The Men of Smithra Island

  “Welcome to Smithra’s Field!”
  As Sylik fell out of the river barge with the other young men, he thought the welcome was not sincere enough for his taste. He was not the only one, but he had been thrown into this hell and there was no way out.
  Sergeants rushed up and down the quickly forming lines shouting and spitting at the recruits who hesitated to get in order. That took some time as the sergeants saw no need to simply yell but rather rail at the recruits at great length and with fiercely colorful language. Sylik was fortunate enough to be over-looked.
  “I am First Sergeant Crominus,” a stout, bull of a man roared as the other sergeants finally let their prey out of sight for a moment. “I am the poor soul charged with teaching you boys to hold up a sword and die with honor in the name of the crown and country that has so graciously dumped you shit sacks at my feet.
  “In the days following this oh-so important speech o’ mine, you boys will find nothing but pain and misery and exhaustion awaiting you at every turn. There is much for you to worry about having said this. Despite the overwhelming desire to drink myself into oblivion at the mere sight of you worthless wretches, I still love my job as the punisher and harbinger of drills. I will take much pleasure in torturing all of you for the good of my king!
  “I have a few rules before you lads get to run around in the mud and river. You will notice there is no visible escape from this vacation spot. For those stupid enough to attempt swimming the river to freedom, good luck I say. You won’t make it a stone’s throw before one of the guards catches you or the current sucks you into a wet grave. You will also notice this camp is littered with the flags of our great liege! That means you will all act in the manner befitting soldiers in His Royal Majesty’s army. You will maintain your parade gear, you will salute the flag every time you pass by it in uniform, and you will eat, shit, and breathe patriotism as long as you are under my watch. Understand?”
    Sylik joined in a half-hearted yes-sir only to find this set the sergeants on them like a pack of wolves on a flock of sheep. Ten minutes later the shouts and colorful threats subsided for Sergeant Crominus to speak again.
    “You will speak loudly and clearly! You will speak only when addressed and you will call everyone of your sergeants ‘sir’. Understood?”
This time the response was loud and clear. The sergeants remained at attention, though they appeared to be struggling with the urges to tear into the herd again. Crominus rambled on longer about the expectations of every one of the recruits and further insulted them in the process.
    When fall out was called, Sylik found himself on the receiving end of a dog-faced sergeant’s fist when he tried entering the wrong barracks. After the lengthy curses and shouts to the gods to kill him right then and there, Sylik was shoved in the direction of his barracks where his resident sergeant was awaiting with his own choice words to “motivate” Sylik into submission.
  A single barrack contain twenty-five cots for the squad with twenty-five wooden locker-boxes at their feet, each box containing two sets of drill uniforms and a parade uniform. After discarding their civilian rags, the naked squad was lined up outside and doused in dry soap and splashed with water. Some of the boys really needed the bath after the excruciatingly long barge ride from Salleste to the island. Sylik was no different.
  Once dressed and individually berated by the squad’s resident Sergeant Dourn, the twenty-five recruits of Squad 127 were fed a hearty meal of chicken and vegetable stew with a bit of hard bread and water and then gathered into formation with the entire group of fresh recruits.
  Again First Sergeant Crominus walked among the lines with his hands clasped behind his back and chest stuck out for all to see his medals and ribbons.
  “I have trained recruits so pathetic and worthless I thought they would all die before escaping my island. I still held onto a ray of hope that some would live. I have no such hope for the boys I see before me. Still! For those of you who do survive basic training will probably find yourselves on the front lines with mud in your boots and your own shit in your pants. Be grateful you will probably die quickly on the front lines. For the few- and I stress few- of you who get promoted out of the lines, you will still find yourself on a longer path to the grave. That is if you can get through me and I have been charged with making all of you capable of killing a few of the enemy before they grant you a bloody, painful death.
  “Now prepare for sleep,” Crominus grinned theatrically, “Tomorrow the real hell begins…”

  Hell it was not. Hell was a luxury resort compared to Sergeant Dourn’s idea of a run through the mud. Sylik found himself sinking into the mud with each frantic step to stay ahead of the pack behind him, who would care little about trampling him in fear of the sergeants. Two of his squad mates helped him along until finally they cleared the quarter-league long mud pit only to find themselves forced to run even further. By the end of the day, caked in stinking mud and sweat, Squad 127 was exhausted and everyone wished to escape the pain the next few weeks threatened to bring.
  “Makes me think Oi was a wee too honest wit’ them so’jers dat recruited meh,” said Pogg, a farmer’s son from the nearby regions outside Salleste. He was frantically scrubbing the mud off of his legs. “Oi’ve been shit on by a cow a’fore this, and Oi’d do it a thousan’ times again if it’d git meh off dis damned island!”
  “Be quiet, farm boy,” Treank hissed, “You want Dourn ta think we’re havin’ a good time out here?”
  Treank was the son of a slightly successful merchant from Selleste and had simply been in the wrong place when he had been recruited to the island. Apparently his father had secured him a position in the cavalry but Treank had simply wandered into the wrong line and was shoved onto the barge before he knew better.
  “Tell ‘em, Sylik,” Treank pleaded with him.
  “He’s right,” Sylik whispered, “I’ll be damned if you get me in trouble for talking.”
  “Bah! Meh brother went through a camp like dis a’fore,” Pogg made a face. “He says ya can do nothin’ right, but ya can do e’ry thing wrong!”
  Even Treank smirked.
  “So where ya from, Sylik? Farm boy like Pogg?”
  “Orphan,” Sylik shook his head, “I was passin’ through Selleste on my way to the border when I got snagged by a guard for grabbing a loaf of sweetbread. Took my gear and my money and threw me on the boat.”
  “If ya had money, why’d ya steal the bread?”
