Chapter 6: loquacious

He was awake just before the edge of dawn, lone eye fluttering open. Taking in his surroundings, he felt reassured that he was still amongst the living, and that he hadn't been emigrated to someplace else in his sleep. A hand was raised up to massage the base of his neck to alleviate the discomfort that came with sleeping in a crater. His attention then turned to the other two men still slumbering next to him.

The first one chosen to awaken was to his right. Without bothering to stand up, he lashed out with a 'soft' kick at the man's exposed side. The sensation was enough to bring the other man to alert, before he realized the source of his rude awakening. His fellow man spared a snarl before turning to pick up his weapon and shift aside the pack he'd used as a blanket over him.

The second, much like the first, was awakened with a kick. Only this time, the man simply turned over whilst muttering something about his darling to 'spoon him later'. For his troubles, he earned a second strike. A boot was firmly planted on his ribs, and the sleeping man curled up whilst muttering curses. Like the first, he gave his awakener a bitter look, before gathering his gear that lay strewn about.

By the time all three were up and ready, there was activity stirring across the square they were situated in. Many a fellow American were in the midst of morning stretches; others had begun basic exercises, and a few had opted to start making breakfast for the rest. It would appear to be a mundane start to a quiet morning in the ongoing conflict, except for one eyesore.

That being, the erected tents at the center of the square. Colored in dark blue, with neatly assorted materials ranging from boxes of foodstuffs to spare fuel and munitions. The entire set up, when compared to the ruined buildings surrounding it, was like a pristine polis surrounded by slums. It made the leader of the trio scoff at the sight.

"Where to, Randy?" asked the one on the left.

"Chow," Randell replied, voice sounding like the friction between two stones. "Then we start our work. Hop to it, ladies."

The three men made their way to the erected field kitchen. It was mainly what remained of a building's foundation, with only the four corners still intact. The rest of the rubble had been cleared out, or hastily rearranged to form something reminiscent of tables and seats, with a tent erected above it to keep the kitchenware nice and dry. Tinplates cans were stacked haphazardly on a prepared surface at a safe distance next to the fire in one corner.

As they approached, an infantryman greeted them. One among a dozen already present and in the process of wolfing down their first meal of the day.

"Hey, Randell!" spoke up the man. "Glad you could join us. Come on, Bernie said he'd break out the good stuff this morning."

"If he means that Italian shit then count me out. I'm not up for having to hug the toilet for an hour or two again," the one on Randell's left spoke.

"Ha, ha, very funny Dylan." Bernie's voice emerged from somewhere at the far end of the mess. "No hams for you then."

It didn't take long for the three men to collect their meals and then find a quiet corner away from the increasing activity around the field kitchen. The men ate in much appreciated silence until the one named Dylan voiced the question of the day.

"So, what's the plan Randy?"

"Captain wants us to do a sweep of the town and find some good spots to set up outposts. He also wants us to keep an eye out for perches that could be used for observers."

"Tough call on that last one," the other man in the group piped up. "This place is totaled. We'll be lucky if we find a single story that wouldn't just crumble because someone sneezed the wrong way."

"Which is why I don't plan on finding a decent building, Jeff." Randell turned his attention to him. "Worse case, we dig one out, but I'm hoping to find us basements or cellars we could use."

It wasn't even a bad gambit. The Europe they knew had plenty if you knew where to look. A smarter man Randell once met had said that humans never really abandoned some habits even into the far future when they hadn't a real need for them. Chief of these, was finding or digging a hole to keep you and your valuables safe.

"Better hope we don't find unwanted surprises in 'ere then," Jeff added, he took a shallow breath, and blew to cool his porridge.

"Nah, these strawberry's ain't too keen. They ain't as smart yet either."

"This all sounds boring, you know?" interjected Dylan's voice. "Thought at least we could start with the mine laying early."

"I don't need to blow our own asses sky high just for your giggles, Dylan." Randell sniped. "Finish up, you two. Let's get this over with."

The two men were done in less than a minute after their superior ordered them. The tinplates were left in the washing corner of the field kitchen, and after saying their thanks to Bernie, they left to pursue their duties for the day.

Fortunately for these men, someone up top had graciously supplied them with a four-wheeler for use. They got to meet with the other men in their unit; some with similar tasks to them, while others had differing jobs ranging from clearing rubble to salvaging wreckages from yesterday's battle.

It was altogether just another busy day for the Corps.

McKay sipped on his coffee and savored the taste whilst reading the morning reports. He had to sigh at the mention how they were needing to resupply yet again after having only done so less than four days ago.

