A Fish out of Water [7AD Members]

[♠ Pvt. Tristan Green]

OOC: Anyone can step in as long as they're a Desert Rat.

Location: Just outside 7AD Barracks, Northern England
Time: 2300

Pvt. Tristan Green stumbled over the cobbled streets of Chester city, trying rather commendably not to throw up. To the young man, who had never before even ventured from his village in Cornwall, the Northern city was incredibly...big. A nasal symphony of smells seemed to smack him in the face as he hobbled forwards, huge buildings loomed menacingly ahead, the comforting sound of a drunk vomiting in a puddle echoed around the small town square.

Tristan was scared. And, more to the point, he was lost.

He had arrived at the large military base on the outskirts of Chester three days earlier and from there, his military education had begun. He knew how to polish his boots, knew how to position his cap, knew how to reply to drill sergeants and to officers and was also vaguely aware of how to hold a gun. This, he was fairly sure, would be a rather important skill to be had on the battlefield. Many of his companions had expressed their dissatisfaction that they hadn't had the opportunity to shoot anyone yet. Shooting someone in the face, the officers had said, was something every man should try out. Tristan was perfectly happy to wander about around the barracks and the nearby city; he had managed to make a smattering of fresh-faced friends and rather enjoyed the attention he got, resplendent in military uniform.

But now, as a layer of darkness settled over the city, and a sludge of alcahol, vomit and some poor sod’s blood sank into the private’s uniform, Tristan was faintly aware that he wasn’t particularly enjoying himself.

Tristan could barely remember what had happened that night. He had been cajoled into going out to the city with a group of loutish cockney recruits, had headed off to one of those pubs that stank invariably of feet and bodily fluids, had drank a pint of something that may as well have been bleach and then---nothing. He had woken up two hours later, feeling as if some particularly aggressive Northerner had smacked him in the face with a poleaxe and staggered off, wiping horribly non-specific liquids from his tunic.

He had no idea where he was going which, in the long run, didn’t seem to be a particularly big priority. By this time, fear and dread had sunken in and Tristan was almost certain that some drunk was going to stab him in the face, or otherwise vomit in his general direction. He was a soldier, he reminded himself drearily. He wasn’t going to die in an alley somewhere. He was going to die a hero, fighting for a King he had never met, a country he vaguely resented and a God he had never believed in.

Suddenly, the roads became much narrower and the great houses fewer. Tristan had managed to wander out of the urban centre and was now nearing the rural outskirts. This could only be a good thing. Through the thumping head-ache, Tristan knew that the barracks must be nearby. He staggered onwards, almost blind in the darkness, stumbling into every tree, hedgegeow and innocent bystander unlucky enought to get in his way. But, eventually, the silhouette of the 7AD barracks strecthed up in front of him. Tristan felt like sinking to his knees with relief.

The base was a grand affair, built in the last great conflict, a huge wall, threaded with barbed wire, encircling a campus of sleeping quarters, officer’s mess, training fields, cells, hangars, garages, medical areas and several important-looking buildings the officers forbade the men from entering. Although it looked more like a horrific Prisoner of War camp than a military barracks, Tristan couldn’t have been more pleased to find the old place. The city had been overwhelming for the young country boy and now he had reached the closest thing he had to a home.

He hurried forwards and suddenly swore loudly. There was no one at the gate; the guards had undoubtedly wandered off for a pint. There was no way of getting in. Tristan knocked nervously on the door, realising as he did so that his hands were covered in violent red scratches and lacerations. What the hell happened that night?

Still no one answered the door. Tristan sniffled. “Hello?” he called miserably. “Is anyone there?”

[♔ Liam J. Brentwood]

OOC: Hope you don’t mind me entering?


Slouching back into the fine brown leather chair that almost smelt brand new still, Captain Brentwood furrowed a tired long stare at the pile of inbox documents stacked a foot high within the small tray upon the right hand side of his desk. Half of the folders seemed to be mere casual reports, outdated due to a sudden backlog that now landed upon his desk. Perhaps the British command for organisation was slowly starting to feel the strain? Due to Jerry’s apparent more and more successful strafing midnight runs over mother England herself. Captain Brentwood had heard of a few transport routes being completely obliterated, but ironically, they were misplaced German bombs. Asides the general nightly bombing on mere civilians, night after night. England, Britain herself was slowly turning into disarray.

