Lush was an opening in a forest, and lusher still was the panel of green around. With every tone and shade of one color, the canopy had withdrawn to allow the sky the freedom to spy on whatever it desired. Birds in flocks glided by in formation and whose shadows whizzed by and chopped the sparkles in the waters of a clear stream. Running its natural course, it overturned the rocks and stones on its shallow bed, slowly eroding away the pebble banks with its direct currents trickling down from a hill not so many leagues far. It cut through a camp of banners and hoisted flags, bronze bells rang and towers watched over the tall palisades that outlined the village of barracks and armories. But every building, as one might have expected out of an encampment, were chiseled with the same bland faces, distributed evenly across the land. The territory was vast-appearing on ground, where its edges were unseen, and its every roof, wall, and fence shielded everything that an enemy would seek to know, tactically deployed in case of an attack. It was a fortress of its own. No more grander than a small field outpost, and it was unlike the bastions which were erected across the nation, but their fort was enough to ground an army for a while. To soak up their enemies’ bullets, and deflect swinging swords and thrusting pikes. That is, except for fire. Nevertheless, the creation of such a fort was best erected in precaution for an island that found itself hardly ever invaded, but its threat of becoming a target continued to loom.
The future was difficult to predict as the winds were ever changing overhead and beneath. The sands and gravel washed over and were swept into waves of loose dirt, sailing over shuffling feet. Some were oblivious to what was right. Either paired tightly at full attention or at ease. Adjusting themselves, whether it was wrong or right, they fixed their postures according to those around. Lanes of unprofessional uniforms filled the parade square of five ranks and sixty files who stood disorganized. Most were civilians and it was unlikely for any of them to know the particularities of drill anyhow. Their faces were tensed, yet told of an excitement on their surface. There was an assortment of emotions running through all those who were at least respecting their commander. Keeping quiet. Making minimal noise wherever possible. They allowed the birds to chirp and the breeze to blow. They allowed the forest to rustle their leaves and branches to duel one another. The clouds sounded busier than usual in the silence between sentences spoken by one before a rank of instructors. With their hands behind their backs, they stood proud and tall, which some recruits were smart enough to follow. Others were dim enough not to. All eyes were strung to the head of the camp, pacing in a stroll, who leisurely walked from the first file to the last. Wielding a war hammer that was taller than the man, he feared not his mallet cast from solid iron and silver that could crush a horse in one gentle swing and had even bore the strength to hold it in one hand.
His great fist was worn from battle and was often twitching but the chief instructor commanded with his voice instead, gnawing into the hearts of each who listened. “What is this hammer?” The instructor asked, minutes into his induction speech. “A tool of war.” Carrying a deepness in his voice whose volume often changed and exaggerated words, he answered himself before his band of untrained troops.
The hammer spun and its head faced the earth as the man came to a halt from his pacing. Forward facing at his forces, he took a wide stance in the blandness of his outdated uniform. His beret was of an old order, like the ground-quaking aura and the fire within him that had all but subsided into an ember in his spirit. It was easy to tell from his eyes so old, losing color and no more desiring any fight. His lungs projected his air and words which used to be heeded and respected, but they had become antiques of his veteran past. Whose hair grayed from brown, his beard and short mustache messily styled, the instructors’ cheeks sagged from fighting for years against gravity and his once brawny shape had turned puff. Shorter than average, he was a middle-aged man forty-odd years who could share nothing special about himself except the immense power that remained loyal to him since his youth.
“It has no mind of its own. No emotions.” The major, as ranked by slides on his shoulders, informed the cohort as he swung his hammer like a pendulum. “No thoughts. No hesitation.” He added and emphasized.
Three hundred youths, cadets rather, they were but in their adolescence and young teenage years with bodies which had not yet developed and were required of them to grow into natural soldiers. A killing force. But before that could happen, they would have learn, like a crawling babe, from their broken ranks and files for they knew no such thing as being at attention and at ease. There was disorder but not unruliness. Among the blob of trainees that the chief instructor inspected, scanning along its front, some kept ahead to avoid being chosen. Some took on the tactic to pin their eyes on their instructor, maintaining enough contact that they would be ignored and not be picked for whatever demonstration the man was thinking. Then, as usual, there was an unfortunate soul who had surfaced from a dry pond. Swaying away, he tried to recover his fault that did little more than catch the curiosity of the major. The hammer paused and dangled unmoving. As the instructor marched towards him, bearing unpredictable intentions, those around the chosen flinched as they froze, blinking not even once before their eyes had begun to water and grow red. The commander of the detachment came, with a shadowing aura that loomed over the boy already in a fright. Gulping, he waited for a question, or rather, something to happen. When the grip around major’s hammer tensed, his polearm was suddenly lifted and swung. Downward, crashing through the crushed air, the wind plummeted with the mallet. The world collapsed upon its weight. But as quickly as it had accelerated, the hammer miraculously stopped. Just above a strand of the boy’s hair. It was enough for him to have felt shockwaves around his body through his every panicking nerve. The cadet shuddered with tears in his eyes as he crumbled and dropped to his knees. A patch of whatever fluid formed on his trousers, knowing not how to react to such terror.
