OneirosTheWriter: Thanks for the review. The canon characters are not actually born yet, as we are attempting to fit this story into the canon as much as possible. Thus, feel free to point out any mistakes you note with our research.

DC20: Once again, the characters are not born yet, but that does not mean that there will be no references to them. ;) As for the accents, we'll continue with them for the time being, but if they become too much to handle, please let us know. Thanks again for your review.

Fort Merit - March 4, 1836

Staff Sergeant Edel Wagner inspected the lines of freshly-arrived recruits, fifty in all. The boys had been rushed to Fort Merit, barely a week after the official conscription notices had been issued. They were to be trained by the hastily-promoted commissioned and noncommissioned officers that formed the core of the newly-minted Gallian Army. As they roasted in the dry summer heat, Wagner grimly noted the lack of proper uniforms for the new unit. The thin, almost slight Staff Sergeant wore a rather Spartan uniform himself, a threadbare brown tunic common to all the Gallian officers who had once served in His Majesty the Emperor's service.

"Welcome to the Gallian Army, gentlemen," Wagner said in his light, almost boyish voice. "I am Staff Sergeant Edel Wagner."

Pronouncing Wagner with the slightest tinge of an Imperial accent, the Sergeant respectfully gestured to the men standing beside him. "And these men are Lieutenant Giuseppe Landzaat, and Sergeants Charles Wolffe and James Tillock. We will be the ones responsible for training you into proper soldiers here at Fort Merit."

Wagner glanced at the gathered recruits, his grey eyes holding something closer to personal rather than professional concern. "If you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask. But rest assured that making yourself a nuisance will only hurt you. Upon the conclusion of this training, we will also be leading you into battle."

There was a moment's pause. No hands were raised. Wagner sighed and nodded to the lieutenant. "Very well men, you may be dismissed for today. Your training begins tomorrow at oh-six hundred hours. Your Sergeants will be the ones personally responsible for your training. However, please come and see me if you have any concerns," Lieutenant Landzaat remarked as he swung up onto his mount.

The men dispersed slowly to their barracks, leaving Wagner with Charles Wolffe. As Edel started to walk from the parade ground, the lanky Sergeant caught up to him and clapped a thin hand onto his shoulder. "Hey, Edel! I haven't seen you since the Bruhl campaign! How've you been?"

"Well enough thank you."

"Ah, what's with the formal speech again? They teach you to talk like that in doctor's school?"

"Medical school, Wolffe," corrected Edel. "Professionals must be understood. Do you happen to know what a 'professional' is?"

"A stuffed shirt," Wolffe bantered cheerfully.

Edel half-smiled before simply grunting. For as long as he had known him, the other Sergeant seemed physically incapable of taking anything seriously. He was definitely not cut out for quartermaster duty or any job that would require keeping records or writing reports, as the written contents would soon fall victim to one of his infamous pranks. One elaborate lark in particular, which had involved a clutch of dead snakes and a can of ragnite, had forever doomed him to remain as a noncommissioned officer. Despite this, Wolffe was a damned fine sharpshooter, his Sergeant's chevrons a holdover from his Imperial service rather than a hastily-granted promotion as it had been for many others.

"Well," Edel said finally, "We should head back to barracks. I am confident that teaching those recruits to shoot properly will test even your level of patience."

Wolffe recoiled in mock horror. "What? Go back without even seeing a single woman? Are you insane?"

"Preferable to the clap. Good night, Sergeant," Edel shot back, executing a neat about-face and leaving behind a bemused squadmate.

"One of these days, that guy's going to have to learn to relax..."

The next morning, Edel woke a full hour before reveille, as was his habit, and started across the chilly parade ground towards headquarters. As he entered, he was mildly surprised to find someone already there, a plain looking man clad in Imperial brown. The scent of fresh coffee wafting from the mug he held in one hand was all but choked out by the sharp, pungent odor of ragnite powder. Edel noted the large, musket-like weapon slung over one shoulder as the man idly drummed his fingers on a table, as well as the two chevrons messily stitched onto the man's brown jacket sleeves.

"Corporal, are you familiar with the rules regarding weapons in the fort?"

The man turned slowly, taking his measure. "No, Sergeant, I was just posted here. John Cheslock, formerly of the XXVI Grenadier Corps, now 147th Infantry. The rest of my Corps was spread out to plain old ground-pounder units too."

"Hmm. Which company?"

"Company F"

"That means you're in my company. Come along. Where was the XXVI assigned?" Edel grabbed a cup of coffee for himself and waved the man from the tent.

"We were at Ghirlandaio after the desertion. Hell of a tough nut to crack. Most of us got hit just sitting in a damned trench. The rain soaked our powder and disabled most of our heavy guns."

"At least you're a veteran. Most of the puppies here need help just to lace up their boots. I was with the XIX at Bruhl. We had to clean out the Imperials house to house. Nasty place."

"Mein Gott... Heard the casualty rates there were… staggering."

"Yes..." Edel drifted off. "Oh, speaking of which." The staff sergeant extended a hand. "I'm Edel Wagner. Pleased to meet you. Ah, and this is Charles Wolffe," he added as the other Sergeant ducked out of a nearby latrine.

"Hi, Edel. Where'd you pick up the grenadier?" Wolffe asked, eyes flicking to the awkward-looking grenade launcher slung across Cheslock's back.

"John Cheslock, XXVI Grenadiers." Cheslock said, extending a hand. "Hmm. You're a sharpshooter, aren't you?"

Wolffe's nearly black eyes widened in sudden curiosity. "How'd you tell?"

"Well, you cut off the fingers on the glove of your strong hand. I'm guessing for a more precise trigger squeeze, and you don't look like you carry enough ammunition to be line infantry." Grinning at the incredulous expressions his reply garnered, the corporal explained. "Guns are a big hobby."

The three noncommissioned officers looked up as drummers began to beat the time to call the men into line. "Very well. Having an ordnance specialist ought to make our job simpler. You'll be teaching the recruits along with us starting from today, Corporal," Edel said, making a quick executive decision.

"Right. I'll probably blast the bugger that rubs me the wrong way, though." Cheslock grinned at the two Sergeant's nonplussed expressions, adding, "Though it would depend heavily on the person in question being worth the effort or not."

The parade ground rang with the laughs of two men, as another strode behind shaking his head.

Author Note: Thanks to Markal and Chiemiangel for the beta-reading