A prevalent fact they were dealing with was the very gluttonous use of their munition stores. Fuel was still holding strong, but that was an even worse issue to deal with on the long run seeing as how Gallia was effectively cut off from the world stage following a policy of closed and heavily guarded borders both on land and sea. Nonetheless, Ezra had given his word that he'd inform them once he could find a suitable solution. Not that both men had much hope within the next few months at least.

While much of the suspicion surrounding the Americans was shelved away with how close the Imperials had gotten to the capital, that didn't mean they were scrutinized for their way of work. The signs were there with how isolated the segregated during rests stops, and while the forces of both Gallians and Americans were professional enough to put their prejudices aside in the middle of battle, the invisible friction in the air became more palpable with each passing day.

Instincts seemingly shooed away his thoughts upon the sensing of an approaching presence. He turned just in time to regard Captain Varrot who pushed aside the flaps of the command tent he was in.

The entire space within the tent proper was barely enough to fit ten or nine people shoulder-to-shoulder. The reason it was in use and not the town hall was because they had yet to assess the full damage it'd suffered just like the rest of the town. The best they'd done up until last night was to inspect to see whether Ragnite generators down in the underground levels were still operation worthy or not.

The Militia captain was quick to regard him upon seeing he was the tent's only occupant.

"A pleasure and good morning to you, Captain McKay," she said.

"And to you too, Captain Varrot," he replied.

She approached the table positioned under the center of the room. With how hastily it had been built, the only lights available were those hung on the upper corners of the tent. She made a mental note to get someone to fix that immediately for how inefficient it was.

Circling the desk, she took her place to the right of the other officer. A map of Forten lay neatly on the wooden surface, clean and unmarked. It was a copy acquired from within the town's archive and it was miracle how intact it was.

"It's quite a beaut, you know?" she heard McKay remark.

"What is?"

"The town—I heard it was once a fortified settlement," he said, setting his notes down and pointing with his index finger to the dark perimeter that surrounded the square-shaped settlement. "They said it used to be a marsh."

She nodded at the man's remark.

"Used to be," she repeated.

Her gaze turned to look at the mercenary once more, pursing her lips and keeping her guard up. It didn't go unnoticed by McKay, who then queried.

"Yes, something you wish to say?"

'Here we go,' she thought.

Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she started her new dialogue with a more intense tone.

"An officer of mine, one Lieutenant Gunther, visited me in the early hours of the day," she began.

"He was the one who led the Militia to eliminate the guns, yes?" McKay clarified. "I've yet to thank him personally for saving Sawyer and the rest of Baker. It's miracle and a half no one died in that barrage."

She nodded, playing along with the praise. "He brought with me rather troubling news."

"Pardon?"

"Yesterday, after they had eliminated the enemy artillery, Squad 7 had managed to locate and join with elements of Baker. Together, they worked to clear the town of what remained of the Imperials, along with locating the rest of Baker's forces. It was near the end of the operation when they observed their allies perform a rather vulgar act."

Carefully, she observed the other captain's body language for anything that would warrant hostility, but alas the man's poker face was holding strong, prompting her to press on.

"According to him, they had found the remains of the Regulars who were sent to act as infantry support for your armor formation. However, as opposed to seeking an alternative path, they instead went down the same street the bodies were found, intentionally running over whatever remains of men and masonry alike that happened to be in their way."

Again, she found the man in front of her void of response.

"So, I must ask this for the sake of those under my command and my fellow countrymen," she laid out her cards. "Is this sort of behavior something we will expect more often to occur in the future? Are we expected to fight alongside callous men who only look forward to pay, on top of only caring for themselves? I hope I don't have to clarify that I've seen the kind of devastation your weapons could bring if Hill 019 was any indication. I don't dare to try persuading myself thinking that was the pinnacle of your arsenal. Am I right?"

When her tirade ended, there was a long silence within the tent. She half wondered if she would have to come up with some plan of action in case the captain deemed her a liability. However, all her less than decent assumptions slowly seemed to go away at the sight of the officer before seemingly deflate.

She watched as her peer let out a long sigh and rubbed his eyes with his right hand. She noticed the way he bit his lip and tried averting his gaze away from her. Perhaps it may have just been her, but she could imagine the numerous thoughts dancing behind the man's eyes as he sought a befitting answer for the current predicament.

A very long silence passed, then he answered.

"I offer my apologies for having to bear such news," was how he began.

"However, I'm afraid I have very little to offer as recompense other than words. What your man saw the other day was just about what you'll find any desensitized individual would do when having to choose between the living and the dead."

"So, you're implying that your men would willingly run over us if it meant saving one of your own?"

