.
Not because they liked him.
Not because they approved of him.
But because he had proven something no one could argue with:
He would protect his men.
He would hold officers accountable.
And once he put something in writing—
It stayed written.