    “If I did that I wouldn’t have had any money.”
    Pogg snorted a laugh as Treank only shook his head. Sylik finally got a turn with the soap bar and went about trying to regain some measure of cleanliness again. Pogg and Treank debated what tomorrow would bring until Sylik finished and they drained and cleaned out the wash pails for the next trio.
    They ate in silence under the eagle eyes of Sergeant Dourn, thankful for the brief rest, but still worried the sergeants would soon make them eat while running. Fortunately the idea must not have crossed their minds. After a two-hour drill with heavy jugs of water for strength building, the boys were ordered to bed.
    One day, several weeks after that first nightmarish day, Sylik realized he had grown accustomed to the island, the sergeants, and even the bugs who often inflicted more pain than the trainers. He was much leaner than he had been upon arrival. He had always been lean as a wanderer but he was forming greater muscle than he had ever had and he had more breath for those long runs. Even the mud pit seemed easier though it still sucked at his feet every time.
  “Listen up!” Sergeant Dourn shouted one morning after meal time while the squad was in formation. “You little shits are in for a real treat starting today. You have shown, by some miraculous grace of the heavens, that your worthless brains allow you to run and shit like the animals above you in the command chain. Therefore First Sergeant has authorized the 127th to begin, brace for the shock, weapons training!”
  They would have all whispered in excitement had they not known better, but Sylik could feel it radiating from his squad mates.
  “I have broken you up into groups of five,” Dourn continued, “Each group will take turns with different instructors. Cadet Sylik! You, Treank, Piggy, Retch, and Donul will proceed to the pikes. Go!”
  Sylik and the other four broke formation and proceeded out of the barracks, jogging down the pathway leading to the arms fields. They were incorporated into a group of thirty who listened to every word the man-at-arms shouted to them.
  “Da pike is yer basic so’jerin’ weapon. Ya plant this end to da ground, point that end towards the en’my and hold on to yer arses! Ya don’ know fear ‘til yer part o’ the pike line when the heavy horsies be chargin’ in on ya! Ya find ya can shit and piss yerself all a’ once. On yer feeties!”
  Sylik hated the pike. It was too cumbersome and awkward in his hands, but he passed the initial part of the training session. Pogg, being a heavier set man than Sylik or Treank, seemed a natural with the weapon. All of three of them wanted to get their hands on a sword, despite the slim chances they would ever wield one on the lines. Swords were for rich men and cavalry, not foot soldiers who stood too great a chance of dying too quickly.
  Treank was a decent archer, though Pogg was absolutely horrible with the bow. Sylik had owned a bow once before and excelled to the top of his class, which only made him a target for the sergeants. A bit of comfort came from the idea that archers remained behind the front lines and, in theory, were safer there than the common grunt. Then came the swords. Treank again proved adequate with the weapon, but he had a short reach compared to Sylik and Pogg, who found the shield more to his liking than the blade. Sylik found himself once again placed in the top five of his class.
    In the end the men from the 127th were placed into their respective fields of study, though they spent time with all of the instructors to keep a “well-rounded knowledge of war”. Sylik and Treank were among the few to share their primary study time among the bow and sword. Pogg was destined to be a pikeman, a career prospect he did not relish.
    Before they knew it, graduation came and the men of the 127th were given the uniform stripe of privates and given two weeks of leave due to the arrival of winter. The front lines were bunkered down as the snows came and the Chalst River had iced over seemingly over night, preventing troops to be moved to the lines.
Sylik, with Treank and Pogg in tow, descended on Selleste with the rest of the island’s graduates, all of them itching to spend all of their back pay on beer and women. Like any town with a strong military presence Selleste was full of ways for a soldier to lose his entire month’s pay as quickly and easily as possible. Brothels and taverns boasting the “ale of real men served here” and gambling halls were constantly filled day in and day out with the king’s soldiers, all trying to taste freedom before being thrown into the prison of war.
    “Mah papa’d be proud o’ me,” Pogg smirked as he took in an eyeful of the ladies outside a tavern near Duvings Street, the main thoroughfare for Selleste’s district of ill-repute. “Wearin’ da uniform an’ wit silvahs in mah pocket!”
    “Try being a bit more sophisticated, Pogg! We’re soldiers now,” Treank chided as he led them onto a street heading north. “We have a duty and an image to uphold!”
    “Oh pishy-poshy are we nah, Treank? Nah dat we escaped ol’ Crominus and his thrice-damned island, ya think we should run up and down dat hill o’er there? Oh! ‘Owzabout we do parade drills in da middle of town square?”
    “Have fun without me,” Sylik muttered.
    “That’s not what I’m saying, Pogg.”
    “Ah know whatcha meant,” the farmer’s boy replied, “An’ here’s what Ah meant: lez git drunk and screwed a’fore we get kilt by people who ne’er meant me any harm til the lordies and ladies got da notion ta start a war.”
    “First things first,” Sylik said, “I would rather not stay at the local barracks so it’s up to Treank to get us some board for the next few days.”
    “My father will let us stay as long as we want,” Treank reassured him, “That is if Pogg doesn’t break everything in sight.”
  “Ah’ll be extra careful no’ ta charm da female help. All else Ah can no’ make a promise.”
  “Sounds fair enough to me,” Sylik laughed, “Gods, Treank! Where the hells are we?”
  “Almost there. Another hill and then it’s cozy beds and strong wine and perhaps my mother will play her lute after dinner.”
  “Ah go’ a lute fer her.”
  Treank turned beet red but Sylik placed a restraining hand on his shoulder.
  “You know he doesn’t mean it.”
  “Yah! No harm meant!”
  “Stay away from my mother, Pogg. That’s rule number one.”
  “I agree,” Sylik said, receiving confused looks from his companions, “What? I get first claims on Treank’s mother.”