I awoke the next morning with a lump on my leg. I wasn’t entirely sure where it came from, but I had a vague memory of a boot sneaking in through my tent flap to strike me on the leg.
I was really groggy. A persistent headache gnawed away at my willingness to do anything, and I contemplated simply laying there in bed, wasting the day away. Surely I deserved some R&R after what I had just been through. It took the threat of treason to get me out of bed.
Stepping out of my tent, I saw many of the others were starting to emerge as well. Those already up were simply standing in front of their tents. I followed suit, quickly pulling my crusted shoes on before doing my best to mimic standing at attention.
I was lucky that I got up as soon as I had. Captain Harker was working his way down the rows of tents, inspected each person standing outside. They were the lucky ones. The tents that didn’t have anyone in them were the ones that faced the brunt of his wrath. He would pause, and stare, almost as if he were in disbelief, shocked that someone would be so bold as to ignore his gentle warning, before kicking the tent over, swearing all the while. If the person in the tent were so unlucky as to grab for him while suffering under the barrage of kicks, they would get their hand stomped, sometimes multiple times.
Eventually, they would usually stagger out of their collapsed tent, struggling to free themselves from under the canvas, often long after Harker had moved on. Some were lucky enough to be out before they were fully subjected to the bootified beating. They were spared some of the swearing. One man still hadn’t emerged even after the second call. When Harker came back around to survey the tents that he had collapsed that didn’t contain anybody, he saw the man, lying there on the ground, covered in canvas, lightly groaning. Harkers face went white, and he reared back, kicking the man hard.
As the guy on the floor rolled around, clutching his stomach in agony, Harker dragged him to his feet, before marching him off to somewhere beyond the trees. We stood there, petrified, unwilling to do anything or comment on what had just occurred, lest we incur a similar sort of wrath, despite the absence of its perpetrator.
When the sod staggered back into camp later that night, covered in bruises and sporting a noticeable limp, he simply replied that he had been “corrected” when questioned on his whereabouts or condition. No matter how much we pried, he wouldn’t speak.
Captain Harker had returned much earlier. Upon seeing him, we all straightened further, and tried to avoid eye contact. He scanned over us disapprovingly, before standing in front of the group, arms loosely at his sides.
“You lot seem to be under the impression that I’m your mother, here to babysit you. If you continue to labor under such moronic pretenses, then you’ll simply have to get the lesson beat into you. That’s fine. We’ll do it as much as needed, until you understand everything down to the last minute detail. Those of you who aren’t fucking stupid will listen, instead of learning the hard way. I’m going to say this once.”
He paused, leaning forwards slightly. We all listened, straining to hear what he was going to say. Instead of whispering, however, he screamed.
“Yesterday I was nice and patient with you all, because of what you’d been through. That’s over. From now on, you do what I say, when I say it, and you shut the hell up unless I ask you to speak!”
We recoiled, the unexpected blast of noise assaulting my ears. He gave us a few seconds, before turning around, and motioning for us to follow him. Still chastised, we hurried, order collapsing as we formed into what would more aptly be described as a clump than any sort of line. Luckily enough, Harker didn’t seem to care.
He led us down the path we had followed yesterday. Instead of turning and heading back into the city, however, we went down a side branch, rather close to the exit.
Sitting right down the path was a large log building. It stretched what was probably several hundred feet in each direction. It was short, only about 2 feet taller than the average man, giving it a squat appearance.
The only windows it had were barred, thick iron grates forming a barrier between the outside world and the glass. The door was similarly reinforced.
Harker brought us close to the door before stopping us. Luckily, nobody had been talking, too cowed by the earlier demonstration.
“I’m going to bring you in here, one at a time. You’re going to grab a uniform, boots, and a spear. Then, you’re going to come back out here. You aren’t going to set any of it down. You aren’t going to hand any of it off. You’re going to line up in rows and wait for me to come back. Do you understand?”
We sat there, not daring to respond, until Harker took a step forwards. The response was immediate. A chorus of Yes Sirs and other affirmatives rang out, as my fellow draftees tried to save themselves from a brewing beating.
Harker didn’t seem fully satisfied, but decided against pursing the issue. He pulled out a key from his belt, carefully unlocking the door to what I now knew was a supply depot. He funneled us in, one at a time. People would scurry out under a minute later, always under careful watch, before lining up. Soon, the first line reached capacity. It stretched about 10 long.
I hadn’t noticed before, but the amount of people were far too great to be from the group of refugees I had fled with. There were only about 7 of us total, but of the people milling about in the courtyard, and the one or two in the building, there must have been forty. Other groups must have been brought in to join us. Were they also all drafted, or did any of them volunteer?
Soon enough, it was my turn to grab gear. I quickly walked into the building, before surveying the interior. There were racks of old spears along the wall, tips tarnished with rust. Right before me was a long table, stretching nearly the length of the room. On it was a line of different outfit components. Cheap gambisons, pants, scuffed and faded boots. It was obviously all used equipment, but what did I expect? We were draftees, just as soon to run as we were to die. It’s not like they would waste any of their good gear on us.
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I stepped up, trying to find something that approximately fit me. I knew I didn’t have the time to find something that was perfectly suitable, and even if I did I doubt it would be in here. No, I simply eyeballed the equipment to the best of my ability, grabbing boots that looked like they were going to fall apart slightly less than the ones around them and a uniform that was perhaps a size too large.