"I'm saying that, as an independent force, we need to do everything in our power to keep our casualties to a minimum. I don't know about you, but at least your country has a population pool to pull in new recruits from. My men only have each other and what few people we may find befitting to bring into the fold occasionally."

"That doesn't mean we can throw our people into a potential slaughter."

"But it does mean we can rely on you to handle less arduous tasks and preserve our fighting strength for major assaults and critical actions."

"And what if we can't bear the strain of this war? Will you continue waiting for that once in a lifetime opportunity to strike and turn the course? Or will your people simply throw the towel and leave?"

"For reasons we can't explain, the option of leaving isn't possible."

"And why is that?"

"Because it's not, that's what," he strained.

Another long silence. The air stilled with the tension permeating the enclosed space of the tent. Neither side was happy with the outcome of the dialogue. Yet, Varrot still needed one last answer.

"Just one last question, if I may?"

McKay eyed her, warily.

"Just what is it that made your men so hardened and callous? I'd be made to believe if they were from the Great War, but most I see are barely into their mid-twenties, let alone thirties. Forgive me if I sound surprised if there had been any major conflict happening somewhere in the world that Europa wasn't privy to."

The query made the American's expression change. It took a softer, almost gloomy look. His gaze fell, and when he answered his voiced felt distant.

"You don't get this far without having to shed a lot of blood, sweat and tears. Plenty of us didn't exactly come from stable backgrounds. Some didn't even have a decent roof before they joined the army. Whom you see now in Able, I'd say there are only around four-fifths of those are replacements for the original members. Our armaments weren't handed to us overnight, you know?"

"…..I apologize then," came her calm reply after a brief pause. "I didn't mean to prod into such a harsh past."

McKay raised his hand. "Don't, it's been done, and there's still more to come."

The tent flaps opened, with what was perhaps divine intervention, and Conti appeared. Face pouring with sweat despite it only being late in the morning. With a flick of his off hand, he threw away the cigarette bud out the tent before entering.

"Morning, John," he greeted. "And you too, Captain Varrot."

"Conti, just in time. What's the morning news?" McKay asked.

"Randall's got his boys searching the town for a place to set up the field barracks and outposts. Mitchell and the recon teams are out in the woods looking for places to do a stakeout. Otherwise, most of our boys are lounging," the sergeant reported, earning nods from his superior.

With the appearance of the McKay's second, Varrot looked expectantly at the flaps of the tent for the other mercenary captain to arrive. She ended up frowning when it became apparent that no one else was joining them for now.

"Where's Captain Sawyer?" she asked. "I understand that the events of yesterday's battle left him bereft of a number of his war engines, but surely he wouldn't just completely abandon his post just for that alone?"

McKay and Conti looked at each other. Then, the former looked at her rather apologetically. The former bit his lip as he attempted to formulate the appropriate response.

"Sawyer, he," McKay hesitated. "He departed close to the break of dawn with the rest of Baker. Not far, I assure you. He mentioned constructing a tank depot in the woods to the south so that he could get his Sherman's looked over properly."

The Gallian Militia captain was taken aback by the news.

"But how and when?"

"We'll get to that in the meeting, I promise," pleaded McKay. "Just hold on and wait until then."

It was then the adjutant for the Gallian Regulars joined them. He was a man in his early twenties, clean-shaven and looking spick and span. With General Damon being recalled back to High Command, the task of acting as liaison and commander for the forces attached to the mercenaries fell to him, a second son of a prestige house.

Shoulder length auburn hair, with a sharp look more fitting for a banquet than the battlefield. His brows looked rather forcibly creased along with his lips set in a thin line. His 'chest plate' had a number of medals welded on, with a decorative line meant to represent where a sash would be.

He took one look at the occupants in the room before nodding to himself.

"I'm glad that everyone could be here on time. This is rather exceptional coming from you lot," he remarked.

Those already present stood visibly perplexed. John and Conti looked at each other once again, then at Varrot, who could only look away, unable to meet their gaze.

Deciding to push the matter aside for now, John faked a cough, and then proceeded to respond to the young officer.

"Likewise," he began. "And you are?"

A scoff. "I'm the appointed liaison and commander for the Regulars to your forces, merc. As befitting my station, you shall only refer to me as Commander Virocantus."

"…. Right," a glance at Varrot revealed nothing but a plead for patience.

With the introductions done, the group gathered around the sole furniture in the room. More importantly, the map of the town of Feren, which included the geography of the surrounding countryside.

"Alright, let's get started," McKay set the pieces on the board. "Good news, the Imperials forces have completely abandoned the town and the surrounding area for a good thirty kilometers in all directions. Bad news, our reconnaissance doesn't expand further than twelve kilometers and that leaves us just slightly past woods to the north. Hence, we can't tell what their up to until their almost right on top of us."