Reaching over for his fountain pen, Captain Brentwood licked the tip to moisten the drying ink and ruggedly sprawled a handful of semi-filled folders across his tabletop. Squinting in the dim light, he adjusted the table lamp ever so slightly and opened the first folder, slouching forwards to lean against the wooden edge of the desk to read intensively into the detailed document before himself; a few minutes passed, perhaps less, before a rattling on his office door sharpened his senses and almost made him bloody jump! Caught off guard, Captain Brentwood hesitantly sat straight and closed the folder on the documents before himself. “It’s open” he said stiffly, the significant trait of tiredness in his voice showing as the tone to this voice faded quickly.

The door opened almost immediately and two military police stepped in abruptly; fear engulfed the Captain’s stomach as his eyes widened and his hand itched towards his drawer aside his leg, slowly and subtly attempting to open it with the tips of his fingers, knowing his Browning High-Powered Pistol laid within. The Captain thought he had been rattled for his vigilant crimes against the Nazis, but he certainly wasn’t one to go down without a fight. “Captain!” the formidable man out of the two spoke, both men saluting however. “Sorry to disturb you at this hour sir, but you’re the ranking officer on duty at this time…”[/I] the military policeman said sternly, verifying his actions for the inappropriate hour. Captain Brentwood’s muscles softened immediately, having thought he’d been ratted out; “Yes, go on” he insinuated for the military policeman to continue. “Sir - we’ve had a number of reports of insubordination and questionable desertion from the barracks tonight, so much so, I feel it’s my duty to report this personally and immediately”[/I].

With such words spoken, Captain Brentwood was already rising from his seat in mid-flow to the policeman’s words. Opening his desk drawer, he withdrew his sidearm and stepped around the desk quickly, reaching over to turn his desk lamp out simultaneously. “Have you apprehended these soldiers?” he questioned, now standing before both of the men. “We have apprehended four men, another several evaded capture”[/I] he said quickly, before moving aside as Captain Brentwood passed both men so he could grab his coat and hat hanging by the main door. “You--” he pointed to the second man, who stood silently the whole while “I want you to wake up the company sergeants and have them run a full attendance drill on all recruits within their quarters immediately” he ordered, watching as the military policeman saluted and shot off to go awaken the company sergeants to report those who were currently still in the barracks and those who were missing; with a standard attendance check.

Turning to the ranking military policeman who done all the speaking, Captain Brentwood walked passed him and insinuated for him to follow as they quickly walked down the hall, towards the descending staircase into the main lobby. As they left the office block and walked across the gravel between the parked vehicles, he noticed the main gates being unattended by any sentries and immediately bawled in anger towards the military policeman. “Why aren’t the gates manned!?” he yelled in a hoarse tone, causing the military policeman to step back and straighten up to recover his composure. “Sir! Those men were required temporarily to subdue the drunkard soldiers, I believe they’re currently scouting the surrounding area for more misfits - sir!”[/I] he reported without tone to his voice, keeping his eyes straight. “You inconsiderate fool! You left the entire barracks at risk!”, but Captain Brentwood was cut short from his berating of the inconsiderate man, who’d taken the barrack sentries on a wild goose chase, as a faint call from behind the main doors faintly caught his alerted attention.

The military policeman broke his stern stance quickly and slid out his nightstick baton from his belt, having heard the faint calls himself. Approaching the main entrance, Captain Brentwood unclipped his holster for reassurance, nodding towards the doors for the military policeman to open. As the doors slid back, the policeman outstretched with his baton and jabbed the end of the stick into the soldier’s tattered uniform with enough force to send him back a step. “Why are you out of your quarters soldier!?”[/I] he demanded. “Let me see some identification”[/I] he demanded once again, whilst Captain Brentwood approached from the rear to oversee the situation quietly, glancing back as the message had finally reached the regimental sergeants who rallied from their quarters, clattering pans and dustbins to awaken the sleeping recruits; faint orders to assemble in the quart yard soon followed. Had it been the odd couple of men, such measures wouldn’t have been taken, but with a rife of insubordination and possible desertion, along with unsuspecting numbers that could have been the entire company sneaking out of the barracks without orders, measures had to be taken immediately.

