Author's Note: I had intended on writing these stories in chronological order to show the development of Daeron's relationship with Boromir. Unfortunately, my characters have demanded that I write the following, in spite of the fact it takes place when Daeron is fifteen. Lord Boromir does eventually make an appearance, I promise.
Thanks to my wonderful twin for taking the time out of your busy schedule to beta this.
Dedicated with love to Evendim, who is a true inspiration.
Disclaimer:Middle Earth and the Lord of the Rings are copyright to J.R.R.
Tolkien and this piece of fan fiction is not meant to infringe on
that copyright. Daeron, Halmir, Laedren, Grethen, and Val are my own
creation and are copyrighted to myself as are any other characters
who are not familiar.
By Dancingkatz
Daeron groaned and hauled himself out of his bedroll when the Master at Arms roused the cadets before dawn. He ached in muscles he hadn't known he had and he didn't need to look at his shoulder to know that there was a livid bruise there from getting hit with a falling rock while sliding down the escarpment the day before to rescue his squad mate and best friend, Halmir. The other cadet had lost his footing on the wet stone and fallen from the ledge path.
Halmir had suffered a broken ankle and it had been hellish getting him (and his gear) back up to the path after Daeron had splinted the leg. From a personal survival aspect, it probably would have been common sense for Daeron to have left Halmir bundled up in his bedroll on the path while Daeron returned to the camp to get assistance, but he was reluctant to leave his injured friend at the mercy of the elements. The entire time they'd been in the field the weather had been gods awful; cold, wet, and the wind never seemed to stop blowing in your face regardless of the direction you turned. It was nearly dusk by the time they'd made it to the camp. He'd ended up carrying Halmir over his shoulder the last two hours of the trek.
He'd deposited his squad mate with the surgeons and went to the command pavilion to give his reconnaissance report.
"Cadet Daeron reporting, sir," he said after his salute had been returned. The commandant's adjutant had set his desk in front of the pavilion to take advantage of the fading light. This told Daeron that once again it would be a cold and dark camp.
"Go ahead, cadet."
Daeron made his report, including how Halmir had gotten injured and what he'd had done in response.
"Why didn't you leave him, cadet? He slowed you down. The reconnaissance information is vital and needed to be brought in as soon as possible," The adjutant inquired, taking the papers and pen from the sergeant who had recorded the report.
"There were other scouts out in the area, sir, who could bring the information in. I chose not to leave my comrade to a possible enemy. Had an enemy found him…" Daeron swallowed hard at the thought. "…He could have given them intelligence of our strength and battle plans." Daeron closed his mouth and kept his eyes on the canvas behind the adjutant and waited to see if he had overstepped himself. Besides he's my best friend and I'm not going to leave him behind!
The adjutant studied the fifteen year old for a moment before signing off on the report. "You are dismissed, Cadet. Pick up your ration from the mess sergeant and get some sleep."
Daeron saluted and made his weary way over to the canvas fly that was intended to protect the provisions from the vile weather. He collected his ration, cold oatcake and a couple strips of dried meat, and found a place to drop his bedroll and himself. He needed to get water and see if he could get his first aid supplies replenished and then fill the empty hole that was his stomach, but first he needed to stop and see Halmir.
The surgeon had refused to let Daeron speak to his friend, telling him to take himself off to where he belonged. Sighing, he went to fill his waterskin. The water in the stream was cold enough to numb his fingers. He trudged back to his bedroll and ate. It would be a very cold camp tonight since Halmir was in the surgeon's care and not present to share warmth and there were no fires that might dry wet clothing. Cold and miserable pretty much summed up the entire field exercise for Daeron and the rest of his academy class so far.
He made a shelter of sorts from his oiled canvas cape and took refuge under it as the sun set. The thing would at least keep the rain off his head. He closed his eyes, thinking about the adjutant's words. What should he have done other than trying to bring Halmir in? Finally, exhaustion won out over thought and the misery of being cold and wet, and he'd fallen asleep.
He shivered in the predawn as he secured his bedroll and gear preparatory to the unit marching out. He and his compatriots were training to become officers but the current philosophy of the military academy was that no man could be a good officer without knowing what their men went through. Hence, the cadets' horses had been left comfortable in their snug stables, and the officers in training were learning the misery of the infantryman's life.
Fireless camps, cold, little food, rain, mud, and more rain seemed to be the lot of the infantry. As Daeron picked up his day's rations he thanked the gods that it wasn't yet winter and that once this training deployment was over they'd be returning to the cadet's barracks and hot food. He wasn't going to complain about the narrow bunks and barracks food ever again.