"What are you basing these facts on, captain?" asked Varrot.

"We learned early on from studying the maps both big and small of the area surrounding Feren. Unless they willingly cleared out huge plots of forest, then it's unlikely that they have any solid encampment from where they could assemble and prepare for an assault. The west and east are just too close to other on-going battles, and for obvious reasons they don't have any foothold in the south."

"So, you're just hoping our enemies are no where near enough to take action against us in the coming days," the Gallian Regulars' officer snidely added.

Conti prepped himself to retort, but McKay made a subtle gesture to halt with his finger.

"It's because we don't have an accurate timeframe for when the enemy returns that I already have men proactively engaging in defensive operations in and around the surrounding area. We're currently seeking proper shelters and places to build defenses for the inevitable battle. Advancing is not an option at this point."

"Hold on," interrupted the Gallian officer. "Are you're saying that you, a foreigner, have men running doing whatever they please alone and unsupervised in MY country. Is that it?"

"…. Pardon, but I don't see what the problem is here," McKay inquired. "We need to assess the terrain and figure out just what exactly we're dealing with. The sooner we have the appropriate information, the sooner we can get started on digging in."

"On who's order?" snapped the other man. "I'm the one put in charge of this campaign, and nothing is expected to happen until I say or approve!"

"And I have been given leeway by contract to work with you and the Regulars as equals," rebuked McKay. "By the powers bestowed by one Kurt Ezra, my men and my fellow peers are to be given autonomy in how we perform so long as it continues to be in the interest of freeing Gallia from encroaching Imperial rule."

The mentioning of the right hand of the crown seemed to quiet Virocantus, but the looked of indignation seemed to suggest otherwise.

"Fine then," he growled. "If you all think yourself so highly that MY blood isn't good enough for you, then so be it. I'll get someone more befitting your lowly stations then."

With that, the young officer left the tent. A stunned silence permeated the room.

"The fuck was that guy's problem." Conti loudly remarked whilst pointing at the entrance to the tent. "Christ, you'd think someone pissed in his morning soup or something."

"My…. apologies," came the Varrot's uncertain reply. "The nobles of Gallia have for the longest time held themselves as the pillar of our society. Even in these trying times, it is expected of the citizenry to look to our betters for strength."

"Strength?" Conti snorted. "Strength is in the man who fights and dies in the dirt with his fellows. Not because your mom happened to be shacking with some gramps in a cozy manor."

Varrot stared at him. "I'd ask you to watch your tongue, lieutenant. While the crown may favor you and the services your people provide, there are those amongst the court who may not hesitate to try and exploit the current arrangements if it means getting their hands on the tools of your trade."

"We'll see about that," the second-in-command muttered.

The flaps of the tent opened once more. This time, a more grizzled individual appeared. He had much sharper features and hardened eyes that spoke of having done tough deeds. Yet, the air about him was much more approachable and could even be described as down-to-earth. The light inside the tent illuminated his brown hair, which appeared slightly unkempt and unshaven, as well as his tall, burly figure.

The man coughed once, then introduced himself.

"Greetings," said the man in a gruff voice. "Don't suppose is too late to make amends, eh?"

"And who might you be?" McKay inquired.

The man straightened himself. "Lieutenant Klaus, at your service. Second-in-command of Louis Virocantus of House Virocantus."

"Quite a mouthful you got there," Conti quipped.

Klaus shrugged. "Eh, you get used to it."

"I'm going to assume that your now our liaison for the Regulars, then?" McKay asked.

"Right you are," Klaus nodded. "Don't mind the young master. He's got a lot riding on this campaign, and not enough in the way of padding in case he screws up."

Oh, he'll have nothing to worry about if somebody decides to screw his brains out with a rifle round,' Conti thought to himself.

"Alright then," McKay said softly. "That's enough set back, people. Now, let's get to work. We need to prepare shelters for the men in case the Imperials pull another stunt like they did here. Now, I want people on all sides looking for…"

The group of officers huddled over the map of the town. Every word was taken to heart. Every emphasis was seared into their minds for further evaluation. The meeting soon changed to a think tank devoted to the establishment of a resilient defence in the face of an enemy of which they had no idea as to the strength. All the while, the men and women under their command worked actively to set up proper infrastructure as well as sleuth out fresh information on their surroundings.

I eventually found the steady rhythm of my new life.

Sleep when told. Wake when told. Run when told. Eat, work and most of all, train.

I'm not stupid. Neither are Mike, Goof and Duck.

The former would see to it that I had something to do every hour and would make my day hell if I wasn't on schedule.

