Post by Isaac B. Barker on Jan 27, 2010 21:53:05 GMT
The Scottish highlands were a rugged, bleak, and challenging terrain. The low craggy mountains were filled with small gaps as large boulders, and the small farming villages nested in between peaks were few and far between. On one side of the water-adjacent mountains were fertile, if not scraggly, grasslands, while the other side was hard limestone that fell directly down to the raging sea. If a man were to slip off the coastal side, he would be dead before he hit the surf. Small mountain goats and other creatures darted around the peaks, with large birds of prey that would circle travelers as they walked through the valleys and up the mountains, hoping that one would stumble and they could have a tasty meal.
This harshness of this area was exactly why the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland had chosen it as the “final exam” for soldiers nearly ready to be sent into the war. The Commonwealth army let the commanding officers of each expedition decide what hardships the platoon was to endure when in the Highlands and a certain 2nd Lieutenant Barker’s training regime was said to be one of the most rigorous. The officer knew this from the muffled curses that were heard from behind him, and the jeers shouted at him from behind. “Are you trying to bloody kill us, Lieutenant?” a cocky Welsh recruit had asked him before. “No, the Germans are trying to kill you, private. I’m here to prevent their goal from succeeding.” Isaac had replied, walking backwards for a moment to let the private see a rather wry smile placed upon the rounded face of his officer.
They were currently marching up a rather steep incline that was dotted with boulders and small trees. The sun was sinking quickly, and the spring’s cold wind was seeping in fast. Some soldiers had unrolled their greatcoats and put them on, and almost the whole platoon had gloves on. Isaac only let himself give in to a pair of brown leather earmuffs under the edge of his officer’s cap, a matching pair of gloves, and a pure white scarf to cover his neck and mouth. The tail of the scarf was batted around in the wind, and the hem of Barker’s tunic was tugged viciously this way and that. The men, who had resorted to singing a loud, off key rendition of “There’ll Always Be an England” by Vera Lynn, were starting to complain about the march. “We’ll stop to set up camp soon.” Isaac announced loudly, followed by a few cheers from the men.
About a half an hour later Barker found a suitable outcropping with suitable soil for trench making. “Siddown, and take an hour or so off. If you’re hungry, this would be the time to eat. And I’ve brought a ‘ittle something to warm your bellies.” Isaac announced as the men sat down, groaning in pain as they removed the weight of their bodies from their legs for the first time in hours. Isaac removed a small bottle of whisky from his pack, opened it with a pop, and told the soldiers to pass it around. It came back empty. Barker threw it off the steep incline behind him, where it smashed in the ravine below. Isaac also put on his fur-lined greatcoat, a bit more luxurious than the bare wool ones enlisted men wore.
After about an hour of consuming cold canned meat and hard biscuits the soldiers took out their E-Tools and started to sculpt the rocky ground into the shape of a large trench. Isaac looked on, marching up and down the rows and critiquing their digging. When they were off to a good start Barker went over to the platoon’s medic. “McCarthy, is it? One of the boys says he sprained his ankle, and it looks a bit puffy. Mind taking a look at it?”
This harshness of this area was exactly why the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland had chosen it as the “final exam” for soldiers nearly ready to be sent into the war. The Commonwealth army let the commanding officers of each expedition decide what hardships the platoon was to endure when in the Highlands and a certain 2nd Lieutenant Barker’s training regime was said to be one of the most rigorous. The officer knew this from the muffled curses that were heard from behind him, and the jeers shouted at him from behind. “Are you trying to bloody kill us, Lieutenant?” a cocky Welsh recruit had asked him before. “No, the Germans are trying to kill you, private. I’m here to prevent their goal from succeeding.” Isaac had replied, walking backwards for a moment to let the private see a rather wry smile placed upon the rounded face of his officer.
They were currently marching up a rather steep incline that was dotted with boulders and small trees. The sun was sinking quickly, and the spring’s cold wind was seeping in fast. Some soldiers had unrolled their greatcoats and put them on, and almost the whole platoon had gloves on. Isaac only let himself give in to a pair of brown leather earmuffs under the edge of his officer’s cap, a matching pair of gloves, and a pure white scarf to cover his neck and mouth. The tail of the scarf was batted around in the wind, and the hem of Barker’s tunic was tugged viciously this way and that. The men, who had resorted to singing a loud, off key rendition of “There’ll Always Be an England” by Vera Lynn, were starting to complain about the march. “We’ll stop to set up camp soon.” Isaac announced loudly, followed by a few cheers from the men.
About a half an hour later Barker found a suitable outcropping with suitable soil for trench making. “Siddown, and take an hour or so off. If you’re hungry, this would be the time to eat. And I’ve brought a ‘ittle something to warm your bellies.” Isaac announced as the men sat down, groaning in pain as they removed the weight of their bodies from their legs for the first time in hours. Isaac removed a small bottle of whisky from his pack, opened it with a pop, and told the soldiers to pass it around. It came back empty. Barker threw it off the steep incline behind him, where it smashed in the ravine below. Isaac also put on his fur-lined greatcoat, a bit more luxurious than the bare wool ones enlisted men wore.
After about an hour of consuming cold canned meat and hard biscuits the soldiers took out their E-Tools and started to sculpt the rocky ground into the shape of a large trench. Isaac looked on, marching up and down the rows and critiquing their digging. When they were off to a good start Barker went over to the platoon’s medic. “McCarthy, is it? One of the boys says he sprained his ankle, and it looks a bit puffy. Mind taking a look at it?”