He fell into column when the order to march came and made his now customary prayer to the gods that he wouldn't screw things up today and his feet would hold out.
When the cadets were finally permitted to fall out from the column for the evening meal and the usual accompanying briefing on their location and potential problems from an enemy in the uneven terrain, Daeron didn't quite collapse in his tracks. He managed to find a spot in the lee of a rise where he could see and hear while staying out of the wind. At least it had finally stopped raining. He was soaked to the skin and the other cadets were in a like situation. Even oiled wool and canvas didn't do much to keep one dry if one has been practically swimming through water for the past week. Maybe they'd be lucky and they'd be permitted fires tonight. If so, modesty be damned, he was stripping and going to try to dry out at least some of his clothing.
During the march he had been thinking about yesterday's reconnaissance and rescue of Halmir. If the enemy would have been on their tail, if he hadn't been able to get his friend out of the ravine, if Halmir had been more severely injured or was too heavy for Daeron to carry, if… Suddenly he retched as the thing he'd avoided considering all day thrust itself to the front of his mind.
Oh, gods, he would have had to kill his best friend!
He retched again, until there was nothing left to come up and knelt on his hands and knees shuddering, his eyes squeezed shut, trying to deny the horrible fact.
"Daeron?" Grethen, the cadet who had the bunk across from him in the barracks, had approached when he realized there was a problem. "Come with me, you need to see the surgeon."
"No. I'll be all right. My stomach just turned is all," Daeron got up and dragged his gear away from the mess.
Grethen snorted. "Given the rations, I can't blame it. Come on, no surgeon then, but you're bivouacking with me and Val tonight. We can use the extra body heat!"
Daeron managed to laugh. Grethen was one of the largest of the cadets and Val constantly joked that the only reason he partnered with him in the field was because Grethen put out more heat than a camp stove! The truth of the matter was that Val—Envalion—had been best friends with Grethen since they were toddlers. The two were as inseparable as Daeron and Halmir were, and tonight Daeron was thankful for their generosity.
They'd finally been permitted fires and the cadets gratefully took advantage of the warmth to dry out their gear and warm themselves. Daeron ignored the snickers of some of the nearby cadets, stripped to the skin, and wrapped himself in his blanket. He arranged his wet clothing on a makeshift framework of branches and then cleaned and sharpened his sword and knife while his clothing dried out. Keeping busy and joining in Grethen and Val's banter and bad jokes, he managed to push aside the grimmer aspects of military life to the back of his mind.
A side benefit of the fires was the ability to brew tea. Between the hot, if bitter, liquid and dry clothing, Daeron was finally feeling warm for the first time since leaving Minas Tirith when he crawled into his bedroll to sleep. He missed the familiar sound of Halmir breathing at his back but Grethen and Val's presence in the bivouac definitely made it warmer than sleeping alone. Let the commons make snide remarks and smirk about "military relationships." When you were out in the middle of nowhere, sharing bed space with another man was about surviving hypothermia, not romance. Saying a silent prayer Daeron closed his eyes and gave in to exhaustion.
He'd been dreaming something concerning Halmir's accident when he was awakened by strong hands dragging him from the shelter. He was gagged, blindfolded and bound before he could identify his attackers or make a sound. When he continued to struggle, a hard fist against his jaw knocked him out.
His captors revived him by the expedient of throwing an icy bucket of water over him. The gag had been removed but he remained blindfolded and was still bound. He was hauled to his knees and froze as he felt the unmistakable coldness of a knife blade at his throat.
A voice in heavily accented Westron asked him if he wanted to live.
Coughing and choking, Daeron lay where he'd been flung after being half-drowned by having his head submerged in a bucket of cold water, for what he thought was the tenth time. His hands and feet were numb and still bound, he was still blindfolded, and he couldn't tell how long he'd been in the hands of his captors. They'd questioned him repeatedly, and when he refused to speak had shoved him face first into the water, hauling him out just before he could drown.
They left him alone for a while, soaked and shivering, then his interrogators began the process again.
Where were the rest of the troops camped? How many men made up this unit? Where were they going? What was their mission? Who was their commander? The questions went on and on as the "encouragements" grew more varied and painful.
Daeron was all too aware that this wasn't a nightmare that he could wake up from. The questions never stopped. Nor did the pain and, worse, the fear. Finally, trapped between drowning in icy water and the heat of a red hot iron ready to fall on his back, Daeron broke.