I grabbed the nearest spear that wasn’t covered in rust (or blood) and stepped out of the door, quickly forming up into the start of a third row. The people who had yet to enter the building quickly formed in, and eventually four nearly complete rows were formed. The spacing wasn’t uniform, and they weren’t exactly parallel, but it was far better than the mess we had going on earlier. Harker seemed to think so as well, because he didn’t bother to criticize or correct any of us, simply choosing to launch into another diatribe.
I grabbed the nearest spear that wasn’t covered in rust (or blood) and stepped out of the door, quickly forming up into the start of a third row. The people who had yet to enter the building quickly formed in, and eventually four nearly complete rows were formed. The spacing wasn’t uniform, and they weren’t exactly parallel, but it was far better than the mess we had going on earlier. Harker seemed to think so as well, because he didn’t bother to criticize or correct any of us, simply choosing to launch into another diatribe.
“Everyone strip down to your undergarments. Right now. Shame is a useless emotion, and you might as well get rid of it now. You think there's time for shame on the battlefield? When you’re stuck on a position for a month, unable to get any significant distance away lest you be torn apart by arrows?”
Some were more than happy to follow Harkers instructions, but they were in the minority. The rest stood there, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably, their desire to avoid punishment warring with the modesty that had been instilled into them their entire lives.
Even by modern day earth standards, this was shockingly public. For a world that was near medieval in many of its customs, this must have been a major shock.
I didn’t let hesitation hold me long. This was far from the worst thing I had been through, and not complying would immediately worsen my situation. The hesitant others soon started to follow, desire to avoid corporeal punishment outweighing cultural installations of modesty.
Putting on the outfit was more of a chore than I had imagined. I struggled to get my legs through the fabric, the material tight and tangled enough that there was no clear passage. The shirt wasn’t much better. I didn’t know how to lace up a gambison, and I struggled with it for a minute. The boots were the worst part. They were at least a size too small, possibly two, and I had to jam my feet in there with significant effort.
Several others around me also struggled to put on their ill-fitting uniforms. Quite a few people fell over in the process.
After most of us were done, Harker called our attention back to the front. He held out his spear.
“This is your spear! You will keep your spear with you at all times. When you go to the shitter you will have your spear. When you are asleep, you will have your spear. When you are marching you will have your spear. When you’re wallowing in the ditches like a worm, sick as a dog, you will have your spear. Do you understand!?”
A chorus of yes’ rang out around the clearing, more clear than the last time.
“Now, I better not see any of you loosing or dropping your spears. In fact, if you lose your spear, you pray to the gods you find it before I find it without you. If you cannot find your spear, I suggest you kill yourself before myself or any of the officials here find you.”
Once again he paused, taking another breath, before resuming his tirade.
“Every day you will polish your spear. You will polish your boots. Every three days, you will bathe in the river and wash your uniform. If you cannot do this, you better have a damn good reason as to why not. We keep a clean camp around here, and I will not have any of you fucking it up.”
“Living here is so simple. All you have to do is follow orders, pay the barest amount of attention, and keep your head out of your own asses. I know you lot are a bunch of incompetent, pathetic worms, but I suspect that at least some of you can do that. Those that can’t, we will happily correct you until we’re out of time. If you still haven’t gotten it by then, well, then you’ll be transferred to one of the punishment units. You’ll be in there with prisoners, murderers, and deserters. I’m so much nicer than the sons of bitches there that by the end of the day you’ll be begging to have me back.”
“Now, you know you’re supposed to keep your weapons on you. I’m going to teach you all how to hold them, because all of you are already fucking it up”.
He drew the spear from the holster he had on his back.
“You’re going to hold your spear like this.”
He hefted his spear up onto his shoulder, running it down along his arm, resting the butt of the spear in the palm of his hand. The shaft stuck out over his shoulder, the spearhead resting nearly two feet over his shoulder.
“That’s how you hold it when you march. When you're around people, hold it however will keep you from stabbing someone. I better not hear of a single unintentional puncture, got it?”
He paced around us, correcting our form. Too much bend in the elbow. The end should be resting on your palm, not fingers. The angle of your arm is wrong. He went on and on, pointing out every small flaw in people's forms. Nobody did it good enough. I thought the man to my right was doing it perfectly, an almost mirror image of Harker. However, he was also corrected, for holding his hand at the wrong angle.
It took him nearly ten minutes to work his way through everyone, and in that time I realized something. Full pants and a gambison were hot. The thick cloth covered nearly all of my body, trapping in the heat. I was starting to sweat just standing here. It wasn’t as bad as wearing a winter coat, but the burning sun made me wish that I was wearing just about anything else.
After Harker was satisfied with our ability to hold our spears at a basic level (and not drop them at any given moment), we were instructed to form into an orderly line. WE started to walk in formation, a column trailing behind Harker, leaving the storage house (after it was re-locked, of course). Our steps weren’t even, so the line shifted and swayed. I had a feeling that would come up later, but for now, we were left alone.
We proceeded deeper into the woods, past our campsite. The trees started thinning out, letting light trickle down from above.
We made a turn, emerging into a large, cleared out area. The grass was gone, an all dirt floor replacing it. There were wooden posts in a corner, and straw dummies in another. Deep groves with hundreds of footprints were carved around the perimeter. There were splotches of blood on the ground. Captain Harker turned to face us.
“Alright. This is going to be your training grounds from now, until you leave here. Get used to the sight of the dirt, because you’ll be seeing a lot of it. It’s about time we get going. You won’t work yourselves to death on your own”.