“What? Pissed yourself?” The instructor mocked still but it was only out of the good of his heart.
The cadet stayed himself on the ground, utterly humiliated by chance, as the hammer drew away from him.
Returning to his podium, the major marched off and teased no further before spinning around again to address the remaining two hundred and ninety-nine competents in the band, “The moment a soldier becomes emotional, they’ve lost the duel.” A glare blared through the ranks as he repeated, “The moment a soldier sees their enemy as a human, they’ve failed their duty.”
Around his cadets, the air seemed to tighten. Even upon the realization of what disaster and devastation, death and destruction, awaited on their battlefield, many stayed willing to carry themselves onwards, to commit themselves into learning the ways of violence. Although some faces told their instructors that they did not understand the severity of their pledge, they understood another thing else. The chance to be soaked in wealth and prestige.
“What are your enemies to you?” The major asked broadly for any answer that was given would have been sufficient.
“Nothin’ but sandbags!” A cadet shouted within the parade, whose words were thick and viscous, but shallow without much knowledge of what it truly meant.
“Excellent answer, Cadet Calenzo!” Immediately naming who it was, the instructor pointed in a general direction.
Many eyes bore upon the one who answered and heads turned to the cadet. Standing like a beacon among shorter folks, he was one of the few older than all those around. Always carrying grin at ease, there was a whiff of arrogance about him that made some think he was far too easy. It was a poor impression for those who were of his age too, standing there improperly dressed. His collar was unfolded and every crease possible was unironed. There was a smell of a miscreant about him but none would dare mention it in his presence. From the shadows building around his muscles, to his shoulders broader than an average laborers’, he was built like a brutish bull, and certainly spoke like one too. His golden hair had a fringe in the shape of a wave that crested into an overhang above his eyes fiery and sharp. Its colors were even more striking as it sat shinning atop his evenly tanned skin. There was no doubt that he could have been a drunken farmer’s child.
“Well, it ain’t hard considerin’ you folla script.” The cadet spoke, holding onto his thumb behind his back, unbeknownst to his own loudness.
He had struck a nerve in the head instructor who heard him clearly past all the untamable scoffs who knew that the cadet was as good as dead.
Clearing his throat and keeping ahead, the major displayed an impressive, stone-faced demeanor, despite the disturbance. “Then care to enlighten us all why you’re here again, Calenzo?” Pettily, the instructor announced and embarrassed the cadet aloud.
Sniggers echoed and cadets found themselves choking trying to subdue their laughters from the unexpectedly childish behavior of the two. Calenzo twitched from his words with a reddening face. His defeat had hollowed out any influence that he planned to exert over his comrades. The heat that was stored inside him was best kept to himself as his presence grew ever slighter.
Shaking his head, the major returned, blaring his voice to settle down the band, “The enemy is a soulless object created to be cut down.” Resonating words served as a warning for the cadets to repeat in their reworked mindset every second of every day, “But when a soldier begins to think like man again, they will become those inanimate objects themselves.”
The hammer was thrust into the ground, shaking the roots to the core of the earth. All life matter seemed to have ceased their music and the breeze had stopped blowing. Everything was afraid, whether sentient or not, to wrong the major whenever he spoke.
“I swear on my name that I will make you no less than Fed harvesters within two years.” The instructor pledged to have it be made true. “You’ll all become the foundations of this grand army.” Taking on a solemn tone, his heart began to fail to lie any longer.
His posture was regained and tried to straighten his back as he inhaled a gallon of forest air. Tapping the shoe of his hammer twice, it rang the bedrocks and reverberated a gonging sound around the parade square.
As his sub-instructors braced themselves behind, a lieutenant, with a mixture of foreign accents, commanded in the major’s place, “Attention!”
All cadets braced, as if they knew what to do, with arms pinned straight beside and their heels clasped together. Their heads were raised, pointed at the canopy between the first heaven and earth where their king’s domain would be, where the flags of the White Bands flapped. The lion of the commonwealth stood on its hind legs and addressed the sky from the center, always leading the charge. The ensign was scaled down and worn around each of the trainees’ left arm, as if that was the only thing that they fought for.
“To you, my spirits are high!” The major offered his final shout of the induction ceremony. “Dismissed!” An order was given to break formation and to retreat for the evening.
In the blaring summer sun, sweat poured from their faces. Salutes were given by lieutenant instructors and cadets alike, the latter disorganized in their timing. Reaching out his right arm, he quickly slashed his limb down upon his chest, like a pledging sword over his heart, before coming down again to his side. He was proud to have joined, and was proud to be, at least, a member of the military sooner than his parents would have had him attend. As one who was seeing a future that was freer than most, Arminius carried the air of an earnest will. A flame was entrenched in his heart that had been burning forever on standby. There was no doubt that he was still a young boy, but there was a sense of maturity about him in his uniform. Standing, separate from all else, only for his own self.
ns 15.158.61.8da2