The middle would make sure I never wasted anything. Food, piss and especially water and what little soap we had. He also made me it a point that if he ever found my socks and undergarments even remotely unacceptable then he'd have me spent the rest of the day cleaning them on top of the tasks Mike set me up with.

Then, there was Duck and his ever-growing annoyance. I swear I never found out why he suddenly became dead set on being my personal trainer, but man if I didn't begin to understand quickly what made those army instructors I read so damn hated. He was on my ass anytime I could so much as breath unobstructed. Laps, workouts and occasionally firearm training. Just, damn that guy.

Every day for a fortnight this has been going on and I find myself just feeling absolutely running ragged. Sleep and waking just blurred at this time, and I earnestly just wanted nothing more than to crawl into some corner and wake a day later.

Yet, I couldn't bring myself to really complain. Perhaps it was just me, but fortune would have it that I get a moment each night to reflect a bit on the day. My thoughts would always return to the same realization.

I was really at war. Rather, I'm technically an active participant since I'm working to support the frontline anyway I can. Cliches be damned, it all just felt so surreal, like I could wake and fine myself still in my room back in… well, my time.

….. Was this what it felt like to fear? To be aware that you're missing apart of something that was never appreciated before.

I didn't know and preferred not to. There were no places for such thoughts right now. I needed to focus on what mattered. That being, not dying.

"Zeke! We need a new ammo can! Thirty cal!"

"Hang on, I'll get it!"

"Where yer goin'? The rack at the back yer dumbass!"

"It's empty!"

"Bullshit! Check again, shorty!"

"Find your glasses and check it yourself!"

Cursing under my breath, I stepped through the back entrance of the storage tent and went to the tent that was to the right from where I was facing. These tents were separated from the rest of the camp by a two-meter fence that someone managed to procure. Lord in Heaven knows how much of a fuss it stirred, but the complaints didn't last a day after.

I opened the flaps and without much thought headed to the end of the tent where the shelves that stored the requested ammunition was. My eye twitched upon seeing that there was only one shelf left with ammo cans. I grabbed one and hurried back to the front.

Mike was already waiting there with whoever it was that needed the thing. I laid it on the counter without bothering to look at the other guy.

"Here you go," I said.

"About time," he grumbled, before turning heel and leaving.

"I thought I told you to reshuffle our storage last night," Mike asked.

"I did, but this is like the tenth guy today asking for a new can," I emphasized with a wave outside. "And this is what we got from tent five. We'll need that resupply soon."

"Son of a," my senior bit back a curse. "We still have Baker to deal with."

Our talk was interrupted by someone in the distance. I'd recognized the nasally voice.

"Zeke! There you are!" Goof called out from outside the tent. "Come on, gonna need you for something."

Me and Mike shared a glance, and he motioned to see what's up with him. I made my way out of the storage tent and met Goof in the middle of the path. It was then I noticed something in his hand.

"Here," he handed me the clipboard with a list attached. "I need you to find everything on this list and get it loaded on Fatty before dinner."

I gave a basic appraisal of the list. My nostrils flared upon a glance at the munition's requisite, and I realized that this was not going easy on me. More than a third of the stuff was either spent or in the hands of some other group in rear echelon. Not counting if the stuff still exists if the problems in my lot were an indicator.

Lifting my head to look at Goof, I didn't get to word out my concern before he beat me to it.

"I know, I know," he had both hands up rather animatedly. "But just do what you can, 'cause I need to see to the rest of the stuff not written there. We're needed on the move by sundown."

"We're relocating, finally?" I asked, one eyebrow raised.

Goof nodded. "The fronts getting further away, not to mention Baker got themselves into deep shit in the last tumble."

"Wonderful," I said, sarcasm dripping.

"Now, don't get a brush stuck up your ass," my senior reprimanded. "You ought to know how this works by now. Get the stuff on the truck, double time. I want it all secured and ready for the road. Now, get to it."

I nodded in confirmation even as he heartily patted my back to get me moving faster. In the three weeks I'd stayed in this camp, I'd obviously come to know the layout, but the problem was finding whoever was in charge at this hour; not to mention the issue if the items I needed were still available or not.

A battle is only as important in war as the journey to get there.

When the bullets aren't flying, most people don't write much about what happens in war. Or they did, and you simply don't find much mention of it because of how unimportant it seems.

As a man who worked in logistics, I can dispel that notion.

There's a saying that goes somewhere along the lines of, "Every time a soldier is ordered to stop, he immediately starts digging a trench." Apply that to maintenance, refurbishment, and rearmament, and you have the support corps, also known as the backbone of an army.The men at the front can't be expected to keep everything they own in tip-top condition, which is where we, the rear echelon, come in.. We support the front by keeping the equipment and ordinance safe and ready for use. As the war progressed, we had the added job of restoring crippled wrecks ranging from jammed guns to defunct tanks.