[William Reid]

It was rather typical. For the first time in weeks, Lieutenant Reid had managed to complete all of his jobs for a day early enough to warrant a late supper and a bed time before midnight. Yawning, he walked the polished floor towards the private room his rank afforded him at the far end of the Able Company barracks.

Unlocking his door, he blindly reached in around a corner, pulling down a light switch, illuminating the room with the bulb set in to the ceiling. It wasn’t large, housing only a bed, a wardrobe, a small mirror and a chair, but it was privacy, somewhere to confide to himself. Closing the door behind him, he removed his jacket, hanging it from the back of his chair. Sitting down, the Lieutenant began removing his boots, carefully unlacing them to cause minimum creasing of the leather. Putting them under his bed, he stood up, and padded the two steps to the wardrobe in socked feet.

The brass handle was cold as the wooden door was flung open, revealing two pair sets of battle dress, his formal Full Dress and the intermediate Service Dress. At the opposite end, a few sets of civilian clothes hung. On the shelves inside the locker were other items of clothing, underwear and toiletries mainly. He reached on to the bottom shelf, and removed a nightshirt.

Quickly undressing and slipping on the night shirt, Reid smiled as he slid under the cover of his bed, taking care to disturb the hospital corners as little as possible, and reached over his head, turning off the light switch, he closed his eyes.

A loud rapping on the door awoke him. Inadvertently letting out a small groan, he picked himself up in to a sitting position, and turned the light on. ”Who is it?”
”Sergeant Henwood, Military Police, Sir. We have a situation on base Sir; we need all officers outside for a briefing.”
”Very well Sergeant, I’ll be out as soon as possible.”
”Yes, Sir.”

The military policemen moved onwards, presumably to wake up his next victim as Reid wormed his way on to the floor. He quickly dressed in his sharp Battle Dress, judging that it would probably be best for a “situation” on base, and grabbed his peaked cap as he left his room. He could here the various Platoon Sergeants’ outside, calling rolls of the men. If the entire base has been roused this had to be big.

Storming outside, he walked purposely towards his platoon. ”Sergeant Toye, tell me exactly what is happening, and are all of the men present?”
”Sir, I’m not too sure what’s happening, but all men from Fifth Platoon are present.”
”Very well, have the men stand at ease, but keep quiet. I will go and find out what is happening.”

[♠ Pvt. Tristan Green]

Oh, no. Oh. Oh, dear.

It was the Captain. Liam J. Brentwood, the man all the lads claimed wasn't quite right in the head. The man who, they said, was sadistic and savage, with a penchant for brutality. The man who was treated as some kind of bogeyman figure by every NCO or older soldier Tristan had ever met. The man that was walking right towards him.

At his side was a grim-looking man, cloaked in the instantly recognisable uniform of His Majesty's Military Police. Not only did he not look very pleased to see him, he was also brandishing some kind of blunt weapon. This was, all things considered, a bit of a bugger.

The gate swung open and the baton jabbed Tristan in the stomach, sending his scurrying backwards hurriedly. “Why are you out of your quarters soldier!? Let me see some identification”

Identification. That would have been a good idea.

"I'm sorry, sir," he blabbered, his light Cornish accent coming to the fore as it often did when he was panicked, angry or upset. "I...I don't have any, sir, I left all of my stuff back in the dorm. I went out hours ago, sir, reckon I passed out. I only just came 'round." He gestured vaguely at the tattered remains of his once immaculate uniform. "It's all a bit hazy, to be honest, sir. Umm." His handsome face blushed bright red as he suddenly remembered to snap to attention. "Private Tristan Green, sir. Please...please. Could you let me in, please, sir. I don't feel all that---"

He doubled over and, in a surprisingly fluid moment, began to retch all over the gravel road. He just about managed to avoid vomiting over the policeman's boots. That would be, he was almost certain, a criminal offense. Or, at the very least, bad manners.

"Sorry, sir," he mumbled weakly.

He glanced at Captain Brentwood, who stood silently at the military policeman's side. He only looked into that hardened face for a matter of moments but for a split second, he felt as if his heart had stopped. There was something there. Something in his eyes. A hollow, bitter, merciless, fire, dancing in the officer's pupils. Here was a man who was angry at the whole world. And it terrified him.