Afterwards, he was rewarded with a blanket and a swallow of some liquor that, while harsh going down his throat, warmed his belly. Finally left to himself, he threw the blanket from himself and wept in despair and self-hate, his face against his updrawn knees.
He must have fallen asleep despite the pain he was in because he was startled awake by the noise of swords clashing and familiar voices.
"Here he is! Daeron, it's Val. Let me get this thing off you." The blindfold was removed and he blinked in the painful glare of lantern and firelight. It was indeed Val. "Gods, what happened to you?"
A knife cut the bonds around his wrists and ankles then Grethen came round to his line of sight. "No time for questions, Val. Let's get him out of here and back to camp. This time he needs the surgeon."
Val snatched up the blanket and started to wrap it around Daeron's shoulders but the cadet pulled away.
"No!"
Val started to insist, but Grethen took one look at Daeron's expression, took off his cloak, and draped that about him instead. This garment was accepted and he stumbled out of the tent between the two. Just past the boundary of the enemy camp they were intercepted by a lieutenant—Lieutenant Bedreth, he thought—who sent Val and Grethen back to finish the "clean up" and turned Daeron over to the surgeon's corpsmen.
Shortly thereafter, Daeron found himself on a cot in a pavilion shared with four other cadets, each of whom looked as miserable as he felt. The surgeon went from one to the other, checking them over and administering the appropriate aid.
One of the corpsmen set up a screen between Daeron's cot and the others at a quiet-voiced order from the surgeon while the other stripped the filthy remains of Daeron's uniform from him and cleaned him up.
Daeron let the surgeon and the corpsman do their work without complaint as the burn on his shoulder and the welts on his back and arms were tended. He bit his lip against the pain of stitching one particularly bad cut on his left shoulder, and the dressing of the cuts and abrasions on his knees and feet. After swallowing a loathsome-tasting dose down his throat to guard against pneumonia he obeyed the surgeon's order to lie down on the cot but he didn't sleep.
He
couldn't sleep. How was he going to tell his father about his
ignominy? How could he face any of his fellows much less his
superiors with this failure? How was he going to tell Halmir?
The following morning found Daeron feeling hungover from the sleeping draught the surgeon had finally administered after finding the cadet still awake when he made his midnight rounds. The news that all the cadets would be facing a debriefing panel after breakfast didn't improve things. Nor did the word that Daeron was to be the last cadet summoned. The only good thing, in his opinion, about the morning was the arrival of Grethen and Val with a new uniform and his own boots. Val volunteered the information that they'd been found in the enemy camp and that he'd spent the evening polishing them.
"Well, we'll be sure to give you a good recommendation as a valet if you ever want to make a career change," Grethen offered as he combed Daeron's hair.
"Look who's talking!" Val retorted, grinning as he noted a small smile on Daeron's face. "Since I'm sure you don't want to arrive at your debriefing lying down, Greth and I have magnanimously offer to escort you. I promise—but I can't make any promises about that big oaf—that I won't drop you."
Daeron actually laughed as the comb bounced off Val's head.
Daeron was escorted into the command pavilion by Grethen and Val, who supported his limping progress until he was before the panel. He drew himself to attention as best he could and reported, his eyes on the canvas above the commandant's head.
Captain Laedren had hidden his disquiet behind a mask of professionalism as the fourth cadet P.O.W. left the commandant's pavilion after being debriefed; having only discovered that his son had been one of the randomly selected cadets to be captured in the exercise when the adjutant briefed the panel on the identity and physical condition of each rescued prisoner before the first cadet was summoned to report. Now as he watched his son stand and salute the commandant he was caught between pride and pity for his son, pride that the boy—no, man—had held out so long and well, and pity for the need to learn some of the hardest lessons a soldier was required to learn. His Captain-General, who was seated next to him, placed a hand on his shoulder in silent commiseration. Under other circumstances the young man who was the subject of the panel's attention might even have been Lord Boromir's son.
"Be seated, Cadet." The Commandant's Adjutant indicated a folding camp stool. "Cadets Grethen and Envalion, you are dismissed."
