Page 53 of Wings of War

Fieran’s shirt trailed into the suds, growing heavier and sloppier the more water and suds it soaked up.

The sergeant gave the order, and they all had to roll on their backs and perform kicks, holding their legs out and clenching their abdominal muscles.

As Fieran kicked, he slid on the ground, inching ever closer to the sergeant’s zone with each kick. He planted his hands on the floor, trying to hold himself in place as best he could before he crossed the line and ended up with even more PT.

Water soaked through his shirt to slick across his back. The back of his head rubbed in the soap, wetting his hair, while his eyes stung from the lye so much that he was blinking away tears.

By the time the sergeant ordered them to switch to sit-ups, the back of his shirt was gloppy and wet. As Fieran sat up, his shirt stuck to the floor for a moment before peeling away with a slurping sound. He had a moment when he was upright, and he caught a glimpse of the others, just as wet and covered in soap suds as he was. Then he flopped back to the floor with a splat.

Schloop. He sat up again. Splat. He lay back down. Schloop. Splat. Schloop. Splat. The entire barracks room echoed with the noise of dozens of men slurping and splatting in the suds.

When Fieran caught Stickyfingers’ eye across the way, it was all he could do to swallow back his laugh. With the sergeant there, he couldn’t chuckle. He couldn’t even smile.

But this whole situation was so ridiculous. Their entire unit was doing PT in a sea of suds, their clothing making funny noises as they slurped and splatted. By this point, the entire floor was nothing but several inches of foaming bubbles and suds. Their blankets, rucksacks, and anything left on the floor was just as soaked and sudsy as they were.

After two hours of PT, the sergeant finally let them halt and marched from the room. But he only went as far as his room tucked in the front of the barracks, separated from them by a cement wall and a door.

Fieran rolled upright to sit in a puddle of soap suds. A drip of soapy water ran into his eye, causing his eye to burn. He fumbled for a dry part of his shirt. He couldn’t find one, so he had to settle for squeezing that eye shut and hoping the burn went away.

Pretty Face swiped a hand through the mountains of soapsuds coating the floor. “Well, Lije, we all got a taste of your mama’s soap.”

Across the way, Stickyfingers grimaced and spat onto the floor. “Literally. I’m not sure I’ll ever get the taste out of my mouth or the smell out of my nose.”

Lije grimaced as he shook suds off his fingers. “This wasn’t how I planned to share.”

“At least we all got a good wash out of it.” Fieran planted a hand on a nearby footlocker to steady himself as he slipped and slurped to his feet.

Merrik peeled himself out of a cloud of bubbles so thick he looked like a kid enjoying a bubble bath. Grimacing, he ran his hands down his legs to squeegee some of the soap off his army fatigues before he gestured at the mess before them. “Do you think you could clean this up with your magic?”

“Maybe?” Fieran took in the room. Incinerating the water and soap suds from the floor and walls shouldn’t be too much trouble. “Everyone, stand on your footlockers for a moment. I’d like to try something.”

Once everyone jumped onto the footlockers—creating sudsy puddles and footprints on their lids—Fieran pressed a hand to the floor. After all the practice with his dacha, his magic crackled from him in a surging, yet controllable tide as he swept it over the floor, then up the walls, letting it consume the soap suds and water.

Almost instantly, the entire room steamed up as if they stood in a sauna. Fieran scoured away the last of the soap suds as best he could before he clamped down on his magic once again.

Pretty Face waved at the clouds of water vapor. “Why didn’t you just do that in the first place? Could have saved us a lot of trouble.”

“It would have taken far more finesse to try to get all of the soap out of the cement, ground into it as it was.” Fieran plucked at his shirt, the sticky, wet warmth of the fabric clinging to him in a way that was even more uncomfortable in the now hot and humid room. “I got as much as I could. We’re still going to have a lot of cleaning to do.”

Lije sighed, stepped off his footlocker, and reached for the nearest mop.

With one person standing with his ear pressed to the door dividing them from the sergeant’s room, keeping watch in case the sergeant came back, the rest of them hurried to grab more buckets and mops, scrubbing the floor and the walls, trying to rinse with enough water to wash away the soap.

Fieran held the back of Lije’s belt while Lije leaned way over the line and used the mop to squeegee the soap suds from the center sergeant’s zone. Even now, alone as they were, none of them dared cross the line into that area of the barracks.

It took four hours, but they finally had all the soap cleaned up and the barracks set to rights, and Fieran could finally collapse into the damp and soap-smelling sheets and blanket on his bed for a few hours’ sleep.

Chapter

Seventeen

Shading her eyes, Pip paused in the open door of the hangar and watched as a flyer rattled down the runway after landing, coming to a halt in a cloud of dust. Four other flyers circled in the sky above, following the aeroplane piloted by Capt. Arfeld. Occasionally, Pip caught a glimpse of the orange flag, which Capt. Arfeld used to signal to the other flyers up there with him.

Fieran halted next to her, rocking back and forth from toes to heel in that way he did when he couldn’t stand still.

Flicking a glance at him, she smiled. “Wishing you were up there?”

“Yes.” Fieran heaved a sigh. “At least I’ll be in the next group going up. I’d hate to have to wait all the way until last.”

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