Tristan swallowed and looked expectantly from the two officers, hoping desperately that the inevitable bollocking would not be too severe...

[♔ Liam J. Brentwood]

The military policeman, staff officer Jenkins, jabbed his wooden splintered baton poignantly against the blabbering private’s ribs once more, as he blabbered and differed about his identification, with excuses as to why he was out of the barracks full stop. “Not even carrying your papers!?” the moustached military policeman repeated with an affirming tone, that even sent a bitter chill down Captain Brentwood’s spine; quite ironically. Before either of the men could probe further, the young private reeled and doubled over, spewing a whole manner of wretched smelling liquor across the gravel pathway with such velocity, that it bounded and splashed, but just happened to miss Jenkins’s boots by a small margin. Even so, staff officer Jenkins stumbled backwards in a haste to avoid the projectile-vomited bile of liquid.

Captain Brentwood merely flared his nostrils at the smell of retribution for being so careless and merely looked towards the military policeman who turned his feet up, groaning beneath his breath as he assessed any damage done to his polished boots and steam ironed trousers intently through the shade of darkness. “You nasty little bugger!” he aggravatingly reeled off from his tongue, turning up his wooden baton with a flick from the wrist, as if ready to pummel the insubordinate soldier for his actions, but surprisingly found himself empty handed between his nimble grasping fingertips. Captain Brentwood had yanked the baton from the military policeman’s grasp and pulled a stern look with his devilish eyes that suggested he should rethink his actions. “Why don’t you go assemble the rest of the military police within the barracks and assemble on the quart yard immediately, with the apprehended” Captain Brentwood ordered strictly, watching as the military policeman glanced between the aggravating private and his superior, his temper steaming beneath the bonnet still. “Yes sir” he simply replied, but Captain Brentwood hadn’t quite finished, as he stuck the splintered baton outwards to reframe the policeman from walking any further. “Don’t you ever raise your hand to my men ever again…” he snarled beneath his breath towards the policeman, who merely stared before storming off to follow his orders reluctantly.

Turning to face the green faced private, Captain Brentwood sighed heavily and looked at the baton between his hands momentarily. “Private, get your arse inside…” he bellowed, almost sounding like a drill sergeant, which was an uncanny quality for an officer to have, but Liam had been trained and bred through the Royal Commandos and they didn’t take prisoners. Moving around to the side of the private, he reached out and grabbed the man by the gruff of his collar and marched him inwards towards the forming parade in the quart yard, with the entire company turning out. Most of the men were dressed, but a few tired souls were still in their vests and shorts from the panicking haste.

Marching the private inwards, he stopped halfway noticing a lieutenant in mid-approach (I’m guessing you did approach the Captain to find out what was happening?) and let go of the sickly private to leave standing by his side. “Stay here” he agitatedly ordered, as he made up the remaining few steps towards the approaching Lieutenant. “Lieutenant” Captain Brentwood acknowledged, before speaking. “Sorry to turn you out at this time lieutenant, but there has been reports of desertion and insubordination within the company” he said swiftly, filling the officer in on the details quickly. By now, the rest of the military police within the barracks began to arrive within the quart yard in slim numbers, with the apprehended in toe, whilst staff officer Jenkins noticeably began to approach the two officers. Without saying a word to the berated military policeman, Captain Brentwood held the baton outwards for the man to take back and turned his attention towards the lieutenant once again. “As I was saying ol’ chap, the company’s in slight disarray. Would you have the men counted from each platoon and the missing soldiers reported immediately” he ordered to the Lieutenant, glancing towards Jenkins with a merciless order of his own for the man. “For Peter-sakes, have that gate manned will you” he said stiffly, not even meeting eye contact with the military policeman who huffed, saluted both men and moved away as soon as he’d just come.

Looking back towards the private he’d left standing idle, he beckoned for the private to move up towards him, he wasn’t quite finished with the soldier yet…

[William Reid]

Purposefully, Reid strode across the parade square, almost marching as he swung his head, looking for somebody who would be able to fill him in. The commotion by the gates caught his attention, the unmistakeable form of Captain Brentwood stood next to a military policeman. Watching as he approached, they were talking forcefully to presumably a soldier, and in the dim light from the empty guardhouse, Reid saw the MP jump backwards as something splashed by where his feet had been.