Daeron sat as instructed and kept his eyes forward as his escort left the pavilion. The breakfast the healer had pushed on him sat heavily in his stomach and the headache that had been with him since he wakened was getting worse. He was vaguely aware of others present but all his attention was on the academy commandant, his adjutant, and two lieutenants who were seated behind the table. One was Lt. Bedreth but the other was completely unknown to him. He couldn't help glancing to his left as one of the observers moved, causing his scabbard to rattle against his chair, but the lighting in the pavilion was set so that other than picking out the hints of silver braid indicating the presence of high ranking officers, he couldn't make a determination of their identities. He forced his eyes back to the front and waited for the axe to fall.
Upon questioning, he described his capture in the middle of the night from the camp, his awakening in the enemy camp, what they'd wanted to know, and what pressures had been brought to bear against him.
"How many of the enemy did you come in contact with?" "What could you tell about the enemy's morale?" "Did there seem to be any schism among those you came into contact ?"
Daeron had been blindfolded the entire time but his ears had still worked despite being filled with water.
"I think I heard five different voices, sir." He frowned and concentrated. "When they talked among themselves, well, it sounded like three of them were from different countries. They only spoke Westron to each other and the accents were all different."
"What about the other two?" The adjutant asked.
"I think they were speaking Haradrim, sir. When they weren't questioning me they seemed to be arguing with each other. Finally, one of the ones that spoke Westron interrupted them, and well, read them the riot act."
"What else did you overhear?"
Closing his eyes, Daeron concentrated on recalling and describing all he'd heard and sensed during the times he was conscious and left alone. Still in this mindset he was blindsided by the commandant suddenly interjecting, "Did you give any information to your captors, Cadet?"
"Yes, sir." Daeron's eyes flew open, the two words had emerged without his volition, and he swallowed hard as his breakfast threatened to make a reappearance. It didn't matter how much he had overheard from his captors, he'd been captured and had given the enemy information, in violation of the Code of Conduct.
At that point they stopped questioning him and the commandant asked for the surgeon's report on Daeron's injuries. Lieutenant Bedreth read out the surgeon's report, during which time the Commandant looked increasingly grim. His next words were aimed at the other lieutenant.
"Lieutenant Kergil, I am disturbed by the severity of this Cadet's interrogation in comparison to those of the other prisoners. This is a training exercise, if you recall."
The other Lieutenant, who was in charge of the "enemy" troops, stiffened at the implied criticism. "The Captain's pardon, but my instructions were to interrogate the selected cadets until such time as they gave up information but before any permanent damage was done. Cadet Daeron withstood significantly more than the other four cadets before breaking. At that, he provided little useful information. He never did divulge the identity of his commander or any of the passwords."
It doesn't matter what I didn't tell them. It was that I told them anything at all! Daeron thought. I should have been stronger willed. I shouldn't have given in. The silent litany of blame was interrupted by the Commandant's voice.
"I believe that concludes this briefing, unless, you have anything to add, General?"
General? The Captain-General of Gondor, Lord Boromir? Oh, gods! I should have let them drown me!
"Not at this time, Captain." The tone of the Heir to the Steward's voice was unexceptional, but Daeron could feel the man's eyes on him. "Our discussion regarding the latest training exercise can wait until later."
"Cadet Daeron, you are dismissed. Master at Arms, summon the cadet's escort so he may return to the surgeon's purview."
Grethen and Val arrived instantly and supported Daeron as he limped from the tent. They had gotten about ten paces from the entrance when his stomach rebelled entirely. Grethen waited until it appeared he was done, hefted him into his arms, and carried him to the surgeon's tent despite Daeron's attempts to refuse assistance. Val ran ahead and so the surgeon was waiting when Grethen set Daron on the cot.
"Drink this all at once. Good." The surgeon set aside the dosing cup and nodded as Daeron's color improved. The honey-ginger tincture was already settling Daeron's stomach if not his mind. There was a commotion at the entry of the tent and the surgeon left to see to the problem, leaving Daeron to the attention of his squadmates.
"Come on, lets get those boots off you. " Val said, suiting action to his words. "Greth, see if you can find some food. Real food, not that slop we got last night."
"Should I raid the commandant's saddlebags? No, that would be cannibalism." Grethen squeezed Daeron's shoulder gently, and smiled when he snorted at the notion that the academy commandant ate cadets for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. "I'll be back as soon as I can."
Grethen had found food; rabbit stew thick with potatoes and carrots, and reasonably fresh bread. Val provided tea, and in spite of Daeron's protests, the other cadet broke the remainder of his ration of sugarloaf into the pot.
"Shut it!" Val told him rudely as he poured hot water into the pot. "If we don't make sure you're taken care of, Halmir's going to have our guts for bowstrings. I can live without sweet tea until we get home."
