“For seventeen years, I have been cursed with this godforsaken rank.” The major clenched his fist over the crown of his rank plate. “Trapped in a limbo, I could not rise nor sink.” Letting go, he brought his hands behind his back.
He held up a finger and pointed it at the ground, the earth sandy and cracked by a drought that had washed by recently. Beside him, there stood an officer standardly uniformed, proud to be his comrade and an example of devotion.
Perhaps that was why Ascot differed from his usual script, “It is why I took up this position after I had been promoted.” Softening, he let out with a forced sigh. “This will forever be but a resemblance of my limitations.”
Lieutenant instructors were lined behind him, watching the cadets that need not anymore be hawked. Attentive, their eyes held ahead with their heads high. One hundred remained, just barely a century strong. Some two hundred who had joined beside them had long retired and fled. But there was not a sign of cowardice when they did so without a single cadet ever blaming them for returning to their old lives. Standing there were only those who were committed, believing that they could bear even greater troubles that what had befallen them in training, including the major’s prattling complaints about his past mistakes and his own demise. For two years, they had heard enough, but in that moment, the graduates let him be one final time. After all, it would have been disheartening for the commander, they knew, for his thoughts to be forever kept locked shut. On that parade square, on that day, in the heat, their heads had been seared and bodies boiled in their own sweat, they listened to whatever the instructor had wanted to say earnestly. Perhaps there was something to gain from it. A last lesson. Perhaps they would pity him. Alas, it was nothing as complicated as that. It was but out of simple respect.
“I have shown you all I know on war.” The chief of the band paced across his imaginary podium.
Under the clearing skies that became a pale blue, whenever the commander bore scowl upon his cadets, they would feel a pressure of a hundred hands pressing against their chests. Braced up in readiness, the troops had nothing much else to say. When Ascot stopped and turned a quarter’s way, his shaking hand was hidden.
He directed his assurance with a stiff nod, “But you will exceed that limit.”
One stayed on his post, and stepped forward another. The dust from the parade grounds clouded and danced. But his man did not quite belong. He did not bear any resemblance to any of the instructors that the cadets had known during their years in training. A soldier who decided what best fitted his stature, his uniform was much newer, ironed out and dusted. His beret was as equally old and worn, identical to Ascot’s whose rank he shared too, however, there was a dissimilar air about him. Respectful to his work and humble to those around, he held himself in a better posture and in a healthier shape than his comrade, worked by war and continuous action. The guest major’s face was roughened by fire and ash, the smokes of the battlefield, but the problems that he could solve, such as his hair, mustache and beard strapped to his chin, were cleaned and combed. With eyes of a similar magnitude as his compatriot, what he experienced was clearly different. The horrors of war had sacked his pupils’ colors and their lights had been lost.
“My comrade, and former student, Major George Codrington.” Ascot introduced him, proudly for once. “He has taken up the royal calling as your commander on the continent.” Announcing their first orders as soldiers, he made sure that he was doubly clear.
Allowing his tutor to speak and to address what needed to be, the other major concentrated on his words as a good disciple would.
“Heed his every command.” Ascot ruled with emphasis. “Even if his order goes against the will of the world, you are to do it without hesitation.” Articulating every word, he hoped that it would be drilled into every head that was present. “But remember this,” He added before a conclusion, point to the sky for the heavens to witness.
His cadets steeled themselves, unbroken and disciplined, they showed not a hand that twitched even at ease.
Ascot made this his final lesson, “There will always be a reason for why a command is given however damned it may seem.” The signal to the end of his speech was given and their new commander paced closer to his century.
In silence, a hundred pairs of eyes turned, immediately judging the composition of his aura. But it was easy to determine his kind. Regular, there was nothing about him that was particularly uncommon. A normal veteran. A normal being. It was hard to believe that they would be led by such forcelessness.
This forcelessness, however, did not assume the mantle of their expectations and began his speech not to rouse his troops. “To ensure that this century functions without stutter, four cadets have been elected to keep you lot in line.” Codrington addressed what was tradition for every commemoration of graduation. “These lancers will serve as my eyes and limbs on the field.” Scanning along the formation, left to right, he tried to determine who those four were.
But not knowing any of their names or faces, the major stuck his hand in a side pocket and revealed a piece of paper. A list of names was unfolded. It was short and brief in mentioning, with points of reasons stated and comparisons made in annotations. With few formalities, the document was signed by the instructors of the band and their head at the bottommost of the page where its stroke of ink was most inconsistent. His arms held straight and set the page out far, yellowed by the radiant light that was cast over the forest behind.
With a directing voice, Codrington summoned the first named soldier for immediate promotion, “Colt Chō.”
Bleeding a smirk, hearing his name was enough to fuel his condescent, whose feet were ready to dash to the helm and arms itching to command.