It was very enlightening; I can assure you. Being a war enthusiast—not to be confused with a war monger—you learn very quickly the reason why armies march on their stomachs, and that doesn't necessarily apply to foodstuffs. I honestly didn't know how we were going to keep the campaign going with Baker alone depleting our reserves.

Just picture an entire storage shed, thousands of rounds of different sizes and shapes, boxes worth of tools and small spare parts tucked neatly at the bottom of the racks and throw in the odd barrel or canister here and there. Picture that, and with an area of say, five by five.

Imagine the same thing, but empty, and multiply it by four. That was the general gist when it came to how much on munitions alone. My unease wasn't just apparent to me, it was something shared by just about everyone in the support group. I was able to tell with how tense things started to get in the days after the other companies left to take the Gallian town of Feren. That is, until the first Gallian transports arrived with the resupply.

Europans and Europeans seem to share about the same mindset when it comes to their calibers, and man they were HUGE. Like, I get that Germany back then used big rounds, but you don't start appreciating what these things could do until you get shot by one yourself. Anyways, I think I remember some Gallians questioning how on earth the Americans expected to penetrate armor plating with their 'much smaller calibers' and engage with their much smaller effective range. Let's say they had plenty of different things to grumble about once they learned how much we expended downrange to 'negate' any range advantage the enemy had.

By the time I was done, the sky was already set in an orange glow and getting darker. My joints ached, sweat poured out enough to soak my undergarments. I licked and sucked on my lips in an attempt to overcome the dry sensation in my mouth, which was probably a serious sign I needed water.

But, hey, the job was done.

I managed to get most of the stuff requested, and even had it all loaded up and tucked away on Fatty in advance. The GMC truck earned its name from the fact the suspension gave way a bit at some point, and somebody made a dumb remark that it looked kinda fat now. I had no idea why it wasn't a problem, but as long as it could get us A to B then I had no qualms.

As I was double-checking the list for anything I could've forgotten, I overheard the voices of two of my seniors. Goof's voice was easy to make out, but Duck was more discernible from I was inside the back of the transport.

"I'm telling you it's dangerous having him brought to the front. The damn kid still hardly knows how to aim."

"Now, now, we both know that ain't a problem for working with us. Besides, kid has a good head and works good enough with the cleaning tools. That's more then can be said for most from his time."

"Still, it's not enough. I still catch him staring off into the distance, you know? And have you seen his shoelaces? I have no damn clue just how he would've survived bootcamp."

A chuckle. "Well, can't say we're any better, aren't we?"

There was a brief silence.

"Hey, new guy!" Goof called out. "You dun yet?"

That was my cue to get out of the vehicle. They must've known I was here considering the tailgate wasn't fastened in place. I climbed down and immediately lessons kicked in as I presented myself.

"Everything is loaded," came my report. "I was just doing a last-minute check in case something was missing."

Duck grunted in confirmation. I handed him the clipboard and watched as he started going through the list of items. Goof walked off to give the truck a half-hearted inspection in the meantime.

"She gassed up yet, kid?" Goof asked from somewhere behind me.

"No, I just finished loading the stuff you guys asked me," was my reply.

"Well, get that fixed then," Duck was the one who replied this time, before handing me back the clipboard. "We're leaving in twenty."

….shit.

Dropping the clipboard on the flatbed of the truck, I raced out to find whatever Jerry cans still available. I wasn't clueless to the fact we were packing up the camp and leaving, but that just made my search all the more harder. With signs being uprooted, and most of the supplies already stowed away, the only logical conclusion left was to ask someone for help.

There, I noticed three guys loading fuel onto the back of a truck, better late then never I suppose.

"Hey!" I called out, getting the attention of one of them, and by extension the rest.

"I need some of that fuel," I spoke up as I neared them. "I got a truck that's half empty."

They looked at each other before replying. "Why now? Shouldn't you have it done earlier? We just got done loading everything up."

"I know," I raised my hands in resignation. "Look, I just need a few cans and I'll be on my way. Sorry for the trouble."

Despite much grumbling, they obliged, but not before one of them asked who sent me. A look that sort of seemed like understanding dawned on his face when I mentioned Duck. I hadn't the time to contemplate the matter before I was off to the wind back to the truck.

Whoever said that physical labour and exercise would result performances differences in a matter of weeks must've ate horseshit for dinner. I could barely stand as is at the end of each day and god did my knees hurt so bad after. The completely unrequested wake up calls courtesy of my three douchebag seniors never helped either.