Daeron gave up the argument and settled back onto his pillow, said pillow being his folded cloak. While he was being debriefed, someone had returned the few intact pieces of his uniform the "enemy" had stripped from him after his capture. Grethen had located the rest of his scattered gear, including his weapons, and had secured it under Daeron's cot.
After the stew had been consumed and the surgeon had checked over Daeron's injuries and dosed him with yet another medicine, the three friends finished the last of the tea and talked. The other four cadets had been released back to duty so Daeron was at present the only patient in the tent. The surgeon had been closed mouthed about when Daeron would be released back to duty, and given the way he was feeling, Daeron didn't argue with him.
"What I want to know is why neither of you woke up when they grabbed me," Daeron said into a lull in the conversation.
Both Grethen and Val looked embarrassed. "Well," the latter finally said, "we weren't in the shelter. We were, um, inspecting the trees…"
Daeron covered his eyes with his arm and groaned. "I am going to tell Halmir he can have your guts for bowstrings. So I got captured because you two were out communing with nature. I suppose it's too much to ask if you even realized the camp had been invaded."
The silence was telling and Daeron chuckled. The chuckle turned to laughter, albeit somewhat hysterical laughter. Suddenly he clasped his arms around his chest, gasped, and the laughter turned to racking sobs. "Oh, gods!"
Grethen bolted for the doorway of the tent calling for the surgeon, and Val knelt by the cot, stunned and clueless as to what to do.
"Go outside, lad." Strong hands lifted Val to his feet and turned him towards the doorway then the owner of them sat on the edge of the cot and gathered the Daeron against his chest repeating, "Daeron. It will be all right. You will get through this. I'm proud of you." The familiar hands and voice eventually got through the hysteria and the cadet quieted.
"Father?"
"Yes." Laedren sat still and kneaded the back of his son's neck, feeling the recurring shudders that racked the fifteen year old.
"Forgive me—please…"
"There's nothing to forgive, son. You did as well as any veteran I know." Laedren spoke with assurance. "No soldier knows where his breaking point is. None of us are unassailable. We are each and every one of us human, which is not a dishonourable estate. If you fail, think once on what you failed to do, learn from it, and then move on with what you've learned."
"But the debriefing…" Daeron began.
Laedren laughed softly. "Son, debriefings were created to knock out any ego that a soldier may have had the gall to develop. Even when you do everything right, you leave a debriefing feeling like you've made every mistake in the book."
"That's my speech, Laedren," said the Captain-General. "I ought to charge you royalties for stealing it." Boromir carried a horn cup in his hand, which he held out to Daeron. "From the surgeon. I assumed that you'd prefer not to be interrupted by the sawbones."
Daeron sat up and pushed his hair out of his face before accepting the cup. "Thank you, my lord." He eyed the dark brew askance but swallowed it down. As he expected, it was bitter. "Do you think they make painkillers taste so awful as to give us incentive us not to get hurt?" Gods, did I just say that out loud?
Lord Boromir guffawed and sat on the nearest empty cot while Laedren grinned and took the cup from his son. "It wouldn't surprise me. Now before that knocks you out, Cadet, we need you to answer some questions that the debriefing didn't touch."
Daeron noted that he'd been addressed as Cadet and realized that he wasn't speaking to his father anymore but to a Captain of Gondor. "Yes, sir."
"I understand that prior to your capture, you went on a reconnaissance patrol with Cadet Halmir, who was injured towards the end of your sweep. We've been informed of what you did but not why you made the decisions you did. Explain your actions."
"Halmir is my friend as well as my squad mate. The weather was wretched and if I'd left him there and gone to get help, he might have died from exposure. If the enemy came across him while I was returning to camp for assistance he would have been unable to move or hide. Once his leg was splinted I was able to haul him back up to the path and help him along. He's lighter weight than me and I carried him when necessary, staying hidden as much as possible." He paused, trying to find the words to express what he wanted to say. "If he'd been injured more severely or I couldn't move him, then I think I'd have made a different decision. I would have given him first aid and done my best to hide him from sight and protect him from the cold and then go to get help from the camp."
"What if the enemy was approaching and you weren't able to get your companion away?" This question came from Lord Boromir.