“Julien Carlstadt.” A second name was read from the top.
To everyone else and his own surprise, he braced up in relative unease and disbelief. Julien had not trusted himself to have earned any achievements, less than such an honor, but it was clear to those who marked his actions through assessment that this was deserved.
“Lev Hayek.” The next followed shortly.
The thought that another would take his spot was half true and he did not think that his own potential could far exceed the majority. It took a keen eye to peer past his mantle faking foolishness but a smile that broke his straight face was telling that he always knew.
Last on the note, though not least according to the document, their little general of the band was mentioned, “Arminius Reichner.”
Expressionless. Unmoveable. Latched to the ground without a sign of a want to celebrate despite his throbbing heart, the new lancer braced as his equals did. From their attention, they broke out of formation and marched down the ranks, digging their heels into the gravel to louden their presence. Although apart, their steps sounded together, exiting their lines, they pivoted around to the majors and came about the spotlight that they have never dreamt of sharing with officers so soon. The ninety-six soldiers could only look on with jealousy as they positioned themselves, divided equally among each flank. Clicking their heels into halt, they turned front to face their peers and stamped into positions again. Their arms were pinned beside as they heard an instructor among the lieutenants break form and march toward his seniors. With cloth rank slides in his hands, Adam came within the major’s reach before Ascot took the first pair of chevrons and granted it to a graduate promoted. Unbuttoning the slide of a soldier that he had maintained for hardly half a morning, a gold embroidered chevron replaced its blankness. Needing to fit the sets of new ranks seven more times on each shoulder, his paralyzed hand helped not but slow the ceremony as he struggled to detach and attach the plates. The century was patient as Codrington helplessly watch the minutes roll by. Finally, without a word of congratulations, Ascot stepped back, having completed a task difficult to literally grasp, for the lancers to bathe in their award for all their comrades to admire and envy.
“Never think them to be above you.” Ascot continued after a long peace. “They are soldiers just as you are.” No words of his’ could dismiss their greatness however.
They had to endure with forbearance, for then with dreams of their own promotions to come in due time. None moved and none uttered a sound of discontent. Many were realistic enough to have expected and accepted who would have succeeded over them even with envy. The major took a good look at each lancer as Adam withdrew to be with his fellow lieutenants. Codrington tipped his head and allowed the camp’s commander to say his final words. But rummaging through his honeycomb of scripts, Ascot realized that of the things that he could say to complete their two years together, it would only come across as a sour cliché.
He nodded to himself and took a pace ahead, taking the front of the stage again with his head raised high before exclaiming in a shockingly moralizing tone, “Century, then, I bid you well!” Saluting, his voice almost broke into a vibrato. “May I expect to see your faces on the papers every morn I wake.” Ascot chose this to be his last sentence to set their sails and to close his curtains.
At attention, the troops tightly braced themselves, facing off to the canopy over the major’s beret. But their eyes stayed upon their old and new commanders, with some directing their regard to the lancers. As one, they clasped their heels together and the sheathes of their sabers swung, rattling their belts. Together, with the lieutenants, as proper soldiers, their White Bands were torn from their sleeves and were disbanded. They had become materials for war. Bringing up a salute that was crossed on their chests, the soldiers held their arms in place for however long necessary as means of thanks. A determined cry belonging to warriors joined the clamor for war across the nation. The heat that drew their sweat became a lesser worry as their spirits sparked alight, untarnished by the forsaken wild yet.
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Vestige VII58Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsVcX1wrhrI
Extract from The Memoirs of Julien Carlstadt, Ch. I
On the twenty-third day of Junno, the sixth month of the year four hundred and ninety-one
I cannot find myself to sleep. Even now, trying to bore my eyes with these candle embers and the cool air, I do not feel anything but excitement in my heart. Still, after these two years, nothing has changed. I do not feel any sense of security in my actions and decisions. Was this truly the right choice?
I envy everyone here. How are they ever able to rest so peacefully even knowing that tomorrow will decide the fate of our lives for however long we must fight for. That is only assuming that we survive our first battle. Even on exercise here, under safety I am sure of, I fear for everything. Making the slightest mistake would send me into cold sweat. If my bolt jammed, I would be petrified. What good would my grades do in the classroom when war for soldiers like us does best when we do not think at all? Perhaps, I must rephrase myself. It is not the excitement that has taken hold of me but a nightmare that keeps me awake. Yet, with a nightmare, I am finally at home with this feeling.
Living in fear, everyday, not knowing what is to happen on the next morning. I know what it is like to be kept on my toes and to sleep lightly with a rifle near my chest. Listening for the snap of my pencil that I would place between my door’s hinges. But I remember. No one came in the end. I was never disturbed. Only I disturbed myself. Maybe I am overthinking it. Treat this as a duty. Nothing more.
— Julien Carlstadt
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