From behind him, he could hear voices rising, before the Company Sergeant Major called the attention, threatening the next person to talk without his permission with physical training until they puked. Reid nodded to himself, that situation was under control. He carried on towards Brentwood, who was now approaching him whilst a rather sheepish looking MP rallied his men.

”Sir.” It was more of a statement than anything else as Reid stopped in front of the Captain, and began listening, absorbing the situation, following his training by extracting the important information relevant to him, yet still remembering the overall briefing. ”I’ll have the men formed in parade order in front of the main flagpole, Sir.” With a quick salute, he turned, marching away.

”Sar’-Major!” he called, ”front and centre!” The large SNCO doubled over, setting the example, before stopping a few steps in front of the Lieutenant and saluting. Reid returned in a textbook fashion, before speaking in hushed tones.
”I assume you have been briefed?”
”Yes, Sir. Eighty men on parade, including yourself and Captain Brentwood, four in the cells, and five unaccounted for.”
”Plus one with Captain Brentwood, Sergeant Major. Very well, I’ll take the Company briefly, stick with me, I feel that you enjoy the chance to shout.”
”Oh yes, Sir. I assume we’ll form up as per parade?”
”I think that will do quite nicely, Sergeant Major.”

Marching around and in front of the Companies, he stopped centrally, bringing himself to attention. He raised his voice, giving the flicker of a smile. ”Company! Company, shun! On the command ‘move’, the Company will double and form up as if this were the morning flag-raise. Move!”

After the briefest hesitation as hats were removed, the ground soon vibrated with almost eighty pairs of boots clattering as the men ran full skelter around the barracks towards the main parade ground. Reid followed with the Sergeant Major, who was giving shouts of “go on, get there!” ”Sergeant Major, watch them, I’ll report briefly to the Captain,” said Reid.

Following the path he saw Brentwood take, he marched over to try and work out why the Company had done what it had.

[♠ Pvt. Tristan Green]

You nasty little bugger!”

Tristan recoiled from the inevitable blow, throwing his hands up in fear. But the blow never came. He opened his eyes slowly to see the baton plucked from the policeman's grizzled hands. It was Captain Brentwood, a look of unbridled anger plain on his face. For a second, Tristan thought that the Captain was going to do the honours and beat him himself. For a split second, every story, every rumour he had ever heard about Liam Brentwood came alive in his mind, twisting and weaving through his conscioussness. He wanted to go home.

But no. Brentwood had turned against the military policeman. The policeman, the man who Tristan had been so terrified of a second earlier, seemed to wilt under the Captain's gaze. You're not so scary, Tristan thought to himself. You're a bully. Protected by a uniform and paperwork and a bit of wood. But you're scared of the Captain, even if you don't really understand it. But everyone's scared of something...

As the policeman marched off, Brentwood turned once again to fix his gaze on the haggard Cornishman. What are you scared of, Tristan thought. What strips away the weapons and the numbers and the scars and turns you into nothing but a scared little boy? Does...anything?

"Private, get your arse inside…”

Tristan was all too happy to oblige but before he got the chance to so much as move a muscle, the Captain had grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt and hauled him after him. Tristan flinched as the strong hands siezed him. Liam J. Brentwood was obviously a man who liked to have things done by his own hand.

As quickly as he had been plucked up, he felt himself pushed away again, causing him to stumble backwards a few paces. He was vaguely aware that the Captain had told him to "stay there". Tristan, who was dazed, drunk and overwhelmed, wasn't entirely sure whether or not this was good news. It implied that, for the second, he wasn't going to have to withstand the Captain's ire. On the other hand, he had the horrible feeling that Brentwood was "saving him for later". This didn't exactly sit well with the young private.

But, despite himself, Tristan Green was intrigued by the grizzled officer. He seemed...different. Like the kind of person who would quite happily sit in the middle of a thunderstorm to count the raindrops. The kind of person who could kill someone out of boredom. The kind of person who saw things differently to other people, the kind of person who saw other people as things.

