Page 16 of Wings of War

Fieran, Merrik, and Lije hurried to step into line, staring straight ahead lest the drill sergeant notice their straying gazes and come back to yell at them.

Once everyone from their train car had disembarked, they marched from the platform to the street, where a line of green army trucks waited. Each truck had a small cab with only enough room for a driver and passenger. Then the back bed had a canvas top and benches on either side.

Fieran, Lije, and Merrik managed to climb into one of the trucks together, and Fieran found himself smushed between Merrik and the back wall of the cab.

As the truck lurched into motion, Fieran peered between the cab and the flapping end of the tarpaulin. As the truck rumbled forward, the towering buildings gave way to rolling hills, fields, and stands of forests, the trees still stark and bare at this time of year.

Then a tall, wire fence came into view as the truck slowed. Two Escarlish soldiers barred the way, and one stepped up to the truck’s cab to briefly exchange a few words and papers before he waved them through.

Fieran’s knees bounced as he swiveled as much as he could on the bench to take in Fort Linder. A collection of both wooden and cement buildings were laid out in a grid even more precise than that of Bridgetown. Fifty years ago, the old, outdated outpost on the hill in what was now Bridgetown had been closed and turned into a museum. Fort Linder had been founded east of the growing town, situated along the river with the intent to provide protection for the vital rail and communication hub between Escarland and the two Alliance Kingdoms to the north.

Three flagpoles stood at the center of the military base with Escarland’s red and white flag in the center and slightly higher than Kostaria’s gray and white banner and Tarenhiel’s green and silver flag on either side.

On the western side of the base, a field had been mown short, the dead winter grass plastered close to the earth. The stretch of shorter grass ran in a long, straight line, almost like a road.

Not a road. An airstrip. A biplane with its wood frame and canvas-stretched wings was lowering from the sky before it touched its wheels onto the ground, bumping along before the rear of the aeroplane fell onto the wooden tailskid. The tailskid dug into the earth, slowing the aeroplane.

Soon, that would be Fieran, coming in for a landing. Climbing out of the cockpit with that little extra swagger that pilots had.

Fieran’s bouncing knees grew worse, so much so that Merrik nudged him with an elbow. Even then, Fieran didn’t quite manage to stop his jitters. How could he when they were finally here? In a few weeks, they would take to the sky at last.

The trucks slowed, then parked in the central square beside the flagpoles.

The yelling began again, and all of them bailed out of the trucks onto the cement-paved parade ground, standing in front of a large, cement building with a rusted metal roof. All around them, more cement buildings with metal roofs spread out in neat rows in all directions. The sides of the buildings were labeled with letter and number combinations.

They were instructed to line up, then yelled at some more until they lined up to the drill sergeant’s satisfaction.

Then they were left there, standing in their stiff, neat rows, their bags and packs of belongings at their feet. A cold wind swept between the concrete buildings and straight through the thin coat Fieran had worn. He hadn’t bothered to dress any warmer. He hadn’t realized he would be left standing outside in the early spring cold for hours, unable to do more than watch the sun set while the night breeze blew with a chill swept up from the nearby river.

After they had been standing in the cold for nearly three hours, darkness having fully descended, the drill sergeants, who had been pacing and yelling at anyone who broke into noticeable shivering, marched them into the large building and assigned numbers. Each of them was issued a clipboard with a few sheets of paper on it.

From there they were herded into a room where they were told to write down their last will and testament, along with If I Die letters for their families.

Fieran stared at the blank pieces of paper, not sure what to write. Oddly enough, he didn’t have much of his own to will to anyone. If he died, his stake in the AMPC would be absorbed back into the company. Any of the estates and titles he would inherit from his parents would go to his siblings. All there was left to do was designate his savings and personal funds to one of his parents’ charities, and that was that.

The If I Die letter was harder. He’d spent far more time contemplating glory and grand battles than the possibility of death.

But maybe that was the point of having all the recruits sit down to write a letter like this, right before starting their training.

Finally, Fieran wrote something cheesy about loving all of them and hoping they wouldn’t mourn forever since he died doing what he loved.

It wasn’t like he was in much danger of dying, even if he was sent into war. Sure, flying was a bit more dangerous even for those with magic, thanks to the propensity of aeroplanes to crash.

But Fieran wielded the magic of the ancient kings. He was about as invincible as it was possible to get.

Once the recruits were done with their wills and letters, they handed the items over to a secretary, who recorded their numbers and how many letters and so forth they had.

Once done, they were herded into the next room and ordered to strip to their undershorts. All their civilian clothes—civvies—and any items they weren’t allowed to have were bundled into a wooden locker, not to be seen again until they were finished with basic training. Each item in the locker was, of course, inventoried and recorded.

Standing in their undershorts, they were sent through a series of stations for the various medical examinations, certifying that they were healthy. Then came a round of vaccines, each one meticulously checked off on the clipboard.

Fieran approached the next nurse in line. After the first few stations, he’d quickly gotten over the awkwardness of walking around in nothing but his undershorts in front of a bunch of female nurses, doctors, and even an elven healer. Behind him in line, Merrik’s ears were permanently red with embarrassment.

Fieran handed the nurse his clipboard. “Sixty-six.”

The nurse set his clipboard aside, reaching for the next prepared hypodermic needle. This one held some kind of brown, sludgy substance, and that needle looked suspiciously larger than those of the previous vaccines that had been jammed into Fieran’s arms. In a nasally monotone, the nurse gestured to him. “Turn around, drop your shorts, and bend over.”

“Pardon?” Fieran froze as he tried to process the order. Was she telling him what he thought she was saying?

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