GRRRRR

Oh, great. Hunger. No wonder I'm getting crass.

Needless to say, I wasn't sunshine and rainbows when I got back. I didn't even greet the others as I got to work refuelling. Goof had joined our pack once more and seemed to be discussing something with Mike. I almost didn't notice his approach as I finished emptying the last can.

"Good job, kid," was what he said the moment he entered earshot.

I grunted in confirmation. My mind focused on the task of loading the empty cans on the back of the truck. Imagine my surprise when I suddenly had a bottle shoved in my face. The top just barely millimetres from my nose.

"What this?" I turned to look at the arm holding it. Mike sat on one of the boxes I'd loaded on the truck.

"Cognac," my senior replied.

Politely, I pushed the bottle back to him, shaking my head to enforce my stance. With effort, I pushed myself up onto the smooth floor of the truck before raising the tailgate and locking it with Goof's help.

We were in the nick of time too. The moment we started the vehicle, I could hear at least half a dozen startups in near synch with ours. That was about the time I realised the tent that had been used to shelter Fatty had already been packed up, and that the only things worth noting that there was an encampment here were all the odd wooden constructs and broken materials that the logistics corps couldn't or wouldn't carry with them. Oh, and, of course, the well-used trail that had once been the streets for the camp.

The gradual quake as the vehicle left its resting place for the first time in many weeks was negligible. The artificial sun in my face courtesy of the headlights of the truck behind us wasn't, and I promptly rectified that by closing the curtains. Darkness surrounded the interior of the enclosed space of the truck, until Mike opted to light a cigarette, revealing the old man's face for the briefest moments.

A long drag, then exhale. The smell of nicotine in the air reached me and I had to consciously twitch my nose in reaction to the foul odour. Crazy to think, that no matter where or when I was, that damn scent was not something I welcomed.

"So how's it going?"

The question was like a breeze through the air between us. I turned to Mike, eyes blinking in part wonder and also appraisal as I tried to register what the other man just said.

"How's what?" I asked back.

"Your war, kid," he clarified. "How's it been treating you?"

My…. War? What did that mean?

"What makes you think I'm a glory hog?"

Mike shrugged, and I could've sworn I'd saw a smile on his face. He leaned forward and it was then the silhouette of his upper face became more visible thanks to the lit cigarette. I found it enthralling.

"You know, there's something about you I can't really place my finger on. From that moment you clambered in 'ere with us, you just seemed to spend more time going with the flow than anything else; you don't seem to have spark. That right?"

"… It's not something to be proud off," I said. Lips sucked in.

"Then how is it you got picked for this assignment?"

"…. I don't know either," I trailed off.

Call me stupid, but there was a dilemma I avoided ever since appearing in Europa. Yes, I didn't question how or why I'm here. No, I don't care. This whole thing still feels like a fever dream, or maybe more like those strange things people experience when comatose.

War is not something to be looked forward too. It's more akin to something you'd crush like a damn roach hoping it never rears its ugly head again. However, I'll refrain from making a hypocrite of myself and fully admit that I'm involved.

I was so caught up in my thoughts that I didn't notice until the last moment that there was as searing heat on my cheek. Instinctively, I lashed out with my foot, catching the perp square in the chest.

WAIT CHEST

"Shit! I'm sorry sir! Oh shit! Are you hurt?"

A bark of laughter echoed within the confined space. It actually managed to drown out the engines which was impressive.

"Hot damn, son!" the man spoke in-between guffaws. "You got there a mean kick you that?"

I groaned. Face sinking into the palm of my hands, but not fully committing to the action as I still felt the sting from the earlier burn.

"You awake yet son?" I turned to look up. The joke was over it seemed, and we were back where we started.

"Yeah," I nodded, not sure if he could see me. "And to answer once more, I'm just as clueless as you how I got here. One minute I'm on a grocery run, the next I'm doing barrel rolls underneath a truck."

Mike gave me a look. Perhaps it was unwise for me to spill the circumstances of my own death. Afterall, as far as I'm aware, nobody talked about their mortal ends. Almost seemed taboo.

I caught another shrug through the dimly lit space between us. Another cig was lit soon after.

"Guess that's one way to go. Better than breaking your back in some backwater like I did."

"…. For real?"

"I worked on mining before and after the wars," Mike leisurely settled back into his side of the truck. "Pops put a lot of faith that his grandaddy's hole could make us rich. Needless to say, that didn't work out well for any of us."

Oh yeah, I keep having to remind myself just how old Mike was. Dude looked to be in his fifties at best. At least that'd partly explained why he wore an older getup then the rest of us. The conversation we were having felt that more surreal as a result.