"If he was immobile I'd have to make it so he couldn't give the enemy sensitive information, and get myself back to camp to give warning along with my report. I'd have to kill him. If I was the one who was injured he'd have to kill me." The effects of the drug made the hard words easier to contemplate this time. "If he could move on his own, I'd try to lead the enemy away so he could take the information back. One or the other of us has to fulfill the mission without endangering the unit."
"Why didn't you give in to your captors earlier than you did?" This time the question came from his father. "You had little information of military value to them."
"I didn't know what they already knew, sir. One word could give them a missing piece that could lead to a successful attack against us." Daeron answered after a few more minutes of consideration. "I failed my duty by telling them anything, sir."
The bleakness of the last was echoed in his eyes. It didn't matter if a thousand others had given in under inquisition, he'd given the enemy information just to save his own life. It didn't matter that the whole thing turned out to have been an elaborate war game. The fact was that he had broken, and how could any commander trust that it wouldn't happen again?
"No one knows if it will happen the next time." Boromir said in the ensuing silence. "No, I'm not reading your mind. You have the same fears and worries that I had when I went through this. What is the Fifth Article of the Code of Conduct?"
Daeron automatically recited the article in question. The Code of Conduct was the first thing every soldier in service to Gondor learned when they began their training. It was the basis of unit cohesion and morale throughout the army. "When questioned, should I become a prisoner of war, I am required to give only my name and rank. I will evade answering further questions to the utmost of my ability. I will make no oral or written statements disloyal to Gondor, its King, should he return, the ruling Steward, its allies or harmful to their cause."
"Note that you are required to resist only to the utmost of your ability. You lasted nearly three days after you were captured before you broke. I only lasted one. Your father lasted for two, if I recall." Boromir said.
"Close enough," grunted Laedren. "Daeron, when you did reach your limit, you didn't tell them all you knew. Once you give them everything, they have no reason to keep you alive—unless you happen to be related to the most powerful man in the country, and they think they can wring concessions out of the government by offering his release in exchange."
"If anyone thinks they can wring concessions out of the Steward, they don't know my father. The security of Gondor is more important than any man." Boromir retorted. He turned his attention back to Daeron who was beginning to succumb to the full effects of the draught. "To quote someone I knew long ago, 'All a man may do is his best. So long as he does so, he retains his honour'. At ease, Cadet. Get some sleep."
Daeron didn't object when his father pushed him back against his folded cloak and turned down the lamp. His last conscious thought was that his strength might have failed in the end but he'd done his best.
The next day Daeron's father and Lord Boromir left to go inspect another unit. Halmir hobbled in on crutches early that evening announcing that he was going to be carted back to Minas Tirith with the rest of the cadets who'd weren't capable of making the march home. The two were still visiting when a rather bedraggled looking Grethen and Val stuck their heads in the doorway, inquiring if Daeron wanted more visitors.
Halmir snickered and waved them in. "What were you doing today, inspecting waterfalls?"
The two groaned and glared at Daeron who smirked and told them that they were crazy if they thought he'd ever let them live down abandoning him to be captured. The results of which comment brought the wrath of the on-duty surgeon down on them all and the acid comment that if Daeron felt well enough to roughhouse he was likely well enough to rejoin his unit in the morning.
After Grethen and Val took Halmir off to their bivouac Daeron settled back to sleep. The final words of Lord Boromir had been in his mind since the Captain-General had stopped by the medical tent that morning in the company of Daeron's father.
After Laedren had made his farewells, Boromir grasped Daeron's right arm in a warrior's clasp. "You did well, Cadet. Gondor's army is lucky to have such a man of strength and honour."
Before sleep claimed him, Daeron promised his absent General that he'd do his utmost to remain strong and honourable.
Author's Note: The Code of Conduct article that Daeron recites is based on article V of the Code of Conduct of the United States Armed Forces. The Code is the legal guide for the behaviour of U.S. military members who are captured by hostile forces. The actual wording of Article V of the Code of Conduct is: "Should I become a prisoner of war, I am required to give name, rank, service number, and date of birth. I will evade answering further questions to the utmost of my ability. I will make no oral or written statements disloyal to my country and its allies."
For more information on the Code of Conduct, do a web search on the terms "U.S. Military Code of Conduct".
Regarding the war game training scenario of this story, I based many aspects upon my own experiences during mobility/survival training with the 3rd Combat Communications Group of the U.S. Air Force at Tinker Air Force Base, Oklahoma in November of 1992. I am eternally grateful to the sergeants and officers who put me through the toughest and most rewarding month of my life. I wouldn't be the person I am today if not for those experiences.