He was talking to Lieutenant Reid, an officer with whom Tristan was only somewhat familiar. He had served under Mitchell, Reid's predecessor, who had fallen in battle only a few weeks prior. Tristan hadn't exactly liked Mitchell but he supposed he had respected him. Brentwood...it was difficult not to respect him. But it was a respect bred out of fear, out of ghost stories passed down from the experienced to the green. But of Reid, Tristan knew nothing. Only that he was currenly speaking to Liam J. Brentwood.

This alone made Tristan feel sorry for him.

Suddenly, he realised that Brentwood was beckoning him. His face blanched as he stumbled forwards, trying desperately to avoid eye contact with the Londoner. "Yes, sir?" he asked, trying to sound as bright and as respectful as possible.

[♔ Liam J. Brentwood]

The Captain’s eyes shimmered in the dim moonlight as he flickered them back and forth to his surroundings, as if his senses were on high alert with each and every little sound surrounding himself. Lieutenant Reid swallowed the briefest of orders appointed to him and the noise of the parade, alongside the Sergeant Major and Lieutenant, engulfed the barracks with enough racket that birds tweeted just outside of the perimeter, uncannily recognising the parade noises as sunrise. Whilst a few lights dimly emitted from blackened draped curtains across the way from the noble office block, a small face peering out drearily from behind a lower level window and for the shortest of moments, Captain Brentwood bit his tongue and glared at the familiar face barely visible through the blanket of darkness; only the illumination of light from within the room of the peering face made him visible, enough that Liam mumbled the faintest of words “Huntley you old bastard…”.

Captain Lewis Huntley was Liam Brentwood’s former commander and superior during his service within the Thirty-AU. Lewis Huntley was also the old codger who misrepresented his plans during a simple reconnaissance and raid on a fuel dump that simply went horribly wrong. The blame was soon passed onto Lieutenant Brentwood at the time, whilst Captain Huntley was distinguished with an accommodation for his best efforts and success for showing bravery during the mission. An accommodation that Liam should have received, for saving the rest of his platoon’s scrawny hides due to Lewis Huntley’s miserable mistakes, only to be awarded with the blame that tarnished Liam Brentwood’s name and almost had him decommissioned.

Lost in a bitter turmoil of thought, Liam sucked the distaste dry within his mouth and only really snapped out of thought as he abruptly noticed the approaching footsteps of Private Green approaching from behind. Looking towards the sickly looking private walking towards himself, Liam couldn’t help himself but glance back towards the window where Lewis Huntley was peering out, only to see the curtains had been draped again and Lewis wasn’t looking out of the window any longer. Returning his look back towards the approaching Private, Captain Brentwood didn’t look too pleased in the slightest. Be-known to the Private, it wasn’t entirely his fault.

The parade had by now made it’s way to the main parade-ground and Liam parched his lips with a soft lick before speaking. “Come with me lad” he simply ordered, walking towards the small number of military policeman standing afoot nearby, with the four apprehended drunkards wobbling as they attempted to stand straight. Stains spattered across their uniforms and a smell of alcohol and vomit seemed to drift from all four men like an uncontrollable body odour. The Captain grimaced a horrid look at the vile smell and stood before the four men, guarded by the policeman intently. “Fall in private” Captain Brentwood said sternly towards Private Green, expecting him to align the same rank as the other insubordinates immediately. “Would any of you care to explain yourselves this evening?” the Captain inquired towards the ‘now’ five men before himself, seeming rather calm and collected about the situation, as if he were giving them a chance to answer back politely with a collective manner he showed them.

One of the drunkard soldiers started to giggle however, attempting his damned hardest to hold back and stifle his erupting laughter. Captain Brentwood’s eyes flared as he darted off towards the soldier finding it unbearably funny and stood before the man with a menacing demeanour. “And what’s so funny Private!?” he questioned with an agitated tone, his hand balling into a fist as he began to feel his temper rise, watching as the soldier stammered and stuttered, breaking into a laugh each time he attempted to answer the Captain. “N-N-Nothing Sir!”[/I] he eventually spat out, breaking into a laugh again, obviously still intoxicated from the alcohol. Liam stood silently still, glaring down the soldier before himself, almost wanting to reach out and grab the insubordinate by his jaw, where he could coil his fingers into his mouth and attempt to yank that smug grin completely from off his face - quite literally perhaps? The military policeman guarding the insubordinates hesitantly watched the situation, wondering if they were about to arrest the Captain too if things got out of hand.