"So, what's the future like?" he asked.

"Excuse?"

"The future. Like I said, you've got to be the most peculiar of us. A fresh face too around here."

I though about it for a moment, then replied.

"Well," I sucked my lips. "There ain't flying cars I can tell you that much. Not a lot of room for making it big. At least in my experience."

"That sounds a lot less like a worldly problem, and a more selfish one."

"Frankly, I fail to see a difference."

Maybe if I'd been someone else, I'd go on an elaborate speech about all the greatness of living in the twenty-first century. Sadly, I wasn't that sort of happy go lucky individual. Who could anyways? Not with that damn flu or whatever spreading like wildfire from the east at the time.

"So the same as always, yeah?"

"…. Eh."

The silence that ensued wasn't unwelcome, but the tone of the whole conversation had been all over the place by now, and it was accompanied by the continuous wave-like motion of the truck as it passed by who knows what terrain.

GRRRR.

Ah, shit.

"Looks like someone missed dinner, eh?" Mike remarked with a chuckle.

"Yeah, look who I got to thank for thank," I grumbled. God, I could already start to feel the pain building up.

I hate myself.

The sound of boots scraping metal was the only indicator I had that my companion had stood up and was wandering around in the dark. A sudden bump in the road made everything jump, including us, and I heard an audible 'woah' from the older man who bit back a curse. Then, everything went quiet, until otherwise.

THUMP.

Ow!

Shoving whatever had hit me aside, I all but glared into the dark.

"What's your problem now?!" I snapped.

"Relax, take a nice look," he pointed with yet another lit cigarette in his hands. What number does that make now I wonder?

Taking the older man's hint, I checked whatever the heck he'd just thrown at me. With the only the crack of light slipping from the canvas to illuminate the object, there was a momentary delay to actually confirm what I was seeing. When I did, I was filled with renewed vigour.

My pack! Holy, I didn't know until now how I'd actually miss the damn thing. I stopped lugging it around after the first night in the camp. Wait, if it was here, then.

"You should be more careful with your stuff next time," Mike interjected at that moment. "Also, try to keep it more neat and tidy next time."

I tried rather weakly to hide my snort, but I was too damn hungry anyways. Already, I was rifling through the pockets and pouches for every single scrap of food the pack had. Mind you, this wasn't a good idea considering these were meant to be rations for when food was either scarce or not widely available, but again, this wasn't registering to me at the time.

Many biscuits later and some water later, I leaned back feeling rather pleased with myself. Sure, this wouldn't last, but it'd be enough to get me through the night at least.

I turned to look at my benefactor. He apparently had dozed off at some point. A blanket draped over him, which was odd to me considering I was pretty sure that I myself felt like it was close to cooking temperature in here.

With nothing better to do, I opted to get some sleep myself. If the current course continued, then me and Mike would most probably be expected at some point to takeover Duck and Goof in the cab. From there, we'd probably continue on until whenever it was time to change drivers. Hence, after finding the right position to curl myself up, I closed my eyes and dozed off, but not before a single dirty thought wormed its way in my mind.

Did I ask just where we were going?

Feren was, in my opinion, the most picturesque representation of modern warfare. It was sudden, brutal and most of all, completely reliant on honed instinct.

A/N: Hoy cat! Man, it takes me a long time to push out chapters.

Now, onto the more pressing point.

SEMSAS! Thank you! You don't how much joy you bring with your review. It's reviews like yours that help bring the best out of stories. Not that I don't appreciate all you folks and your kind words.

Now, to address your concerns. Yes, I realise the need to use more composite words in my storytelling, but I'll say this, that a lot of my earlier writing experience had me dishing out shorter chapters than I was comfortable with, so I set myself up with the 10k word limit to ensure that I write proper chunks. Coming from experience, people go through a few hundred in mere minutes depending how dense a story is.

In regards to 'show, don't tell', I' mildly not in favour of this because I've read supposed good fanfics that drop you in the middle of a setting with no context and make things really awkward (off-putting for me even) and so the term I run in my head is 'traditional' writing where the details are laid out so both reader and character are on the same page. I will agree with your point in some places, however, and will endeavour to improve in due time. What's written will remain for future reference….. and also for older me to cringe and improve.

In any case, here's chapter 6. We'll have one more chapter before a fight. I consider chapters with lull in the fight to be as integral as the fight-y bits themselves, and it gives me opportunity to practice and improve on many aspects of writing I certainly suck at.

On that topic, I apologise sincerely if this chapter isn't up to par for you all when compared to previous ones. I plead to bear with me on my journey as a writer.

See you all next chap! Hopefully, three months…. Pffftttt.