Amazingly, Captain Brentwood stepped away and calmed himself, his hand itching towards his holster at the same time, as if he had an inner impulse to draw his firearm for a split moment. His demons eating at him the whole while, it was only then, saved by grace, Lieutenant Reid noticeably was making his way back and Captain Brentwood broke free from the intoxicated stares of the drunkards to make his way towards the Lieutenant slowly, making up some ground once again. He had to step away. He had too…

[William Reid]

Following the concrete path Lieutenant noticed the small of alcohol getting sharper and sharper as he approached Captain Brentwood. Drawing up level with his Commanding Officer, a few step’s the left, he let himself relax slightly as the Captain gave his rhetoric’s.

Slowly, he cast his gaze over each of the five captured men, eye-balling them with a look of disgust, using a technique taught to him to make them quiver. They were all in a sorry state, smelling as if they had been rolling in a barrel of beer, covered in vomit stains. There were a few rips in uniforms, and some buttons undone. One man had apparently undressed, and put his belt back on the wrong way round.

As Captain Brentwood stood down, calming himself, Reid took a moment. ”Look at you, you disgusting lot! You are wearing the King’s uniform, my uniform, and you are wearing it in a way which disgusts me and dishonours His Majesty. Fix it, quickly!”

He turned quickly to the Captain, and repeated the Sergeant Major’s message, ”Sir, Eighty men on parade, including yourself, myself and the Sergeant Major, five in the cells, and five unaccounted for.” Overall, it was rather a shambled. Ten percent of the Company was breaking the law’s of the army, and this would reflect straight away upon Captain Brentwood.

”Sir, if I make a suggestion,” he began cautiously, waiting to be cut off, ”We need to make an example of these men, doing something as horrible as possible in front of the rest of the Company. Scare them all in to obedience. Discipline levels have been on the decline, and this could be exactly what we need to get standards back up.”

[♠ Pvt. Tristan Green]

Tristan found himself lined up alongside the four "troublemakers" feeling increasingly like a misbehaved schoolboy. This was, of course, a rather worse situation to be in. His old schoolmaster, Mr Taylor, had never been entitled to wield an actual gun before his students, no matter how much he may have wanted to. The staunch officers before him didn't have that problem. And while they weren't exactly aiming their weapons at him, they weren't exactly not aiming their weapons at him either. To Tristan's sluggish, drink-addled mind, it was all rather confusing.

The young private supposed he was scared. He had always managed to keep his nose clean, stay under the radar, keep out of trouble. He had never so much as been quietly chided by a junior officer, never mind screamed at by a semi-sociopathic company commander. His friend, Morgan Lloyd, was different. He was the witty one, the handsome one, the strong one, the brave on, the clever one, the charismatic one. The one who got noticed. Tristan didn't want that. In his personal experience, the ones who got noticed generally ended up dead.

He was vaguely aware that something bigger, grander, was going on and that he had merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time. There had obviously been some kind of mass breakdown in discipline; men going missing in search of women, beer or preferrably both.

People hadn't changed for centuries. No matter how advanced technology grew, no matter how many new ways were devised for killing people, basic human nature remained the same. They wanted food, they wanted drink, they wanted shelter and they wanted sex. What they didn't want was to break their backs training all day or to toil endlessly in the mud and the rain or to spend their time sucking up to the officers and NCO's who treated them like dogs and worked them like mules.

And it had been even harder recently. Even Tristan, who had discovered the rather underrated virtue of keeping to yourself and staying the hell out of people's way, had noticed that. There was bound to be a breaking point eventually. Just a shame it had coincided with Tristan's hectic night out.

The bedgraggled Cornishman stood with as much dignity as he could before the two officers, chin up, eyes forwards. Compared to the other four privates, all of whom Tristan vaguely recognised, he must have looked a model soldier. This was nothing to be particularly proud of, of course. The others were so hopelessly inebriated that anyone would have looked good next to them. Covered in sick or no.